The Shining – Stephen King

January 12th – The Overlook Hotel, Colorado

The snow had fallen nonstop for three days, burying the roads and sealing the hotel from the world. I had come as a temporary caretaker—a last-minute replacement for a man who “couldn’t handle the quiet,” as the management put it.

They didn’t mention the screams.

The Overlook was quiet, yes. Too quiet. I could hear the walls breathe. The chandeliers tremble. The ticking of the grandfather clock echoed like a heartbeat in a coffin.

But it wasn’t the hotel that bothered me. It was Room 217.

---

**January 13th**

The key to Room 217 was missing from the rack when I arrived.

I didn’t think much of it—there were a hundred other rooms, and I only had to maintain the basics: heat, water, and keeping the pipes from freezing. I made my rounds each day, dragging a squeaky cart through the carpeted halls, listening to old jazz music play through speakers that weren’t plugged in.

But I began to hear things—under the door of 217.

Whispers.

Nothing distinct. A woman’s voice. Sometimes crying. Sometimes humming.

I knocked once. Just to be sure.

The humming stopped.

I left quickly.

---

**January 14th**

That morning I found the key on the reception desk. Brass. Cold. Tagged “217” in elegant script.

I didn’t touch it.

Later that day, I passed the room again. The door was open two inches.

I swear it had been locked.

Inside, the lights were on. The bathroom steamed as if someone had just stepped out of a hot bath. The air smelled faintly of lavender and mildew.

And something else.

Rot.

I backed away and shut the door. The hum resumed behind it.

A lullaby, I think.

---

**January 15th**

I tried to call out. No signal. The snow had buried the satellite dish.

In the kitchen, I found a Polaroid photo tucked behind the microwave. It showed a man—early thirties, glasses, holding a snow shovel. “Caretaker Winter ’87 – Bill Harnett” written on the back.

I looked him up in the old employee logbook. His name had been crossed out in red pen.

Beside it, someone had written:

**"Left mid-January. Refused to go near 217.”**

---

**January 16th**

I dreamed of the bathtub.

A woman with skin like wet paper. Eyes black and sunken. She lay in the tub filled with red water, humming. Her mouth never moved.

I couldn’t breathe.

When I awoke, my bedsheets were soaked with melted snow, though the windows were sealed tight.

And outside my door was a single, wet footprint.

---

**January 17th**

I finally opened Room 217.

Not out of bravery. Out of inevitability.

It called to me now. Not with sound, but a pressure. A weight on my chest. I needed to see. To know.

The room looked ordinary. Faded wallpaper. A brass lamp. A large bed with a floral comforter.

But the bathroom door was ajar.

Steam curled out from it.

I walked forward—slowly, as if something might break.

The mirror above the sink was fogged, but words had been drawn in the condensation:

**"I never left."**

The tub was empty.

I turned to leave—

—and she was behind the door.

A woman. Hair matted to her face. Skin peeled around her neck, where a purple scarf had once been.

She opened her mouth—too wide—

And screamed.

---

**January 18th**

I locked the room. Threw the key into the furnace.

But it’s still open. Every time I pass. The door stands ajar.

And I hear the water running.

I’ve stopped sleeping. When I close my eyes, I see the room behind my lids. I feel her hands—cold, slimy—on my shoulders.

She speaks now.

“You’re staying with me this time.”

---

**January 19th**

I found another photo today. This time it was in the ballroom.

A crowd of people dressed in 1920s finery. Champagne glasses raised. A banner overhead:

**“Welcome, Mr. Kingsley!”**

That’s my name.

I never took that photo. I never attended that party. But there I was—front and center—smiling like I belonged.

---

**January 20th**

The snowplow was supposed to arrive today.

It didn’t.

I tried walking out myself. Made it a hundred yards before the wind drove me back.

The hotel welcomed me like an old friend. Lights flicked on. The jazz resumed.

Room 217 is unlocked again.

Inside, the bathtub is full. The water is red.

She’s waiting.

---

**January 21st – Final Entry**

I understand now.

The Overlook doesn’t trap you with walls or snow. It traps you with time. With memory.

With yourself.

I thought I was the new caretaker.

But I’ve always been here. Haven’t I?

The woman—her name is Lila. She drowned herself in 1921. Waiting for her husband to come home.

Now she waits for anyone.

And she’s not alone.

They’re all here. The past caretakers. The vanished guests. The things that were never alive to begin with.

And now, so am I.

If you find this journal—burn it. Don’t read it.

And never, ever open Room 217.