"Winter caretaker is a lonely job," the manager had said, handing her the keys. "But you said you wanted peace to write your novel."

"You wanted a story," the woman hissed. "We'll give you one. Forever."

She followed the sound to Room 217. The door was ajar. Inside, a woman in a green bathrobe stood by the bathtub, her back turned. The ball bounced once more, then rolled to Lena's feet.

"You're imagining things," she said. But that night, while Mark slept, Lena heard it: a soft, rhythmic thump-thump-thump from the corridor. Not the pipes. Not the wind. It was a child’s ball, bouncing.

All work and no play makes Lena a dull girl.

He hadn't been smiling when they arrived. He was now. If you'd like a different genre or a continuation, just let me know. I can also help with original scripts or horror fiction entirely unrelated to any existing copyrighted works.