Every night at 9:00 PM, the old innkeeper lit a single candle in Room 6, though no one had stayed there in years. Locals whispered about the room being cursed, but the innkeeper just smiled and said, “Some guests are harder to check out than others.”
One stormy evening, a soaked traveler stumbled in. All other rooms were taken—except Room 6.
“I’ll take it,” the man said, ignoring the innkeeper’s hesitation.
At midnight, screams echoed through the halls. By morning, Room 6 was empty. The man was gone. Only the candle remained, still burning.
The innkeeper sighed, picked up a dusty guestbook, and scribbled down the traveler’s name.
Then he flipped back a few pages.
It was already written there. From ten years ago. The ink hadn’t faded.