The guesthouse sat at the edge of a small hill town, far away from tourist crowds. It wasn’t listed on any popular travel site. I found it through an old travel forum thread from 2012.
The last comment read:
“If you stay there, read the visitor’s book carefully.”
That should have been my warning.
The building looked harmless enough—two floors, pale yellow paint peeling off the walls, and a creaky wooden gate that groaned as I pushed it open. A rusty board read: Shantiniketan Guesthouse.
The receptionist wasn’t at the desk. A bell sat there, coated with dust. I rang it. No sound echoed, but footsteps approached from the back.
An elderly man appeared. His eyes were sharp, unsettlingly alert for someone his age.
“Room?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “For two nights.”
He slid the register toward me. “Fill this. And one thing—don’t write anything in the visitor’s book upstairs.”
I paused. “Visitor’s book?”
He didn’t answer. Just handed me the key.
Room 303
The room smelled faintly of old paper and damp wood. The furniture was outdated, but clean. On the desk lay a thick, leather-bound visitor’s book.
I remembered the warning.
Naturally, I opened it.
Names filled the pages. Dates. Cities. Comments like “Peaceful stay” or “Beautiful view.” Everything seemed normal until I reached the last few pages.
The handwriting changed.
The last entry read:
“If you are reading this, I didn’t make it out.”
No name. No date.
My chest tightened. I laughed it off—someone’s idea of a joke. Still, I shut the book and decided not to touch it again.
That night, I slept poorly.
At exactly 3:03 a.m., I woke up to the sound of pages flipping.
The visitor’s book lay open on the desk.
A new line was being written.
By itself.
The Message
I froze as letters slowly appeared, as if an invisible hand guided the pen.
“Why did you come here?”
My throat went dry. I whispered, “This isn’t real.”
The pen stopped.
Then another sentence appeared.
“Everyone says that.”
I slammed the book shut and turned on every light in the room. My phone had no signal. The clock blinked 12:00 repeatedly.
I didn’t sleep after that.
The Missing Woman
The next morning, I confronted the old receptionist.
“There was writing in the visitor’s book,” I said.
He sighed, as if he’d been waiting for this moment.
“You opened it, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
He pulled out an old newspaper clipping. The headline read:
LOCAL WOMAN MISSING FROM SHANTINIKETAN GUESTHOUSE – 2016
Her name was Ananya Roy. A solo traveler. Stayed in Room 303.
“She disappeared,” the old man said quietly. “No luggage missing. No signs of struggle. Just… gone.”
“Police?” I asked.
“They stopped coming after the third case.”
Third.
My stomach churned. “Third?”
He looked at me carefully. “You’re in her room.”
The Rules
He finally explained.
The visitor’s book wasn’t a book. It was a record.
Every person who stayed in Room 303 left something behind—not belongings, but truths. Regrets. Secrets. Unspoken guilt.
The book responded to those who were hiding something.
“If it starts talking to you,” he said, “it means the room has accepted you.”
“And then?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
The Second Night
I should’ve left. I know that now.
But curiosity is dangerous.
That night, I sat across from the book.
“Who are you?” I asked.
The pen moved again.
“I keep what people refuse to face.”
My pulse raced. “What happened to Ananya?”
The words appeared slowly, painfully.
“She chose to stay.”
The lights flickered. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in.
“What do you want from me?” I whispered.
The reply was immediate.
“Write.”
I shook my head. “No.”
The pen pressed harder against the page.
“Everyone writes. Eventually.”
The Truth I Never Told
I don’t know how long I stared at that empty page.
Then I picked up the pen.
I wrote about the accident five years ago. The one no one knew was my fault. The call I ignored. The apology I never made.
As the words poured out, the air grew heavy. The walls whispered. The room breathed.
When I finished, the page disappeared.
Literally faded.
The book snapped shut.
The clock returned to normal.
It was over.
Or so I thought....
Checkout
The next morning, I packed quickly.
The receptionist was waiting.
“You’ll be fine now,” he said.
I hesitated. “What happens to the book?”
He smiled sadly. “It waits.”
As I stepped outside, I noticed something new on the guesthouse wall.
A framed photograph.
Guests.
Old ones. Recent ones.
And there I was.
Standing in front of Room 303.
Dated tomorrow.
I ran.
Final Entry
I’m writing this from a bus station miles away. My reflection feels unfamiliar. Sometimes, I hear pages flipping when there are no books around.
This morning, my bag felt lighter.
The visitor’s book is gone.
And last night, on my phone screen, words appeared briefly before disappearing:
“Thank you for staying.”
Want a second part? Comment down below 👇🏻
Comments
Post a Comment
If you have any doubts or suggession let me know.