Flicker

My name is Kasey Weaver. I’m 20 years old, and I live in a strong, well‑connected household. We take trips every holiday, no matter what. This year for Halloween we’re going to a town that’s known as a ghost town, a place full of mysteries that lie beneath. I’ve got a family of six — one sister and two brothers.

As we walk out the door to head to the car, my brother realizes he forgot his phone charger. He runs upstairs, grabs it off his bed, and on the way down he sees a shadow in the corner. He trips, falls down the stairs, and busts his nose. When he gets to the car, he won’t tell us what happened.

We drive off, and soon we’re pulling into the town. It’s silent, almost like no one’s been there in forever. At the hotel, the person guiding us looks strange, like he’s been attacked by something… or someone. He walks weird too, sort of like a zombie. The hotel doesn’t look any better inside. We put our things down, and Dad turns on the TV. It glitches, then the news comes on:

“Missing person found dead under bridge after tragic incident. Killer still not found. Ten deaths this week. If you have any information, please call 911.”

Dad mutters, “Well, that doesn’t make me feel any better about being here.”

Mom’s a CSI, and she gets called to investigate the scene. The body has a knife in the throat, and the eyes are torn out. She takes the evidence back to the station, runs fingerprints, and the name pops up: Tommy Skipper. A memory flashes in my head — the name tag on the hotel guide matched.

Mom gathers a whole team to capture Tommy. But when we get back to the hotel, he’s gone. The lights flicker off. That’s when it gets real.

The halls go dead quiet, except for the sound of dripping water somewhere in the dark. My sister swears she hears footsteps, but when we look, there’s nothing. My brother’s nose is still bleeding, and he whispers that the shadow he saw earlier… it wasn’t just a shadow.

Suddenly, the TV turns itself back on. Static fills the room, and through the fuzz we hear a voice: “You shouldn’t have come here.”

The doors slam shut. The windows lock. And then, from the hallway, we hear the slow, dragging footsteps of someone — or something — coming closer.

the whole hotel sinks into darkness. My sister grabs my arm, whispering that she swears she saw someone standing at the end of the hallway before it went black. Dad tries to use his phone flashlight, but the battery dies instantly, like something drained it.

We hear the footsteps again — slow, dragging, getting closer. Mom pulls out her badge and gun, but even she looks shaken. The air feels heavy, like the walls themselves are breathing.

Then the TV flickers back on, showing static mixed with flashes of faces — people screaming, eyes hollow, mouths open like they’re stuck mid‑cry. My brother blurts out, “That’s the shadow I saw!” His nose is still bleeding, but now his eyes look wide, almost hypnotized.

The hotel guide’s voice echoes through the halls, even though he’s nowhere in sight: “Ten deaths this week… you’ll make eleven.”

The elevator dings, even though no one pressed it. The doors slide open, and inside there’s nothing but darkness. A cold wind rushes out, carrying the smell of iron and smoke.

Mom shouts for us to stay together, but the lights above us start flashing one by one, leading down the hallway like a trail. We follow, even though every step feels wrong. At the end of the hall, there’s a door marked Basement — Do Not Enter.

Dad tries to open it, but it swings open on its own. The stairs lead down into pitch black, and from below we hear whispers — dozens of voices, all saying the same thing: “You shouldn’t have come here.”