Vacancy

Ethan nearly drove past without noticing it.

The directions the man from the gas station had given him weren’t very clear. The gravel road off Highway 22 was unmarked, veiled by a dense thicket of dark pines. His headlights skimmed an old, weather-beaten sign hidden behind the brush; gold letters too faded to make out.

Ethan glanced at the dashboard clock: 5:56 p.m. He’d been on the road for ten hours now and still had another five to go. His eyes burned from fatigue, and his stomach grumbled. For all he knew, the next motel might be another hundred miles away. He sighed, guiding the car onto the narrow path.

The road was flanked by gnarled oak trees, their branches intertwined in a morbid canopy, the moonlight overhead casting ghostly patterns on the gravel. A single gas lamp flickered at the hotel’s entrance, revealing a Victorian-style building with chipped paint, a wraparound porch, and wooden shutters rattling in the wind.

Ethan parked in front and stepped out, noting the only other car was a small, red beater that looked like it had been there for ages. Leaves skittered around his ankles, whispering across the gravel. The place smelled of damp wood and rotting leaves. A sign dangled above the entrance, squeaking on rusted chains: Marionette Hotel—Vacancy.

What an odd name for a hotel, he thinks, approaching the door. The porch steps groaned and sagged under his weight, but the front door was unlocked and swung open with little resistance when he tried the handle.

Inside, an ornate wooden grandfather clock marked the hour, and Ethan froze. The lobby itself was quite unremarkable, if a little dated: the walls were lined with a faded, floral-patterned wallpaper that curled at the edges. Antique lamps shed a sickly yellow glow, casting long shadows that seemed to shift at the edges of his vision. A lusterless cherrywood desk sat towards the back, flanked by a series of flaking oil portraits labeled “Members of the Wood Family.”

But it wasn’t the desk or the portraits that seized Ethan’s attention.

Dozens of life-sized marionettes lined the walls, posed on wooden shelves or hanging from the ceiling by thin, delicate strings. Their eyes—glass orbs flecked with color—stared down at him, as though silently judging his arrival.

He shuddered and took a cautious step forward. Well, that explained the name. One marionette, perched on a small bench near the window, almost appeared to shift in the dim light. Ethan rubbed his eyes. After so many hours on the road, he was likely imagining things.

“Welcome to the Marionette Hotel. Checking in?”

Ethan whirled around.

A man had emerged from behind the desk: gaunt and graying and dressed in an ancient black waistcoat. A tarnished nametag affixed to his breast read Jeremiah, and he tracked Ethan’s every movement with rheumy blue eyes.

“Yes, I—I suppose so,” Ethan said. “I’ve been driving all day. Saw your sign from the highway.” Although that wasn’t completely true.

Jeremiah offered a polite smile but showed no teeth. “We don’t get many travelers this time of year.” He fiddled with a brass key lifted from the desk.

“I can see that.” Ethan shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Jeremiah shot him a look.  “If you require a room for the night, we have plenty of vacancies.”

Ethan nodded. As Jeremiah scribbled in a large ledger with an antique fountain pen, Ethan surveyed the lobby again. One marionette, a childlike figure with pigtails, looked especially lifelike, and he had the unsettling notion that its eyes had shifted to watch him. He forced down a shiver.

Just your imagination.

“Do you… collect dolls?” Ethan gestured to the rows of marionettes.

“It would appear so,” Jeremiah replied, his tone clipped. “My wife and I maintain this hotel. It has been in our family for generations.” He set the fountain pen down and slid a heavy brass key across the counter. “Room 7. Second floor. Breakfast is served promptly at seven, dinner at six. I suggest you stay in your room after that.”

Ethan frowned. “What do you mean? Like a curfew?”

Jeremiah’s gaze flicked toward the marionettes on the walls. “It’s a…tradition. We keep the halls dark; something of an old custom. It’s for your safety, of course. You’ll be comfortable in your room.”

A chill crept up Ethan’s spine. Safe? The man’s tone made it sound more like a warning than a guarantee. “Alright,” he said. “Thanks.”

As he turned to retrieve his luggage from the car, a breeze, carrying the faint odor of musty wood, fluttered the marionettes’ strings and he paused. For a split second, he swore the pigtailed marionette tilted its head.

Room 7 was on the second floor, at the end of a long corridor. Ethan noticed the peculiar hush blanketing the hallway, every footstep echoed on the tattered Persian rugs. Flickering sconces gave just enough light to see the row of closed doors, their brass knockers glinting ominously, of which each was in the shape of a puppet's face. Ethan shuddered. He was beginning to regret not sleeping in his car.

He fumbled with the heavy brass key in his pocket and unlocked his room, the door swinging open on creaky hinges. It was modest: a four-poster bed, antique dresser, and a standing lamp in the corner. But the strangest feature sat near the window: a single marionette propped on a rocking chair.

Jesus, these things were in the rooms, too?

It was more elaborately dressed than those in the lobby, wearing a miniature three-piece suit. Its face was eerily human, carved with exquisite skill, and set with dark, bloodshot eyes. If Ethan didn’t know better, he’d swear they were real.

He stared at the marionette for a moment before placing his bag on the bed. As he unpacked a few items—a change of clothes, a toothbrush—he could feel the doll’s eyes boring into the back of his head. Crossing to the bathroom, he snatched a fresh towel from under the vanity and tossed it over the doll, hiding it from view. He felt uneasy sleeping in its presence.

Just as he was about to sit on the bed, a knock sounded at the door. Hesitant, he opened it to find a petite woman, silver hair pulled back into a severe bun. Her eyes were an arresting shade of hazel, and she was clothed in a long, old-fashioned dress with a cameo brooch pinned at her throat. The nametag on her dress read Rose.

“You are late for dinner,” she said crisply, glancing at the towel-shrouded marionette.

“I’m sorry?”

“Dinner is served promptly at six. You are late.”

“But I’ve only just arrived.” Ethan glanced down at his phone; the time showed 6:08 p.m., and in the upper right corner: No Service. He frowned.

“Excuses are not acceptable, Mr. Chambers. Oh and, try to wear something more suitable, please. We are a respectable establishment.”

What in the world?

Baffled, he replied: “I’ll be right down. Thank you.”

Rose nodded once, sharply, then disappeared down the hall.

He found the dining room on the ground floor. Jeremiah and Rose were already seated at a long table, set with flickering candles. Oddly enough, there were more plates than people, placed at intervals as if expecting more guests. However, each of these seats was occupied by a marionette. They sat in stiff, upright poses, gazing into empty plates.

Bile rose in Ethan’s throat, and he forced it down. Clearing his throat, he took the only empty seat at the table, the chair creaking loudly on the polished oak floor. Rose ladled out a steaming bowl of soup for him and he thanked her, tucking a napkin into the neck of his sweater, nervously smoothing the wrinkles in his khakis he’d pulled from the bottom of his case before dinner.

He took a tentative sip of soup and found it surprisingly good and did his best to ignore the dolls. The entire time, he felt their silent stares, their varnished faces gleaming in the candlelight from their various perches around the table.

Jeremiah ate quietly, his spoon clicking against the ceramic. Every so often, he seemed to flinch at some phantom sound. When he finally spoke, it was in a hushed tone.

“Where are you headed, Mr. Chambers?”

Ethan swallowed. “Seattle, for a new job. Turns out the drive was longer than I anticipated, so here I am.”

Jeremiah nodded.

“So, um…why all the marionettes?” Ethan asked, unable to restrain himself.

Rose and Jeremiah exchanged a quick glance. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.

“It’s an old tradition,” she said. “Our ancestors built this inn and filled it with marionettes they’d carved by hand. People came from far and wide to marvel at the craftsmanship. Of course, we don’t get as many visitors anymore as we’d like.”

Ethan stared at one of the marionettes in a seat across from him: a refined figure in a little top hat. Its glass eyes seemed too real, too aware.

“We lock up early,” Jeremiah said abruptly, standing. “Rose, would you please show Ethan the evening routine? I’ll tidy up here.”

Evening routine?

Rose bowed her head, barely meeting Ethan’s eyes. “Of course. Follow me.”

As he stood to leave, Ethan could’ve sworn he saw one of the marionettes at the far end of the table turn its head slightly, its wooden mouth parted. An uncomfortable chill slithered through him.

He followed Rose down a dim corridor adjacent to the lobby. It was narrower than the upstairs hallway, with rows of shelves on either side lined with even more marionettes: some old and dusty, others polished and new. Many appeared mid-repair, with limbs or heads detached. Ethan noticed that each marionette’s face reflected a distinct emotion: fear, sorrow, ecstasy, rage.

Rose walked quietly; every step measured. She gestured to a closed cabinet at the end of the hall. “We keep extra supplies in here—tools, paint, string,” she said. “But it’s not for guests. I trust you’ll stay away.”

“Sure,” he said, uncertain. “I’m not much of a handyman anyway.”

Rose didn’t laugh.

Ethan’s gaze fell on a marionette missing an eye. A single glass eye stared blankly at him, as if urging him to look closer. Something about it felt… off, like it was half alive. He looked away quickly, throat constricting.

Rose glanced over her shoulder. “We ask all guests to remain in their rooms at night. The marionettes—some of them—are… fragile. The owners before us insisted we keep the halls dark, to preserve them. Too much light might damage them. And of course, we don’t want any guests to bump into them by mistake.”

She led him back to the base of the iron staircase and offered a gentle, apologetic smile. “Try to sleep well,” she said. “Trust me, everything will be fine if you stay in your room.”

Ethan nodded mutely, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He ascended the stairs. Somewhere behind him, a faint clicking noise echoed, reminiscent of wooden joints tapping in the dark.

Ethan locked the door behind him, leaving the brass door in the keyhole, and turned to face his room. The single lamp by the bed cast a pallid light against the walls and more importantly, the marionette in the rocking chair—the one he’d draped with a towel—sat exactly where he’d left it. He pulled the towel away; its wooden face glinted, eyes ever watching. He shuddered and threw the towel back over its head.

A wave exhaustion washed over him then, and suddenly Ethan felt the fatigue of driving all day. Perhaps, if he just slept, morning would come quickly, bringing with it a swift departure. He lay down on top of the covers (which smelled of mothballs), shoes still on, and tried to ignore the shrouded figure in the corner. The light next to the bed stayed on.

Somewhere around midnight, he awoke to the most unnatural hush. The wind, which had been blowing steadily since he’d arrived, had ceased. Not a single insect or bird chirped. Even the creaking old building had gone silent, as though bracing for something.

Click. Click. Click.

The hair on Ethan’s arms rose. He sat up. The noise was coming from the hallway, a methodical tapping. Heart pounding, he scrambled out of bed. Through the gap under the door, he observed a faint silhouette moving, casting a shadow onto his floorboards.

With the utmost caution, he turned the key and pulled the door open a fraction. Instantly, the tapping stopped. Peering into the hall, he saw a single marionette standing upright on the floorboards, free of any strings. Its head twitched from side to side, as if sniffing the air. Then, in the darkness, it took a step—on its own.

Ethan slammed the door shut, mouth cottony. “No. Impossible,” he breathed. He twisted the key, pressing both hands to the wood. For a long minute, all he could hear was the thunder of his own heartbeat.

Then the doorknob jiggled; once, twice. He yelped, stumbling backward.
Silence.
No more movement.

“You’re dreaming, Ethan. Wake up,” he told himself, exhaling. As he turned away from the door, something caught his eye—an empty rocking chair, faintly swaying, the towel a crumpled heap on the floor.

The marionette was gone.
Panic exploded inside him. Without thinking, Ethan yanked open the closet.

Nothing.

He looked under the bed. Empty.

His gaze darted to the window. It was still locked from the inside, and the window looked like it had been painted shut with years of recoats.

The marionette had vanished.

He snatched his car keys from the nightstand, cursing under his breath. There was no way he was staying until dawn. He would slip out, get into his car, and finish the rest of the drive to Seattle tonight. Let Rose and Jeremiah keep their bizarre hobby to themselves.

With trembling hands, Ethan unlocked his door again and cracked it open, listening for any clicking footsteps.

Nothing.

The hallway was empty.

Ethan glanced back at his room. He could always purchase new clothes in the city. Best to travel light for now, make a clean getaway. Swiping up for the flashlight function on his phone, he crept towards the staircase, leaving his suitcase behind.

The stairs creaked under his weight, and Ethan swallowed hard as he slowly descended into the darkness, his palm slick with sweat against the iron railing. Every sound set his heart pounding, and his phone swiveled in his hand, dispelling the shadows.

The corridor at the bottom of the stairs was completely dark, his flashlight revealing marionettes standing along the walls.

Wait—standing?

He could’ve sworn earlier they were sitting on the shelves. Now they formed a line, almost like an honor guard for a funeral procession.

Ethan forced down bile. He crept down the corridor, shoes making muffled thuds on the worn rug. Once, he glanced at the row of dolls. Their eyes—bright glass orbs—seemed to watch him in unison. One had its mouth carved into a grin that looked more like a snarl. Another was missing a nose. Another had a chunk of hair peeled away, exposing raw wood, as if partially scalped. He gulped and looked away.

Click.

He spun around.

A marionette near the staircase jerked forward half an inch, arms outstretched. Ethan let out a quiet moan and fled down the corridor, beelining for the lobby as the other marionettes reached for him, their arms outstretched, wooden fingers grabbing at the air.

The lobby was deserted at this hour.

The grandfather clock showed 12:22. Pale moonlight pierced the windows, illuminating the scattering of dolls on the sofas and chairs. They looked like silent guests gathered for an eerie midnight social. Ethan slid around them, holding his breath, and tugged on the front door.

It was locked.

He rattled the door, panic flaring. The handle wouldn’t budge. Searching frantically, he found no obvious bolt or keyhole—almost like it had been locked from the outside.

Footsteps echoed above him, and he pictured marionettes descending at any second, stiff-limbed and hungry for a victim. Ethan rattled the door again, harder this time. When the door still wouldn’t yield, he ducked behind the concierge desk, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Dust motes clogged his nose, and he cursed, eyes stinging with sweat.

Then a voice: “Mr. Chambers, where are you?”

Jeremiah.

His voice was slow, patient, almost songlike. Ethan froze. Did Jeremiah control the marionettes? Or was he, too, caught in their sway?

“We won’t hurt you,” Jeremiah continued. “Come out, come out, wherever you are, Mr. Chambers.”

Adrenaline surged. On the far side of the lobby, he spotted another doorway, perhaps to another exit. He scrambled for it, glancing back over his shoulder.

Jeremiah stood at the foot of the staircase, holding a lantern. Around him, at least four marionettes stood upright, their wooden heads jerking with ragged motions, arms bobbing. The sight chilled Ethan to the marrow. He yanked open the door and stumbled through.

It wasn’t an exit; it was a small workshop lit by a single overhead bulb, the smell of sawdust and varnish choking the air. Wooden limbs and torsos lay scattered across a large table in the center of the room. Various spools of red thread, jars of glass eyes, and half-carved puppet heads lined the shelves.

This is where they’re made, Ethan though. Each piece was shockingly lifelike: a leg with carved calf muscles, a hand with detailed knuckles, even a wooden scalp with implanted synthetic hair. On the walls hung sketches: human figures, outlined as though measured for puppet parts.

Ethan suppressed a rising wave of nausea. Then, out of the corner of his eye: a half-finished marionette with pale plastic in place of wooden joints. In loose scrawl, the label under it read:

Marionette No. 67: Room 4, 1985.

Beneath the label was a yellowing photograph. Ethan peered down at it. A middle-aged man with blue eyes and thinning hair smiled back at him with slightly crooked, white teeth. Next to the photograph lay a carved face, eerily matching the features in the photo.

The room spun.

He heard Jeremiah’s voice in the corridor: “You can’t hide forever, Mr. Chambers.”

Ethan scanned the workshop for any weapon or exit. There: a small door leading out, presumably to the back porch. Heart hammering, he hurried to it, jiggled the handle—and found it, too, was locked from the outside.

He was trapped.

Creeeaaaaak.

Ethan spun, brandishing a stray chisel he’d snatched from the table. The door to the workshop opened. Jeremiah stood there, his lantern casting dancing shadows across the marionette limbs. He looked weary, hollow-cheeked.

“Stay away from me!” Ethan yelled, voice trembling. “I’m warning you. Let me leave, or I’ll call the cops!”

Jeremiah sighed, stepping closer. “I was like you once,” he said softly. Did Ethan detect a hint of sadness? “I fought it, too. But you don’t get it, do you? No one leaves this place. It doesn’t let you. It has…needs.”

Ethan’s gaze darted to the marionettes swaying gently on their strings, lifeless but eerie in their stillness. “You’re feeding people to those things?” he spat, his heart racing.

Jeremiah flinched, as though Ethan’s words had struck him. “No,” he said quietly, lowering his lantern. “They are the people. Or they were, once.”

Ethan froze.

“You don’t understand,” he continued, his voice cracking. “It tricks you. You start to feel it as a stiffness in your back, your limbs; maybe you chalk it up to old age, or the way you slept that night. Then you start to feel the ache in your bones. Maybe you’re starting to get sick, you think. Ill. And then you notice your skin beginning to splinter and crack, and by then it’s too late.”

Ethan stared at him, horrified. “That’s insane.”

Jeremiah gestured to the marionettes lining the walls, their carved faces twisted into expressions too complex for something lifeless. “Is it? Look at them. The hotel doesn’t just take souls, Mr. Champers—it binds them. It reshapes them. Bone by bone, sinew by sinew, until there’s nothing left but wood, wire, and helpless eyes, sculpted from the inside out. The marionettes aren’t puppets, Mr. Chambers—they’re sacrifices.”

Ethan stumbled back, his heart hammering. “You’re crazy—I’m leaving. Get out of my way.”

He tried to shove past Jeremiah, and the old man didn’t resist. He simply stepped aside, lowering the lantern with shaking hands. “Please don’t run,” he whispered. “It will only be worse if you resist. It always is.”

That’s when Ethan heard it: a low groan, almost like a creaking door. From beyond the doorway, a marionette jerked into view, its joints creaking and popping with each step, its movements unnatural. Its wooden face bore an unnatural smirk, the corners of its mouth curling too high to be human.

Then another emerged. And another.

He was trapped.

Their hollow eyes glinted as they moved toward him, not with the mindless shamble of puppets, but with the intent of hunters. And as they moved, Ethan thought he could hear something, like a muffled sob, hidden beneath the scrape of wooden feet.

Ethan stumbled back as the marionettes closed in, their wooden hands stretching toward him. He swore he could feel it now, something stirring in his own body. A tightness in his joints. A crawling sensation under his skin, as if his blood had begun to harden.

Jeremiah lowered his head. “I’m sorry. But every guest becomes part of the performance in the end.”

When Ethan regained consciousness, he was lying on something cold. Pale dawn light filtered in through high, cobwebbed windows, and he recognized the space as the workshop; except now, it was filled with row upon row of marionettes, some slumped, some standing motionless.

Panicked, he tried to move, but his arms and legs felt stiff, like his muscles had atrophied overnight. He raised a hand to his face, but it didn’t feel like his hand; like the sensation when one has slept on a limb for too long. To his horror, instead of flesh, he saw carved wooden fingers with faint lines where they joined together.

Somehow, he had become a puppet.

Shaking, he stared down at the rest of his body.

All wooden. Smooth, polished. Painted with a disturbingly human finish. He wanted to scream, but his voice emerged in a stifled rasp.

Jeremiah bent over the table with a can of varnish and a small brush. “I told you I was sorry,” he said. “I warned you.”

Ethan wanted to scream, but his mouth wouldn’t cooperate. It clacked when he opened it, and a strangled moan escaped. His carved chest heaved, but the breath was purely symbolic now, forced by some arcane power. “You…bastard,” he managed to choke out.

Jeremiah pursed his lips. “I’m just doing my job, Mr. Chambers. This is the way it’s always been.” He stood, setting the can of varnish down next to Ethan.

The workshop door swung open. Rose entered, hugging a small marionette against her body as though it were a child. Her eyes landed on Ethan, and she squinted, scrutinizing him.

“He’s complete now?”

Jeremiah nodded once. “It is done.”

Ethan moved again, attempting to stand, but balancing on his new, unproportional limbs was unnatural. He crashed forward, his wooden joints creaking. Jeremiah caught him before he could fall from the table.

“Steady there,” he murmured. “It takes time to adjust.”

“Please…let…me go?” Ethan groaned, puppet jaws clacking in dissonance.

“We can’t,” Rose said softly. “Once the transformation happens, your human body is gone. Your essence—your spirit—resides in the wood. I’m sorry. Truly.”

He wanted to rage, to tear them limb from limb. But he couldn’t even muster the coordination to stand properly. He glared at Rose, and she turned away, tears in her eyes.

They left Ethan alone in the workshop on the floor, wooden limbs sprawled, staring at the half-carved marionettes lining the walls, which he now realized were just a ruse.

Hours passed in silence. From somewhere deep in the hotel, Ethan could hear the faint bustle of chores. He guessed Rose and Jeremiah were preparing for the next unsuspecting visitor and wondered, briefly, what was to become of his things, his car. Would anyone find them, discarded in a dumpster somewhere? Would anyone come looking for him? Surely the office would notify police when he failed to show up for his first day on the job, right?

All day the marionettes dozed, if that was the right word, on benches, in corners, or strung from the rafters, awaiting nightfall. Ethan realized with mounting dread that once darkness fell, he might be forced to join them in their unstoppable wandering. Would he also lose his mind like so many had before him?

Desperate for a plan, he tried to crawl to the workshop door. Each movement creaked and popped, like poorly oiled wood, echoing in the stillness. Finally, he reached the latch—but he couldn’t grasp it with his carved fingers. Trapped again, caged in his own wooden shell.

Night crept in. Outside the workshop’s windows, the sky dimmed to a dusky purple. A single lantern glowed from the far corner, revealing shapes stirring among the marionettes. They rose in jerky motions, as though waking from slumber. Ethan, too, felt a strange pull in his limbs, an urge to stand. He tried to resist it, but his own body moved without his bidding, wooden legs stumbling upright.

Jeremiah entered with the lantern. He looked tired, cheeks gaunt. “The night is upon us,” he said to the marionettes in a resigned tone. Then his gaze found Ethan. “You’ll join them now. There’s nothing else I can do.”

Ethan wanted to hurl curses, to beg for mercy. But the bizarre power in the workshop compelled him to shuffle toward Jeremiah instead, the other marionettes forming a silent assembly around him.

Rose stood behind Jeremiah, still hugging the child puppet. She wouldn’t meet Ethan’s eyes.

“All of you, come,” Jeremiah said, leading them to the corridor. The marionettes obeyed. Ethan couldn’t stop his feet. He tottered among them, each wooden step a sharp click on the floor. This must be how the others felt, he realized. Captured, enslaved. Afraid.

They emerged into the moonlit lobby, where the other marionettes were waiting, some perched on benches, some standing, others strung from the rafters. This time, Ethan noticed that every face was different, carved from guests of decades past. He saw the pigtailed doll from before, standing motionless in the corner, and realized with a jolt that it, too, had once been human. A child.

“This is our life, Mr. Chambers,” Jeremiah whispered. “We maintain the hotel by day, so unsuspecting travelers stop by. By night, the marionettes roam. Their souls keep the building… alive.”

A small moan escaped Ethan’s wooden throat. He could feel the collective presence of every cursed spirit trapped in carved limbs. Shudders of despair rippled through them as the clock chimed midnight.

One by one, the lobby marionettes began to move, drifting through the halls in that slow, macabre dance. Some trudged into the dining room, some marched up the iron staircase. Others circled the lobby, arms swaying like puppets on invisible strings. Ethan found himself steered toward the front door.

He turned his wooden head to glimpse the reflection in a tall mirror by the concierge desk: a legion of marionettes behind him, glassy eyes glowing milky in the moonlight.

Ethan was one of them now. Another victim.

He heard Jeremiah’s voice from across the room: “The cycle continues. With each new occupant, the Marionette Hotel remains, its needs fulfilled.”

Rose touched Jeremiah’s shoulder. She whispered something to her husband, then turned away.

“Freeze!” Jeremiah commanded.

Immediately, the marionettes obeyed—Ethan included—their bodies ceasing to move as though encased in ice.

A moment later, the entrance to the hotel swung open. A young woman stepped over the threshold, her blonde curls stuffed under a cap, a backpack slung over her shoulders. She froze at the sight of the marionettes. Her wide eyes darted in confusion.

Ethan tried to shout at her, to warn her: Run!

But his mouth made no sound.

At dawn, the hotel once more sank into its façade of quiet normalcy. The marionettes returned to their poses around the building, awaiting the darkness when they could roam again. Ethan found himself on a cushioned window seat in the lobby, posed with arms on his lap. He couldn’t remember exactly how he got there.

He stared out the window at the rising sun, wishing for oblivion. But his consciousness remained trapped in the polished wood. He was aware of every shift in the building’s air, of every footstep on the floor. Unable to sleep, unable to rest, forever watching strangers unknowingly check in for the same fate. Powerless to help them, powerless to free himself. Condemned to walk the halls each night, a puppet conscripted into a grim procession. No dawn would bring hope of release.

The front door opened.

Jeremiah greeted their new guests: a young man and his wife, and their two children. He forced a smile. Rose hovered nearby, wringing her hands, the sadness permanent in her hazel eyes. The father gazed at the eerie décor, marionettes upon every wall, and gave a polite greeting; the children clung to their mother’s legs, refusing to look at the dolls. They never noticed the subtle tilt of Ethan’s head, or the faint despair in his eyes.

Outside, the battered sign swayed in a slight breeze: Marionette Hotel—Vacancy.