Bucharest, Romania
The taxi smelled like metal and damp soil. Lena leaned her head against the cold window, watching blurry neon lights flash by. Now and then, her reflection caught in the glass—she looked pale and worn out.
"Hotel Carpathia," the driver said. He didn't look at her. The rearview mirror reflected an empty seat, even though Lena was sitting right there.
She clutched the heavy bag on her lap. The book hadn't shown itself since the flight, but she could still feel it—like it was part of her. Her phone buzzed with another message from an unknown number:
Room 317. Mind the stains.
The hotel looked like something out of an old horror novel. Cracked chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Faded, dusty tapestries lined the walls. The woman at the front desk had yellow nails and a grin that stretched too wide.
"You're expected," she said, sliding a scratched-up key toward Lena. Her breath smelled like spoiled meat. "Third floor. Quiet groaned as it creaked its way up. When the doors opened, the hallway looked way too long—almost like it had stretched. The carpet had swirling patterns that seemed to move when she blinked. Room 317 was cracked open, and its number was hanging upside down.
Inside, a book sat on the bed.
But it wasn't her book.
This one was bound in what looked like skin—pale and veiny, with black hair sewn along the spine. It was already open to a drawing of the hotel. Tiny people were screaming from the windows. In one window, at the top, was Lena's face.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
The door slammed shut. The room turned ice-cold. In the bathroom, the faucet turned on by itself. A thick, dark liquid spilled from it. The book flipped to another page:
Keeper's Log: Day One
Location: Bucharest
Sacrifices Required: 3
Lena's hands trembled as she reached for the book. The moment her fingers touched it, the mirror in the bathroom shattered. The glass pieces floated in the air, reflecting a stone altar hidden in the mountains—its surface soaked in old blood.
A whisper crawled from the walls:
"First test comes at moonrise."
Her phone lit up with a breaking news alert: Gruesome discovery at Hotel Carpathia. The date on the article was tomorrow. It described three mutilated bodies found in Room 317—skin missing from the waist up.
The book wrote something new on its own:
Will you be the fourth?
Outside, clouds parted to reveal the full moon. And then, something began dragging its bones slowly across the wooden door, scratch by scratch.
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