The Guest Room is not haunted

"Comedy shouldn't be restrained under the belt of normality." - Rhys Darby

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Chapter 7 – Unsettling Normalcy

Morning came too quickly.

The house was eerily quiet when Sam woke up.

For a moment, he lay still, staring at the ceiling, his mind sluggish with the weight of sleep. His body felt heavier than usual, as if he'd been buried under layers of exhaustion rather than just a night's rest. It wasn't the kind of tiredness that came from a lack of sleep—it was deeper, lingering in his bones.

He groaned and ran a hand through his hair before sitting up. His room was the same as he had left it—messy, dimly lit by the early morning light filtering through the curtains. His script was still on the bed, crumpled at the edges where he had dozed off reading it.

"Ugh… auditions," he muttered to himself, rubbing his temples.

For a brief second, he felt as though he had forgotten something. Like the remnants of a dream clinging to the edges of his consciousness, just out of reach. But no matter how much he tried to grasp at it, the feeling faded, slipping through his fingers like sand.

Shaking it off, he pushed the covers off and sat up, rolling his shoulders. He had a full day ahead, and the last thing he needed was to screw up the audition by showing up half-asleep.

---

After a quick wash-up, he made his way downstairs, still shaking off the morning grogginess. The guesthouse was quiet—eerily so. Sunlight streamed through the windows, giving the illusion of warmth, but the air still felt slightly... off.

The morning light seeped through the windows, casting long shadows across the wooden floors. Everything was where it should be, and yet, as Sam moved through the house, he couldn't shake the odd sense that something was slightly off.

It was nothing major—just small details. A chair that wasn't quite in its usual spot. A door that was open just an inch wider than he remembered. Things he could easily blame on his own absentmindedness.

Sam made himself a light breakfast, his mind wandering to his lines. He'd practiced them enough times to have them memorized, yet he still felt he hadn't nailed the villain's aura. He needed to fine-tune his delivery before the audition.

Setting his plate in the sink, he turned toward the living room—and stopped.

Then, his eyes landed on the guestbook.

It was open.

Sam stopped in his tracks. His brows knitted together.

No. That wasn't right. He distinctly remembered closing it last night before heading to bed. He knew he did. He had even made a point to do it.

And yet, now it was open.

The pages lay still, undisturbed, but that did little to ease the tightness in his chest.

Slowly, he walked over to the table, hesitating before reaching out. The book was open to a blank page, as if it had been waiting for someone to write in it.

His fingers hovered over the paper for a moment before he snapped the book shut again.

"Not today," he muttered.

Pushing the thought aside, he got to work on his morning routine—cleaning, checking for potential maintenance issues, making sure the guesthouse looked presentable. A well-kept house meant better reviews, after all.

At some point, he grabbed his laptop to check for any new booking requests. He scrolled through the listings absentmindedly, until something made him stop.

A new request.

For the locked guest room.

Sam's stomach did an uncomfortable flip.

His eyes darted to the details. A guest had requested a stay in that room—except there was no name, no profile picture. Just a blank request.

A mistake? A glitch?

Before he could think further, the request disappeared.

Gone.

Sam stared at the screen. He refreshed the page. Nothing.

He leaned back, rubbing his temple. "Alright… that was weird."

Maybe it was just some system error. Either way, he had an audition to worry about.

---

Evening rolled in, and with it, a sense of routine.

After dinner, Sam found himself lounging on the sofa, absentmindedly scrolling through his phone. He wasn't looking for anything in particular—just mindlessly tapping through posts, half-distracted.

His gaze drifted to the guestbook again.

Sam frowned.

Then, shaking his head, he left it there, right where it was.

Yawning, he stretched and decided to call it a night.

---

As he climbed the stairs, his phone buzzed again.

A message from Ethan.

Ethan: "Don't forget the audition tomorrow. Try not to bomb it."

Sam exhaled a small laugh through his nose. Typical Ethan.

He typed back a quick reply.

Sam: "Yeah, yeah. See you there."

No need for anything more.

A minute later, he was back in his room, he locked his phone and tossed it onto his nightstand. Then he started flipping through his script one last time before sleep.

"You think mercy is given?" He tried a low, controlled voice, letting each syllable settle in the air. "No. It is taken, pried from my hands. And you—" He let his voice drop, slow and deliberate. "You will have none."

The delivery was better, but something still felt lacking. The villain needed to be more than just cruel—he had to be cold, untouchable.

He watched his reflection closely. Adjusted his expression.

No hesitation. No warmth.

Just… nothing.

"You will kneel, not because I force you to… but because you know there is no other option."

His eyes sharpened. His voice steadied.

For a brief moment, something almost clicked.

Almost.

A strange sensation prickled at the back of his neck.

Like he wasn't alone.

He stiffened slightly, his gaze flickering to the mirror's background. Nothing but his dimly lit room.

Still, the feeling lingered—a faint, ghostly awareness of being watched.

Sam swallowed, shaking it off. "You're just tired," he muttered, setting the script down.

He stretched, letting out a yawn. Sleep. He needed sleep.

As he climbed into bed, the house settled into silence.

Then—

A noise.

A soft creak, just outside his door.

Sam's eyes opened slightly. He held his breath, listening.

Silence.

He exhaled, shaking his head. "House is old," he mumbled, turning over.

He closed his eyes.

And somewhere in the house, something listened.

---

And the house fell silent once more.

But something lingered in the stillness.

A presence, just beyond the veil of awareness. Watching. Waiting.

The guestbook, forgotten on the table, remained untouched.

And yet, the air around it seemed heavier. As though something unseen was waiting for the right moment to be noticed.

But for now, it remained patient.

For now.

---END.