DEADLY ACTS IN ROOM 306

Mysterious  Death

Ethan Carter stepped into the darkened Blackwood Grand Hotel lobby, shaking the crisp of the late autumn night. It was an old-world hotel—high chandeliers, velvet drapes, and the promise of a whiff of aged wood. But something was wrong with it. Maybe it was all the stories he'd heard—stories of long-dead crimes, missing guests, and persistent enigmas.

The receptionist, a woman in her early fifties with tired eyes, offered him a weary smile.

 "Welcome to Blackwood Grand. Checking in?"

"Yes. Ethan Carter. Room 312."

She hesitated for a second, her fingers pausing over the keyboard. "Ah. Yes. You’re on the third floor."

Ethan noticed the slight shift in her tone. "Something wrong?"

"Not at all, sir. Just… we did have an incident in Room 306 last week. A guest died. Unfortunate accident." "Accident?" Ethan's eyebrow arched.

The woman glanced around nervously, then leaned in. "They say it was suicide. A businessman by the name of Victor Langley. But some of the staff don't believe it. The way his body was discovered… something wasn't right."

Ethan's journalist instincts prickled. "And what do you think?"

She smiled ironically. "I think it's none of my business."

Ethan agreed, but the seed of intrigue was already planted.

Sleep evaded him all night. The gentle tick-tock of the ancient clock on the wall, the creak of the wooden floorboards every so often—it all provided the spooky atmosphere. He finally got up, determined to stretch his legs.

As he stepped into the black hallway, he saw someone, a pretty young maid in a servant's dress, standing in front of Room 306, hesitantly looking around.

"Excuse me," Ethan told her.

She gasped and faced him. "I—I wasn't doing anything!"

"I didn't say you were." He took one step closer, his voice very low. "You knew Langley, didn't you?"

 Her eyes darted from side to side before she breathed back, "I saw something that night. But if I talk … I'm next."

Ethan leaned in, his ears ringing with her words. "You can trust me. What did you see?"

 She hesitated before answering, "Langley wasn't by himself when he was murdered. Someone was with him in that room."

Ethan's heart pounding. "Who?"

She swallowed. "A man. Tall, broad-shouldered. He was wearing gloves. And when I brought in fresh towels, he was walking out—cool, like nothing was wrong."

Ethan shivered. "Did you see his face?"

The maid shook her head. "No. But I saw the way he moved… confident, like he was supposed to be here."

A door creaked at the far end of the hall. The maid tensed. "I have to go."

 Before Ethan could stop her, she vanished downstairs.

He returned his focus to Room 306. The door was shut, but some internal pressure made him push it open and reveal the secrets inside.

And he was going to do just that.

A Scream In The Night

The Blackwood Grand Hotel was quiet at midnight, the kind of eerie quiet that made each creak of the old wooden floors sound like a whisper from the past. The majority of the guests were deep asleep, cocooned in their worlds—until the quiet was shattered.

A blood-curdling shriek tore through the third floor.

Ethan Carter lay bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding. He was not alone. The corridor outside his room, a few doors from Room 306, was immediately filled with the whispering and the creaking of doors opening and shutting.

He emerged, where other visitors had already started to gather. An older man in a bathrobe snarled, "Dear God, what was that?"

"Sounds like a woman," a younger visitor replied, looking aghast.

Before anyone could even speculate about anything else, the night manager, a thin man named Harris, ran up the stairs, his keychain jingling. A nervous-looking maid followed behind.

Ethan jumped at the opportunity and moved to the front of the crowd. "What is it? Did someone call security?"

Harris did not respond to him and knocked on Room 306. "Hello? Is everything all right in there?" No answer.

He glanced at the maid, who appeared nervous before leaning forward and whispering, "That room… It's supposed to be empty tonight."

The guests exchanged uneasy glances.

Harris breathed deeply, then unlocked the door and pushed it open. The dim light from the hallway seeped in, lighting up a dishevelled room. The curtains blew slightly ajar from the window being open, but that was not what made the air in the hallway freeze.

A woman lay stretched out on the carpet next to the bed, blonde hair sprawled over her face. Her eyes were fixed wide open, but all expression had been lost from them. A deep slash cut right across her throat.

The maid gasped and took a stumble backward, hand over her mouth. Someone whispered something under their breath.

Ethan came in before Harris, crouching beside the woman. "She's been dead at least a few minutes," he growled. His sharp eyes scanned the room—no gun, no sign of struggle… only the heady scent of perfume and something metal.

Harris turned to the maid. "Run, get the police. Now!"

She nodded frantically and ran.

A woman down the hall exclaimed, "This… this can't be happening. Who is she?"

Harris rubbed his temple, shaking his head. "I don't know. No one was supposed to be here tonight."

Ethan frowned. "Then how did she get in?"

The window. He walked over to it. The fire escape was outside, but the latches were still locked from the inside. Whoever had committed this act hadn't come through that door.

Someone in the crowd whispered, "This place is cursed. First Langley, and now this?"

Ethan's jaw tightened. Two deaths. Same room. Same mysterious conditions.

This was no accident.

This was murder.

Harris, the night manager, hesitated before opening Room 306. The phone call had been crazed—a caller had abruptly hung up and demanded to hear a single muffled gunshot followed by eerie silence. Now, in the company of two hotel staff, Harris stood in front of the darkened room, cold fear accumulating in his throat.

Summoning courage, he pushed the door ajar and went inside.

A sweet, pungent scent of gunpowder hung in the air. What lay before them was barren.

A man slumped in the window chair, a gun across his knees. His bloodied, expensive suit, one bullet hole in the middle of his chest. His head to the side, his lifeless eyes focused on nothing.

Housekeeper Maria gasped, her breath caught in her throat. "Dios mío…"

The bellhop, Jason, swallowed. "Jesus. Is that. Victor Langley?"

Harris took a step forward, his heart pounding. The man was Victor Langley—a successful entrepreneur who had come in two nights before.

Maria clasped her hands together. "It looks as though he shot himself."

Harris nodded slowly but couldn't rid himself of the sense that something wasn't right. Something was not right. He had seen suicides before—ridiculous, senseless murders—but this one. This one didn't add up.

Ethan Carter came into the room. The reporter had been sleeping a few rooms away and had overheard the noise. "What's going on?" he asked, taking in the room.

Harris took a deep breath. "Gunshot. Suicide, looks like."

Ethan entered, his keen eyes taking in the scene. He edged closer, kneeling beside the body.

"Where's the exit wound?" he grunted.

Harris scowled. "What?"

Ethan pointed to the wound on the victim's chest. "A close-range wound would have an exit wound, especially with a gun this large."

Jason blanched. "Maybe… maybe the bullet's still stuck?"

Ethan remained silent. He glanced at the gun on Langley's lap and then frowned. "His right hand… is he left-handed? Does he look that way to you?"

Harris blinked. "What are you implying?"

Ethan carefully lifted Langley’s right hand. "No gunpowder residue on his fingers. If he fired this gun, there should be traces of it. But there’s nothing."

Maria took a shaky step back. "You’re saying… he didn’t shoot himself?"

Ethan’s jaw tightened. "I’m saying this wasn’t a suicide. It was staged."

A chill spread through the room.

Jason took a step toward the door. "Then that means the killer is still out there."

There was a great silence after that.

Then, from down the corridor, a creaking of another door echoed, sending a shiver down them all.

There was somebody there.

And they might still be watching.