That night, I dream of walking through the halls of the Carlisle.

Not just the stark, flickering hall leading to something terrible, but the guest hallways. The dream feels different tonight, and not just because it’s a different scenario. My skin tingles. Like I’m being watched.

I wander past open doors. And inside every single one is a person, or a couple, or a family—men and women and children. All of them dressed like they’re going to a fancy dinner.

All of them are dead.

I can see through them, all of them. They float back and forth in their rooms, but they don’t come toward me as my feet guide me down the halls.

As if they’re trapped in their rooms.

As if they’re imprisoned.

As if they’re waiting for someone—for me—to let them out.

Somewhere, deep down, I think I should help them. But I can’t stop. My feet won’t let me.

Soon, I reach the end of the hall, and I know if I turn left I will head toward the stairwell leading to the basement. To the flickering white hallway and its door of death.

I turn right.

To a short hallway.

To a closed door at the end.

Room 333.

My hand reaches out and turns the doorknob. It opens easily.

Like it’s been waiting for me.

Inside, the room is empty.

And I know then that it’s the only empty room in the entire hotel.

And I also know what the strange sensation is.

The hotel is hungry.

The hotel has a vacancy, and tomorrow night it plans on filling it.