The Guest Room is not haunted

Chapter 18: The Name of the Shadow

A heavy stillness settled over the guesthouse.

Sam sat on the edge of his bed, the ledger resting on his lap. Its pages were splayed open, inked with names—too many names. Each one belonged to someone who had once stepped into this house, and now, they were all gone.

But one name stood out from the rest.

Elias.

The name the ledger had given him. The name of the shadow that had been watching him, helping him—haunting him.

Sam traced the letters with his fingertip. The ink had dried long ago, but the name still felt fresh. Like it had been waiting for him to read it.

He swallowed, his throat dry.

If Elias had been helping him all this time, why had he stayed hidden? Why had he refused to answer any of Sam's questions?

Well.

Now Sam had something he didn't before.

A name.

He exhaled slowly, his breath barely audible over the quiet hum of the night. Then, without thinking too much about it, he spoke into the emptiness of the room.

"Elias."

The word left his lips and disappeared into the air, swallowed whole by the silence.

Nothing happened.

Sam waited, fingers curling against the paper. The shadows in the corners of the room remained still. The air remained cold, but not unbearably so. He wasn't being watched. Not like before.

His pulse picked up.

"Elias," he tried again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

Seconds dragged on, stretching into a full minute. Sam's hands tightened into fists, irritation bubbling beneath his skin. Had the ledger lied to him? Had it given him a false name just to mess with him?

No.

That didn't make sense.

If the ledger wanted something from him—if it needed sustenance, like it claimed—then misleading him wouldn't help its cause. The truth was, whether Elias was his real name or not, Sam had no way of proving it. He didn't know how any of this worked.

He gritted his teeth and shoved the ledger aside.

A sharp vibration against his nightstand made him jump.

His phone.

His eyes flicked to the screen—Ethan.

> [Rehearsals start tomorrow. Be there on time, villain lead.]

Sam exhaled, pressing his fingertips against his temple. Right. He'd almost forgotten about that.

A second message popped up.

> [Not that you need the practice. Your audition was insane, man.]

Sam let out a dry chuckle. Ethan had a way of making things sound both sarcastic and genuine at the same time.

He started typing a response, but his fingers hesitated over the last part of Ethan's message.

Your audition was insane.

His amazing performance.

A strange unease settled in his stomach.

He thought back to that moment—the rush of energy, the way the words had flowed out of him. The way his voice had dropped into something colder, sharper, something more than himself.

The shadow had been there. Watching. Observing. Almost invested.

His breath slowed.

Why?

Why did Elias care?

Sam's fingers curled around his phone as a realization crept in.

It's time to find out.

---

He stood in the middle of his room, script in hand.

The floor creaked beneath his weight as he shifted, adjusting his stance. His fingers tightened around the worn edges of the paper.

If Elias had responded to his acting before…

Then maybe he would again.

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He let the world around him blur into the background—the dim lighting, the cool air, the distant creak of the house settling. None of it mattered.

He opened his mouth and began to recite.

At first, it was just him. His voice filled the room, bouncing off the walls, settling into the empty spaces.

Then—

Something shifted.

The air grew thick, pressing in around him. The tiny hairs on his arms stood on end.

Sam continued. His voice didn't waver, but his pulse did.

The room darkened—not just from the lack of light, but something else. Something deeper. A creeping coldness spread over his skin, coiling around his throat like unseen hands.

He's here.

Sam swallowed, his heartbeat slamming against his ribs.

He pushed forward.

The words poured from his lips, but they didn't feel like his own anymore. His body moved on instinct, gestures sharpening, voice dropping into something unfamiliar. The pressure on his shoulders grew heavier, colder, like something was settling onto him.

The same feeling from the audition.

Sam's breath came faster. His grip on the script loosened.

His mouth opened, but this time, it wasn't part of the performance.

"Is this you, Elias?"

The pressure stilled.

The air twisted.

The shadows at the edges of the room began to move.

A creeping darkness spread across the floor, curling up the walls, flickering and bending unnaturally. A cold breeze slithered through the space, despite the windows being shut tight.

The darkness at the far end of the room—where the dim light didn't reach—thickened.

Sam watched, frozen, as the shifting blackness began to take shape.

At first, it was nothing but a vague silhouette, a smudge in the air, flickering between existence and emptiness.

Then—

The shape twisted. Lengthened. Became something more.

Sam took a step back, his breath catching in his throat. His mind screamed at him to move, to run, to do anything but stand there and watch.

But he couldn't look away.

The shadows peeled back, unraveling like smoke. The figure within them flickered—half-formed, unstable.

Until, finally—

The last trace of darkness slipped away.

And standing in its place was no longer a shadow.

No longer a presence.

No longer an indistinct whisper of something unseen.

It was a man.

Young. In his twenties.

And he was looking right at Sam.