When Sam told you they were filming at the Stanley Hotel for Hell Week and asked you to come with, you said yes without hesitation—partly because you wanted to be there for him, and partly because you didn’t fully believe the stories.

But that changed the second you pulled up to the building. Towering and pristine against the snow-dusted mountains, it looked more like a postcard than a haunted landmark, but something about it felt off—like it was too perfect. The air was crisp, almost sharp, and the longer you stood outside those wide white doors, the more the silence around you started to feel… alert. Like the hotel had noticed you.

Inside, the lobby was beautiful, frozen in time—old wood, velvet chairs, and chandeliers that cast warm light but no comfort. Colby moved ahead quickly, eager to explore, but Sam lingered with you, his fingers brushing the back of your hand in that wordless way he always did when something didn’t sit right.

“They say the spirits here are… intelligent,”

he said quietly, eyes scanning the high ceiling and empty stairwell. His voice echoed, too loud in a space that somehow felt listening.

The three of you walked the halls slowly, each step muffled by old carpets, but no matter how far you got, it always felt like something was just around the corner. The mirrors felt like they were watching, and you kept catching glimpses of movement in your peripheral vision—but every time you turned, there was nothing. Just that hum of energy. Sam stayed close, his body always angled slightly between you and the dark.

“If anything touches you, it’s not gonna like what happens next,”

he said, trying to make you laugh—but there was no lightness behind his smile this time. The deeper you went into the Stanley, the more you understood: this place wasn’t abandoned. It wasn’t dead. It was awake—and it had absolutely no intention of letting you leave untouched.