You wake in the passenger seat of a '64 Lincoln Continental, the desert highway stretching endlessly before you, headlights cutting through the warm pink haze of dusk.

The woman driver with mirrored sunglasses taps the steering wheel to a song you almost recognize.

"Almost there," she says, nodding toward a flickering neon sign in the distance: a palm tree, a crescent moon, the words HOTEL CALIFORNIA glowing like a fever dream.

The wind smells like sage and gasoline. You don't remember packing a suitcase, but there's one in the backseat, heavy as a coffin.

She pulls up to the entrance, where a bellhop in a moth-eaten tuxedo leans against a luggage cart.

The lobby doors groan open before you even step out. Inside, the air is thick with incense and something like whiskey, maybe, or old blood.

A man in a velvet jacket lounges by the grand piano, his fingers idly tracing the keys without sound.

"Check-in's at the desk," he says, not looking up. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

The woman tosses the car keys to the bellhop, who catches them mid-air, his grin revealing teeth too sharp for his face.

"Don't mind him," she mutters. "They all look like that after a while."

The suitcase handle sticks to your palm like wet leather when you lift it. The pale-skinned receptionist with hollow eyes slides a ledger toward you. "Sign here," she breathes. You hesitate.

The piano man chuckles, pressing down on a key that lets out a warped, dissonant note. "Nobody leaves," he says lightly. "That's the fun part."

The lobby carpet squelches underfoot as you step toward the desk. The pen feels alive in your hand. The receptionist watches you write your name. Then, beneath it, the ledger adds another line in a handwriting not your own: Occupied Since 1969.

The woman from the car leans against the wall and says, "Rooms are upstairs."

You glance at the suitcase. "You won’t need that," the bellhop murmurs, suddenly beside you, breath smelling of cloves and copper.

The suitcase opens suddenly. It's empty, except for a single black feather, after which the lid trembles, then snaps shut with a sound like a jaw clamping down.

Down the hall, a door slams shut, followed by laughter that twists into a wet cough, then turns to whispers, finally just silence. The piano man stands abruptly, his chair screeching against the marble floor.

"You hear that?" he asks, tilting his head toward the ceiling. A faint scratching, like nails on plaster, echoes from somewhere above.

The receptionist’s hollow eyes flick upward. "Room 32," she says, as if answering a question no one asked.

"They always get louder around midnight," she muses. "Like clockwork." The bellhop edges closer, his too-sharp smile widening. "Or like a dinner bell," he adds, licking his lips with a tongue that forks at the tip.

Down the hall, a door creaks open on its own. The piano man's fingers finally press down. A chord rings out, sour and wrong, making the overhead chandelier shiver.

"You can go up," he says, nodding toward the staircase. "Or you can stay here and listen to me play." His grin doesn't reach his eyes. "But I warn you. My repertoire's gotten... limited, over the years."

"Third floor's quiet," the woman from the car offers, "that is, unless you like screams. Then try the east wing."

The receptionist slides a brass key across the desk. It's warm, like it's been clutched in a fist for hours. "Don't lose it," she murmurs. "Keys have a way of getting lost here."

Glancing at the staircase, you notice that the wood is warped, and the banister sticky under your fingers as you grip it.

The woman from the car comments, "Smart move. Stairs are safer. Elevators here... forget where they're supposed to go."

As you climb, the steps groan underfoot like old bones settling. Halfway up, a portrait on the wall catches your eye. It's a man in a suit, his face blurred as if smudged by frantic fingers.

"He checked out," the bellhop murmurs, suddenly beside you again, though you never heard him follow. "Permanently." His grin widens, the edges splitting slightly like overstretched parchment.

The second-floor landing reeks of mildew and something rotten. A maid’s cart sits abandoned, piled with towels stiff with dried stains.

The door to Room 27 vibrates faintly, a low hum seeping through the keyhole. "Don’t mind her," the woman from the car says. "She’s just practicing her scales."

At the end of the hall, a shadow detaches itself from the wallpaper. "You’re late," it rasps, stepping into the flickering lamplight. It's a man in a tattered concierge uniform, his collar fused to his neck in a pink, glistening scar.

"Dinner service ended at nine." He holds your tray. "We saved something for you."

Room 32’s rhythmic, deliberate scratching grows louder. The piano man’s discordant notes drift up the stairs, each one making the portrait’s face twitch.

Down the hall, Room 27’s humming shifts into a muffled scream, cut short by the sound of a wet thud. The bellhop licks his teeth. "She’ll be quiet now," he says, adjusting his cuffs.

The concierge suddenly snatches your room key from off the tray and hands it to you. "I recommend room service before midnight," he croaks, tapping a fingernail blackened with age against the brass. "Chef's special is... fresh."

The woman from the car suggests, "Or you could skip dinner. Hunger makes the dreams more interesting." Behind her, the portrait's smudged face stretches into a silent scream as the scratching in Room 32 crescendos.

"You'll want to be behind a locked door when that stops," the concierge mutters, pressing the tray into your hands.

"I'll just go to my room now," you say confidently, somewhat faltering at the end.

"Go ahead. You should be safe." The bellhop giggles.

The concierge leans forward and says, "Safe is a relative term here."

You walk away from them, striding to your room. Considering the implications of what may be on your tray, you leave it on the floor outside your room. Using your key, you unlock the door and quickly go inside, locking it behind you.

At first glance, the room looks normal. There's a bed, a bedside table with a lamp, and a dresser with a mirror over it. You sit on the edge of the mattress. The bedspread smells of lavender.

Then the light from the lamp flickers momentarily, but remains on. You think to yourself, this isn't so bad. You undress and crawl under the covers. You set the alarm for six AM and turn the light off.

Before you know it you're asleep. The next thing you hear is the alarm waking you. You feel refreshed and rested. You go to the bathroom, shave, shower and get dressed quickly, anticipating breakfast.

You go downstairs not paying much attention to anything or anyone until you get to the front desk. The woman from the car is still there, as are the concierge and bellhop. The man at the piano is still trying to come up with a song to play.

You approach the desk, handing the woman your room key and announce that you're ready to check-out. You hope that there's still some breakfast left as your stomach growls.

"You can't leave," she replies with a slight smirk, flipping through the ledger before landing on the page with your signature. "It says right here... 'Occupied Since 1969'. You're a permanent resident now."

"But I just got here last night," you argue.

The woman's smirk deepens. She says, "According to this, it shows differently. You see, it's a matter of policy."

She points to a sign on the wall behind her. It has a simple statement in bold letters:

YOU CAN CHECK-OUT ANY TIME YOU LIKE

BUT YOU CAN NEVER LEAVE!