I’ll never forget the first time I saw the Carlisle Hotel in person.

After my mom died, my dad wanted a fresh start. He kept saying he wanted to get out of the city and reconnect. With nature. With the place he and Mom had met. With me, if he could. We’d grown so distant since Mom died. I knew he wanted to reconnect with me most of all.

He talked about the town all the time: Gold River. He talked about it so much that even though I’d never been there, I felt like I’d lived there my whole life.

I listened to his stories. I felt the pull, too. Gold River was home—it was where I was meant to be.

Which is how I ended up halfway across the country in the tiny tourist trap of a town at the base of Crossback Mountain, one of the biggest, oldest ski resorts in the area.

Gold River was sprawling but quaint at the same time, perfectly made to invite in eager skiers. There were some ski-repair shops whose names I knew from the multiple applications my dad had sent in. There were cute diners and high-end restaurants to warm up in after a day on the slopes. And if tourists wanted to rent a chalet with Swiss lattice and a steep roof, there were a few dozen to choose from. There was only one place they couldn’t stay—

The Carlisle Hotel.

The Carlisle was perched at the edge of town, surrounded by pine trees and backing up to some abandoned ski runs. Huge and ancient, the size of a city block, with wood-shuttered windows and gilded front doors—the type of hotel millionaires once flocked to in droves. The type of hotel that once promised luxurious furnishings and elegant dinners and dramatic views from every firelit room.

But not anymore.

I felt my breath catch the first time I passed it. It was beautiful, but also sad and empty.

That’s exactly how I felt then—sad and empty.

I had felt that way for what seemed like forever.

I stayed away from the hotel at first. Moving in August meant I could start school like everyone else. I made friends and learned my way around the town before the holiday season kicked in. In those first few weeks, the hotel wasn’t the only building that felt abandoned. Only for the Carlisle, the emptiness wasn’t seasonal.

Eventually the mountains got their first dusting of snow, and all the tourists flocked back, eager to get back on the slopes. The chalets filled. The shops bustled.

The Carlisle stayed vacant.

It had been that way for almost thirty-three years.

*  *  *

I should be honest, though: That wasn’t the first time I truly saw the hotel.

I first saw the Carlisle in my dreams.

Three years ago, on the night of my tenth birthday.

Before my mom died. Before the move to Gold River.

I dreamed of walking up that hedge-lined drive leading to the front doors.

I dreamed of wandering inside. Through the lobby with its massive staircase, crimson carpets, golden chandeliers, and marble reception desks. Past the indoor pool and spa that smelled of chlorine and eucalyptus. Past the meeting rooms and dining halls filled with ancient statues, Renaissance paintings, and round tables with crisp white linens and glittering crystal.

Down a long, dark hall.

A hall so unlike everything else in the Carlisle.

Dark.

Narrow.

Flickering.

Forgotten.

I remember the tug that led me forward.

My destination?

A plain

white

door

at the end of a plain

white

hall.

I remember what happened when I reached the door.

I remember, because I’ve had that dream or some form of it every night since.

I always get to the door,

but I

never

get

past

it.

I touch my hand to the old doorknob.

I start to turn it.

I am filled by fear.

And then I wake up.

But I know what waits behind the door.

I know it in the darkest corner of my being.

Death.

All that waits in the Carlisle is death.