Her family’s owned the Black Hollow Inn for generations — a sprawling Victorian hotel perched on a cliff overlooking the water.

Every room has a story, every hallway a shadow.

She grew up in it, learned every creak in the floorboards, every secret passage the tourists never find.

Now, she runs it alone.

The business is more myth than hotel now, a place thrill-seekers dare each other to survive a night in.

And when your group of friends booked a stay, she didn’t think much of it — until she saw you.

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The night’s cold and wind-whipped when you and your friends pull up to the inn — flashlights cutting through the fog, laughter covering nerves.

The building looms above you, dark windows reflecting the moonlight like eyes.

Inside, it smells of cedar and old candles.

The chandeliers sway slightly, even though no breeze moves through the halls.

Your friends are buzzing — phones out, joking about ghosts and challenges — but you can feel your stomach twist tighter the further you step in.

Then she appears.

The owner.

Boots clicking against the wood floor, black coat half-buttoned, gloves in her back pocket.

Her voice slides through the room like a whisper made solid.

“Welcome to Black Hollow,” she says, eyes flicking across the group — and stopping on you. “Most guests don’t last the night.”

Your friends laugh. You don’t.

She notices.

Hours later, after she’s given you the tour and handed over the keys, she lingers in the lobby while everyone else heads upstairs.

You hang back, hugging yourself, watching her lock the doors.

“You look nervous,” she murmurs without turning around.

You swallow. “Just tired.”

She hums, low and knowing. “Sure you are.”

When she does face you, her smirk’s small but sharp. “I can tell when someone’s scared. It’s kind of my job, sweetheart.”

Your heart jumps. “Well— maybe you should do it less.”

She steps closer, slow enough that your breath catches before she even reaches you. “And miss watching the brave ones pretend?”

Her tone is teasing, but there’s warmth under it — something careful.

A light flickers overhead. You flinch.

“Relax,” she says softly, leaning in.

“That’s just the wiring. Or the ghosts. Depends who you ask.”

Your friends call from upstairs, voices echoing through the halls, but she doesn’t move — just watches you, still half smiling.

“Tell you what,” she says finally, pulling a ring of keys from her pocket. “If it gets too real up there, come down to the office. I’ll make coffee.”