Chapter 1 | Mara

I’m riding shotgun, one boot on the dash, flicking ash out the cracked window. Noah’s hunched over the wheel, staring out over the dark winding road like he’s afraid of what’s waiting at the end of it.

It’s way past midnight and we’re tearing through the woods with the speakers screaming and my head is pounding. The van smells like sweat, weed, and fast food we didn’t finish. I’m tired, pissed off, and vibrating with leftover adrenaline from the show.

“You’re sure this is the way?” I yell over the music.

Maiden’s howling from the speakers, loud enough to shake the rust off the van.

Noah doesn’t even flinch. “No, I’m not sure. But this is where the guy told me it was.”

I blink at him. “What guy?”

“I don’t know. Some guy. He messaged the band page. Said he was with the venue, gave me a number, I called it.”

“Oh, cool. So we’re just trusting random dudes online now? Should we send him our bank details too?”

Noah shoots me a look. “Yeah, sure. I’ll throw in my nudes while I’m at it. Relax, it was cheap, Mara.”

I crank the window down further but it jams halfway. I slam it the rest of the way with my palm. It groans, like everything else in this piece-of-shit van. The cold air hits me along with the smell of pine and decomposing leaves.

Nothing but black trees pressing in on both sides. No lights. No signs. No signal.

A tap on my shoulder. I turn and Moxie’s leaning over the seat, eyeliner smudged, she’s clasping a half-drunk bottle of beer.

I take a long pull and hand it back. Without missing a beat, she drains the last drop and lets the bottle hit the floor with a lazy clink.

“Where the fuck are we?” she yells.

I shrug. “Still looks like Saint Pyre’s ass-end to me.”

Another shit gig. A dive bar full of meatheads who short-circuit the second a woman takes the mic.

My throat’s torn raw. Voice still fucked. But hell, I’m okay with that ache, proof I gave it my all. Not like those assholes deserved a damn thing.

I cough, take another drag of my cigarette, and blow the smoke straight at Noah.

“Ah, what the fuck, Mara?” He swats at the cloud, shooting me a sideways glare. “You really wanted to stay above that shit-heap tavern?”

I didn’t. But right now, I’m starting to think it might’ve been the better call.

“Can you please turn that shit down?”

He rolls his eyes but knocks the volume down a couple notches.

I push my seat back with a rough clunk, cigarette burning low between my fingers as I sit, lost in my own head.

It’s not like I hate slumming it. We’re broke as shit, but that’s how these tours go. It’s the dead energy in these towns that gets under my skin. Like we’re playing to ghosts. I toss my cigarette butt out the window. 

Sometimes I wonder if we’re actually going anywhere, or just fooling ourselves into thinking we will.

My thoughts shatter as Noah slams on the brakes.

“Fuck!” I yelp, eyes snapping open as I lurch forward.

Out the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a deer darting back into the trees just before the van screeches to a stop.

Noah’s hands clamp tighter on the wheel, his jaw clenched hard. He grumbles under his breath, adjusts his cap with a quick flick, then eases the van forward. With a sharp press, the radio clicks off and the van falls into a heavy, unsettling silence.

From the back, I hear Shane cursing under his breath. He’s spilled his beer all over himself.

I’m about to pipe up, ready to tell Noah maybe the tavern doesn’t seem so bad after all, when I see it.

Stag’s End rises from the mist like the carcass of some slumbering beast. Its vast brick façade juts out in broken wings, all sharp angles and crooked lines. The building is enormous, too big for a hotel this deep in the woods, its looming presence made worse by the way its structure seems to lean inward, like a creature curling protectively around some hidden treasure.

Ancient brickwork, streaked with soot and moss, climbs the outer walls in uneven patterns. Ivy clings like veins. The windows are tall but narrow, each framed with black iron bars. A few busted cars sit scattered across the lot, their windshields catching the low light like staring eyes.

Only a single lamp glows above the front entrance, casting a pool of sickly yellow light onto the worn stone steps. The heavy double doors sag on their hinges, flanked by gothic columns, too warped to be welcoming. Above them, a crooked wooden sign hangs from rusted chains, swaying gently in the breeze. Stag’s End Hotel, the letters just barely visible beneath centuries of peeling paint and mildew-blackened wood.

The van rumbles to a stop on the uneven driveway, the crunch of gravel loud in the eerie silence.

“Ohhh ho ho ho, fuck no,” Moxie chuckles from the backseat, shaking her head.

I lean forward, squinting at the shadowy building ahead. “Noah, please tell me that’s not our hotel.”

He tilts his head, gives it a long look like he’s trying to will it into being less terrifying. “That’s our hotel.”

He kills the engine and silence settles over the van like a heavy blanket. None of us say a word.

Eventually he cracks his door. A breath of cold night air creeps in. “Well. You coming, or sleeping in the van?”

I snort. “I’ll let you know after I see the inside.”

I shove the door open and climb out, boots sinking into loose gravel with a hollow crunch. Behind me, the van door swings shut with a dull, final thud.

Moxie groans, louder this time, but climbs out after me, arms crossed tight against the cold. Shane follows, yawning as he swings his door closed, then circles to the back with the rest of us.

We pop the van open and grab our bags for the night. The gear stays put, except for Shane’s bass, which he lifts carefully from its case and slings over his shoulder like it’s made of glass.

He trudges up beside us, bleary-eyed and still smelling like beer.

The stone porch is uneven beneath our boots, every slab sunken or tilted, cracks cover the surface.

Noah steps up first and leans in to press the doorbell. A brittle chime echoes from somewhere deep inside the house, warbling like it’s coming from underwater.

There’s a beat of silence as me and Moxie exchange a look.

Through the chipped glass, a figure moves, slow and unsteady. A lock clicks sharply, followed by the door creaking open to reveal a tall, thin man. His slicked-back dark hair and sharply angled face make him look like he’s carved from shadows. His dark, unreadable eyes linger on us a moment too long, cold and unsettling.

Noah steps forward, voice steady. “Hey, it’s Noah. I spoke to an ‘Alton Greaves’ on the phone earlier.”

“Noah.” He repeats the name slowly, like tasting something bitter. “I am Mr Greaves. Do come in. The night has teeth this time of year.”

His words sound polite, but the way he says them doesn’t feel like much of an invitation.

He holds the door open and we shuffle past him into the quiet.

The reception stretches out ahead, dim beneath a low chandelier. A battered wooden desk juts out from the far wall, its surface scratched and stained, the varnish long since worn away. A tarnished brass bell sits crooked beside a cracked leather guestbook, its pages curled and yellowed with age. Behind the desk, a dark wooden doorway leads into a smaller storage space that could double as his office.

A single lamp casts a dull glow over the threadbare rug, its light barely reaching the far corner. In the deepest part of the shadows, a man sits slouched in the armchair.

He doesn’t move.

One hand lifts a chipped teacup to his lips with eerie calm, steam curling into the air. His scraggly, grey beard clings unevenly to his jaw, and deep-set lines carve through his leathery skin. Thick, dark brows sit low over heavy-lidded grey eyes that don’t blink. Every finger is adorned with silver rings, shaped like skulls and various symbols.

Noah gives an awkward wave, but the man doesn’t move or respond.

The lock clicks sharply, slicing through the silence. Mr Greaves glides past, his fingers brushing the desk’s edge with absent familiarity. He doesn’t look at any of us as he speaks, voice low and oddly flat.

“Rooms two oh three and two oh four,” Mr Greaves murmurs, like he’s reciting from memory. “I’ll bring you your keys.”

“Great, thanks,” Noah says with a strained grin, eyes drifting around the dim room.

Greaves slips through the narrow doorway behind the desk. From the back, we hear the muted creak of floorboards and the faint clatter of keys.

I nudge Moxie and tilt my head toward the man on the sofa, eyes locked on us like he’s never looked away. Something about him sets my nerves on edge.

She follows my gaze, then turns back with a crooked grin. “Scooby Doo villain looking motherfucker.”

I bite back a laugh, the tension easing slightly.

Greaves reemerges from the backroom clutching a set of keys in his hand. “Please, this way.”

He leads us through the lounge, pushing open an old creaking door and leaving the silent figure on the sofa behind. The man’s head turns slowly, his dead eyes following us as we round the corner.

Ahead, the narrow corridor is swallowed by shadows, lit only by flickering oil lanterns hung on rusted iron brackets. Their weak flames cast trembling pools of amber light, revealing faded gothic paintings lining the walls.

Moxie glances at Shane. “Do you really have to haul that bass everywhere?”

He cradles it like a trophy. “I practice. You might wanna try it sometime. Y’know, so your riffs don’t sound so sloppy.“

“Fuck off,” she snorts. “You only play bass ’cause six strings were too much for your dumbass to handle.”

Shane grins. “Yeah? At least I don’t need a wall of distortion just to sound decent.”

“You think I sound decent?”

I spin around, glaring. “Will you two shut up? You both fucking suck.”

We walk the rest of the way in silence.

Greaves stops without a word, one hand resting on the crooked rail of a staircase that tilts slightly to the right, like the house itself is tired of standing. We follow, hauling our cases behind us, the steps groaning under our weight as the sound echoes up the narrow stairwell.

At the top, a dim corridor stretches out, almost perfectly mirroring the one below. We pass rooms 201 and 202, their doors shut tight, numbers dulled with age. Just ahead, 203 and 204 come into view. Their crooked plaques hang loose, the doors beneath them sagging on tired hinges.

Greaves stops between them and produces two brass keys with a soft jingle.

“Here you are,” he says, handing one to Noah and one to myself. “Breakfast is served from seven to ten. I’m afraid the bar is closed until further notice. Towels are changed every third day unless otherwise requested.”

“Thanks, we’re only here for the night,” Noah casually reminds him.

“Oh, that’s right. If you need anything, dial zero on the phone in your room.” He tilts his head slightly. “I’m always nearby. Checkout is at eleven.”

“Could I get the Wi-Fi password?” Shane mutters, fishing his phone from his pocket with his free hand.

Mr Greaves fixes him with a slow, deliberate stare, like he’s weighing whether Shane’s soul needs a password too.

Noah cuts in with a tight smile, eyes flicking to Shane. “We’ll manage, thanks. You’ve been… very helpful.”

“Well then, please enjoy your stay.” He smiles, both too wide, and for too long before he disappears  down the corridor without another word.

We stand there for a second, quietly weighing whether this is the night we die.

I slide the key into the lock and glance at Noah. “I swear, if there’s even one haunted doll in this room…”

Noah throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Yeah yeah. See you degenerates at breakfast. Try and get some sleep, yeah?”

I yawn, already half turned toward our door. “Yeah. We’ll see you down there. Night.”

“Night,” Noah echoes, unlocking their room.

Moxie stretches and looks around like the party’s just getting started. “Seriously? You’re all just going to bed?”

Shane perks up. “I’m not tired. I’m good to stay up.”

She smirks. “Really? No one?”

“Seriously?”

“Night!” she says with a shit-eating grin.

“Whatever, asshole.”

Shane gives a lazy salute as he trails in behind Noah. Moxie answers with a middle finger raised high and proud.

I shove the door open and step inside. Thankfully no creepy dolls but if I was hoping that the room would be different from the vintage nightmare that was the rest of the place, I was disappointed. 

A double bed slumps against the wall on my left, the bedside drawers scratched up, and the wardrobe in the corner looks like the perfect hiding spot for a serial killer. A cracked window looks out over the central courtyard, cobwebs framing the view.

Moxie steps in behind me, her boots making the floorboards creak. She gives the room a slow once-over, then pauses at a narrow door on the right. Without a word, she pushes it open.

The bathroom smells of bleach and cheap cleaning products. The walls are tiled halfway up, stained in places with what I really hope isn’t blood. A clawfoot tub sits beneath a cracked mirror, its interior stained a dull brown around the drain. The bulb overhead flickers once. Twice. Like it’s considering whether we’re worth the effort.

“Damn,” Moxie mutters, surveying the room. “Mara, we’ve stayed in some shit-holes, but this… this one is something else.”

“Come on, it could be worse. Cedar Ridge? I found piss stains in the bed.”

She glances over. “Doesn’t count if it was your piss.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah yeah. Well, piss is the least of my worries right now.”

She walks over and tugs open the heavy doors, hinges groaning like they’re waking up after a hundred years. She peers inside, frowning.

“Any dead bodies?” I ask, dropping my case by the far side of the bed.

“Not yet. Fucking spiders, though.” She slams the wardrobe shut with a grimace. “You wanna just crash?”

I nod. “Yeah. I’m wiped. The sooner I sleep, the sooner I wake up, the sooner we hit the road.”

She sinks onto the edge of the bed. “You think Branford’s gonna be any better tomorrow?”

“Can’t be worse than tonight’s show.”

“Yeah.” She pauses, quiet for a beat. “We’re not gonna be playing places like this forever.”

“It’s not the venues,” I say. “Did you see the way those guys looked at us when we hit the stage?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I ask you something, Mox?”

“Sure.”

“Was it like that before you transitioned?”

She exhales, long and tired. “I don’t know. I used to get blackout drunk before every set just to stop my hands shaking. I played like shit back then.”

“Just back then?” I say deadpan.

She shoots me a glare. “Dick. I barely remember the crowds. I was too busy focussing on not throwing up.”

I nod. “We’re good, though. Maybe not amazing, not yet, but... we shouldn’t be playing to rooms like that.”

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I don’t know what we’re doing wrong.”

I shake my head, eyes on the cracked ceiling. “Maybe nothing. Maybe people just don’t know what to do with us.”

I take the bathroom first. The tap groans like it’s in pain, and the water that tastes like old coins. I brush fast, spit into the chipped sink, and dry my mouth on a towel that feels like sandpaper.

We swap places without a word. I crawl into bed and sink into the lumpy mattress with a sigh.

A minute later, Moxie steps out, closes the bathroom door, and drops into bed beside me. I reach over and kill the light.

Silence settles in, broken only by the low groan of ancient pipes shifting somewhere behind the walls.

“This place is so fucking haunted,” I mutter. “Night, Mox.”

“Night.”

Chapter 2 | Shane

There’s a stain on the ceiling that looks like a face if you catch it just right. I’ve been staring at it for the last twenty minutes.

Noah’s snoring beside me, dead to the world about sixty seconds after his head hits the pillow.

My mind won’t shut off, replaying the day over and over. Mara looks like she’s one bad night away from breaking. Moxie’s a loaded gun, cocked and ready to unload lead into anyone that rubs her wrong. Noah keeps a tight grip on himself, but it’s clear this tour isn’t what he imagined.

I’m stuck on how long it took me to warm up at soundcheck, and how Moxie and I just weren’t syncing on stage like we used to. There was just this… disconnect. The crowd didn’t help either, they looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. 

I sigh, swing a leg out of bed, and sit up. Sleep wasn’t happening. I pull on a hoodie over my bare chest, grab my smokes, and slide into my shoes. The keys are on Noah’s side table. I pocket them and slip out into the hallway.

The girls’ room is quiet as I pass. Lucky them.

I head for the stairs, itching for fresh air and a smoke to burn off the noise in my head. Just need a minute to shake this shit loose before I can get some sleep.

I jog down them, careful to keep it quiet. On the ground floor, the corridor stretches out ahead, longer than it seemed before. As I pass one of the rooms, a faint, muffled humming drifts out from inside.

I continue my way down to the lounge. The lights are low, and the man from earlier is gone. No sign of Mr Greaves either.

I pause near the sofa, fishing in my pocket for my lighter.

That’s when I hear it. Voices, low and muffled, coming from just beyond the tall window. I step a little closer.

It’s Greaves. I can’t make out everything, but his voice cuts through in fragments.

“Behind the desk… yes. I’ll take that one. It’s too soon. We start tomorrow, but it’ll take time. A few days.”

It sounds like there’s someone else with him, but their voice is harder to catch. Just the shape of it. A whisper more than a reply.

Greaves again, firmer now. “I’ve handled it. Trust me. I don’t care what The Warden says… it’s too soon. Not yet.”

Another silence.

Then: “I need more time. It has to go right this time. I’ll go, I’ll speak with him tonight. He’ll understand.”

Shadows shift across the frosted glass of the front windows. Long, warped outlines gliding past the dim porch light. Mr Greaves moves past first, unmistakable in his sharp silhouette. Two others follow, both carrying small black boxes in their hands. 

As they pass, I duck back into the hallway, heart knocking against my ribs. I move quickly but keep my steps light. I don’t look back.

What the hell is happening at this time of night? Who the fuck were those guys? And what’s in those boxes?

The Warden. Some nickname? A title? Was this place tied to a prison? That makes no sense. None of this does.

As I head back down the corridor, something stops me. The blunt notes of a guitar. The sound curls down the hall like smoke, faint at first, then building as I move forward. It’s coming from somewhere up ahead.

Room 104. The door is cracked open, a thin strip of flickering amber light bleeding into the hallway. I swear it was shut earlier. I wouldn’t have missed that.

The music claws at me, dragging me closer. A slow, snarling riff, each note bending and hanging heavy, decaying in the air. There’s a rhythm, with a warped edge that makes my skin prickle. 

Candles. Dozens of them. Perched on the desk, the drawers, wax melting into the warped floorboards, casting the whole room in this pulsing, uneven glow. There’s barely any furniture, but the space still somehow feels cluttered.

And there he is.

The man from the lounge. Perched on the bed, his eyes are closed, his head tilted slightly, dragging the riff out like it’s being exorcised from the strings. The guitar isn’t polished. It’s old, scratched, the strings twisting out at harsh angles from the tip as if mimicking his beard. But the sound is rich, almost too rich, like it’s coming from somewhere deep inside him.

A chipped mug steams beside him. Same as earlier. Same weird scent, like cloves and wet leaves.

Up close, he looks older. His skin is weathered like an old jacket left in the sun too long. His shirt is black but stained, his jeans shredded at the knees, his boots scuffed to hell. He looks like he crawled out of a record sleeve from thirty years ago and never quite found his way back.

I just stand there. Listening.

Then his eyes snap open.

Sharp and grey, staring right at me like he knew I was there the whole time.

I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how small I feel in the doorway. “You’re good,” I say, and I mean it. But the words come out low, like I’ve broken some kind of spell. Like I’ve walked in on a ritual that wasn’t meant to be seen.

“You…? You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice low but sharp.

I blink. “Sorry?”

His gaze hardens. “You shouldn’t be here.”

There’s no mistaking it now, his tone has shifted. Not angry. Urgent. Like he’s warning me.

He exhales slow through his nose, as if the moment of urgency passed as quickly as it arrived. He closes his eyes again and his fingers return to the guitar strings, back to the same notes.

I back out of the doorway, pulse skipping.

The air in the corridor feels heavier now. The lanterns seem dimmer than before, their glow swallowing more than it reveals. I don’t look back. I just turn and move. Fast. The sound of the guitar fades behind me, but the feeling it stirred clings on to me.

Just ahead. The corridor. The stairs. One foot in front of the other.

That strange tea smell still lingers, cloves, wet earth, rain-heavy leaves, thick and cloying like it’s been boiled into the walls.

I round the stairwell and climb back up to the second floor, trying to shake the feeling that something’s following.

As I step onto the landing—BANG.

The door beside Mara and Moxie’s slams shut like a gunshot, sudden and sharp. The sound rips through the silence and makes me flinch.

The worn numbers ‘201’ swing loosely on their screws, the ‘1’ knocked askew by the door’s slam, hanging crooked like it’s barely clinging on.

“Fuck!” I curse into the empty hallway.

I fumble the key into the door to 204, step inside, and close it quick behind me.

Noah’s still dead asleep, soft snores and messy hair barely visible in the dim light. He didn’t hear a thing.

I lock the door, double check it, and finally let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding.

I kick off my shoes, stripping down to my boxers, and crawl back into bed. The mattress dips beneath me as I adjust and get comfy.

My heart’s still hammering, the echo of that slamming door loud in my chest. I stare at the ceiling, at the faint stain that still looks too much like a face. It stares back. 

Slowly, the room starts to feel far away. My limbs get heavier. My thoughts scatter like ash in water. 

I blink. 

And the ceiling is gone. 

When I open my eyes again, I’m still in bed. Same room. Same mattress. But it feels different now. Fuzzy.

I glance across to Noah but he’s gone. The sheets smooth, undisturbed.

I’m alone. 

No.

There’s something at the foot of the bed. Not moving. Just standing there.

A silhouette carved from the dark, human in shape, but not in presence. My eyes try to track it, but the edges slip, swimming out of focus no matter how hard I stare.

Terror pins me in place. I can’t move. Can’t blink.

Then it reacts. Like it knows.

I can feel its eyes burning into me, even though I can’t see them. It bends, folding out of view at the foot of the bed with a fluid, boneless motion, like water pouring itself into a drain.

The duvet shifts.

A faint twitch at the foot of the bed, like fingers brushing up from underneath. Then again. More deliberate this time. The covers rise. Something pushes against them from beneath, lifting them slowly.

The mattress sinks at my feet as the covers shift.

Something is under there with me. Crawling. I feel it dragging closer, inch by inch, its weight slow and deliberate, like a corpse pulled through water. The cold spreads with it, seeping into my legs, crawling up my spine, freezing the breath in my throat.

I want to scream, but I can't. I just lie there, helpless. I hold my breath, muscles clenched tight, waiting for whatever comes next.

Cool, icy fingers slip beneath the waistband of my boxers, wrapping tight around my cock. I’m soft at first, shrunk with fear, but the icy grip tightens, rubbing slow and firm along the sensitive head.

Despite the fear screaming in my chest, my body betrays me. Blood floods in, and I feel my cock swell beneath the shadow’s grip. I’m shaking, torn between dread and the rising pressure as I go from soft to painfully hard.

Then the lips find me, cold, wet, impossibly soft, pressing over my tip. A sharp gasp rips from my throat. They slide down the length of my cock. My hands claw at the sheets, the only part of me still able to move, trembling with panic.

The lips clamp tight, sucking slow and deep, wet smacking sounds filling the silence. The tongue flicks, licking and swirling up and down the shaft. My balls tighten as the sloppy rhythm drags me closer to the edge. The covers rise and fall with every desperate gasp I try to swallow.

I’m frozen, caught in a nightmare where my body betrays me with every cold stroke.

Panic claws at my throat as something cruel and otherworldly devours me from below, feeding on my fear and arousal all at once.

I’m close. Too close. Whatever this thing is, it knows exactly how to work my body. It teases me before devouring me completely, taking my cock all the way to the base effortlessly. The way it sucks me feels inhuman. Like it’s studying my reactions. Feeding on them and using them against me.

My cock is rock hard, soaked with spit, twitching as the orgasm builds. My body bucks, my breath catches. I’m going to cum. I can’t stop it.

But I need to see it.

I reach out for the duvet. I’m shaking so hard I can barely grip the fabric. I don’t want to look. But I have to see.

I rip the covers back.

And everything stops.

It’s Mara.

But… it’s not.

Her face stares up at me from between my legs, spit and precum dripping from her lips which are twisted into a wicked grin. Her eyes are bottomless black voids that swallow the light, baring into my soul.

Her pale hands are working my cock, milking me, one stroking long and tight, the other cupping and tugging beneath. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

She leans closer, and her voice crawls from her throat like a second tongue. “Give in to me.”

Something snaps.

The orgasm rips through me violently. My whole body convulses as thick jets of cum erupt from my cock, each one harder than the last. The first hits her in the face with a wet smack, coating her lips. The next paints her cheek. Then her hair. 

“F-fuck—fuck—” I moan, but it doesn’t stop.

Cum drips down her jaw, pooling onto the sheets beneath us. My vision narrows to a tunnel. My thighs tremble uncontrollably. My stomach clenches tight, like something inside me is being hollowed out.

My head snaps back, slamming into the pillow as my eyes jerk open.

Daylight pours in through the gaps in the curtains. Next to me Noah is still asleep.

I’m panting hard, gasping for breath, heart pounding in my ears.

Last night feels like a blur. I can’t tell if I really left my room or if it was all in my mind. That dream was too vivid, too real. It takes a moment to clear my head and remember where I am.

My hand drops to my boxers. They’re soaked, dripping with my cum.

Fuck.