The Hunger of the Hollow Crown Hotel

In the frozen wasteland stands the Hollow Crown Hotel, where my father ruled his crumbling

empire of empty rooms and howling winds. We returned for Christmas,

his children, drawn back like moths to dying light. The blizzard sealed us in.

Then the maid was found in room thirteen, her body twisted in impossible angles, frost crystallizing

in her open eyes. The guests whispered our father's name like a curse. But we knew the

truth they refused to see. The hotel itself was hungry. It had always been

hungry. And Father hadn't been feeding it guests. He'd been feeding

it his own soul, piece by piece, keeping the ancient thing beneath satisfied. Now it wanted more.