The Last Message from Room 207

Prologue: The Diary Under the Floorboard

The first rule of cleaning hotel rooms? Never look too closely.

But when I pried up the loose floorboard in Room 207 of the Blackwood Inn, I found something that changed everything.

A diary.

Small, leather-bound, the initials E.R. stamped in gold. The first page read:

"If you’re reading this, I’m already gone. But he’s still here. He never checks out."

The last entry was dated yesterday.

Chapter 1: The Vanishing Guest

The Blackwood Inn had a reputation. Built in 1923, it was the kind of place where shadows clung to the wallpaper and the elevator groaned like a dying man. Guests in Room 207 often complained of whispers behind the walls. Most checked out early.

But Eleanor Rourke stayed for a week in 1957—and vanished without a trace.

Her diary proved it.

"June 3, 1957: The faucet drips in Morse code. Three fast, two slow. It spells 'HELLO.'"

"June 5: The man in the mirror blinks when I don’t."

"June 7: I know his name now. He was Guest 207 before me. He never left."

I slammed the diary shut.

Then the faucet turned on by itself.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Three fast. Two slow.

Chapter 2: The Man Who Never Checks Out

The hotel records showed it: Daniel Harker, a traveling salesman, checked into Room 207 on October 31, 1938.

He never checked out.

His body was found inside the walls during a renovation in 1942—his fingers bloody from scratching at the plaster.

The coroner ruled it suicide.

But Eleanor’s diary told a different story:

"June 8: He knocks at 3:17 AM. Three fast, two slow. I made the mistake of answering. Now he stands at the foot of my bed, smiling. He says I’ll be 'perfect for the collection.'"

I checked the time.

3:16 AM.

A knock rattled the door.

Chapter 3: The Collection

I didn’t answer.

The knocking turned to scraping—long, jagged nails dragging down the wood.

Then silence.

I exhaled… until I saw the mirror.

A man in a moth-eaten suit stood behind me, his lips sewn shut with black thread. His hand pressed against the glass, leaving a bloody smudge as he mouthed:

"You’re next."

The diary flipped open to a blank page.

Fresh ink appeared, as if written by an unseen hand:

"June [TODAY’S DATE]: Found the diary. Now he’s found me."

Epilogue: The Newest Entry

They say I quit the Blackwood Inn without notice.

They’re wrong.

I’m still here.

Room 207 just doesn’t have a maid anymore.

But if you ever stay there, check under the floorboard.

You’ll find my diary.

The last entry is always dated yesterday.