The Last Guest of Whitmore Hotel

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