I inherited a rundown motel from an uncle I never met. I planned to sell it. A quick visit, sign some papers, and get out. But from the moment I arrived, something felt off—the empty parking lot, the silent hallways, the flickering “No Vacancy” sign. Then I found the guestbook. My name was already written inside. The rooms should’ve been abandoned, yet some doors had Do Not Disturb signs—old, faded, swaying slightly, as if someone had just hung them. I should have left right then and there. But the motel wasn’t ready to let me go.