The Last Guest of Whitmore Hotel
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I had always been drawn to old hotels. There’s something intoxicating about them—the faint smell
of aged wood, candle wax, and dust, like memories trapped in the air.
And so, when I arrived at the Whitmore Hotel, a century-old relic long abandoned yet
somehow standing proud, I felt a shiver of excitement. The lobby was dimly
lit by a single swinging chandelier. Shadows clung to the corners like cobwebs.
Behind the front desk sat a small, hunched man whose eyes seemed far too large for his
face. He did not speak, only waited until I approached. “Room seven,” he
croaked, pressing a tarnished brass key into my hand. “Do not look at
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