Crimson Rose Inn
A year ago, Daniel and Jenna had been inseparable. A perfect couple—or so it seemed. But love had its secrets, and Daniel had plenty.
He had proposed to her on Valentine's Day at the Crimson Rose Inn, the very place she now feared. But that night, something changed. Jenna remembered the way he had acted—distant, nervous, his fingers drumming against the velvet box in his pocket.
"You trust me, don't you?" he had asked.
She had nodded. But later that night, she found the letters.
Hidden in his suitcase were torn, crumpled pages—love letters from someone else. Someone desperate. Someone angry.
"You belong to me, Daniel. You always have. You always will."
The signature was smeared, the ink bled like tears, but the intent was clear.
When Jenna confronted him, he swore it meant nothing. Just a mistake. A moment of weakness.
But then Daniel disappeared.
Vanished without a trace, his car left in the inn’s driveway, the tires streaked with mud leading into the woods. They searched for weeks, but no body was ever found.
Jenna told herself she had moved on. That he was just… gone.
But now, a year later, the same Crimson Rose Inn, the same date, and a letter written in the same familiar hand had brought her back.
Was Daniel alive?
Jenna’s hands trembled as she unfolded the letter left at her hotel door. The handwriting was unmistakable—Daniel’s.
"Meet me where the roses never wilt. Midnight."
Her breath hitched. The Crimson Rose Inn’s garden.
A sick feeling coiled in her gut, but she went. She had to know.
The garden was overgrown, the trellises sagging under tangled vines. Moonlight barely pierced the clouds, casting jagged shadows on the cobblestone path. Jenna’s heartbeat pounded in her ears as she stepped forward.
Then, she saw him.
Daniel stood beneath the dead rose arch, unchanged from the night he vanished—same dark suit, same nervous stance.
"Daniel…?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
He smiled. But his eyes... hollow. Hungry.
“You came back.” His voice was low, edged with something unnatural.
“Where have you been? What happened to you?”
“You don’t remember?” he asked, stepping closer. “You should. You were there.”
She shook her head. No. No, she wasn’t.
But then flashes of that night came back, like lightning splitting the darkness.
The argument. The rain pounding against the window. Daniel’s voice, begging.
Jenna’s hands—clutching something cold. Heavy.
A fire poker.
And then… blood.
So much blood.
Her knees buckled. "No... I—I didn't—"
"You did," Daniel whispered, reaching for her. His touch was ice. "And I’ve been waiting for you to remember."
Jenna turned to run, but hands—**not his, more than his—**gripped her wrists. Shadows slithered from the vines, taking shape, forming figures. Others.
Others she had forgotten.
The inn, this place—it wasn't just haunted. It was hungry.
Daniel leaned in, lips brushing her ear. "Now, love... it's your turn to stay."
The garden swallowed her scream.
And by morning, the Crimson Rose Inn had a new legend—one more vanished lover among the wilted roses.
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