The night air thrummed with an ominous energy as if charged by the impending fury of a storm yet to break. Encircling the Grand Anomaly Hotel—a monolith of shadow and disrepair—was a constellation of police cruisers and SWAT vans. The pulsating blues and reds of their lights painted the building’s facade in a surreal tableau, reminiscent of a scene from a noir film where fate plays dice with human lives.

This hotel had long been a notorious spot, steeped in tales of hauntings, seances gone wrong, and guests lost to sinister forces. It was built in the late 1800s by the secretive Abernathy family, rumored to be part of an ancient cult obsessed with achieving immortality through occult rituals. Dark ceremonies took place within its walls, warping the very foundation with malevolent energy. Over the decades, unexplained deaths, unsolved murders, and bizarre disappearances continued to plague the Grand Anomaly even after it changed ownership several times. There were always strange gaps in its guest registries, entire weeks when no one seemed to have checked in at all according to the official records. It became the cautionary tale that locals told their kids to avoid at night. But the authorities could never pin down any concrete wrongdoing—just eerie coincidences, accidents, and a permeating sense of doom.

At the center of this electric web, Detective Jack Ross’s cruiser ground to a halt. The hotel loomed before him, its edifice pockmarked by time, the sign above the entrance spasming with a feeble glow, a sickly echo of vitality. Ross felt the hairs on his neck rise as he took in the sight. He had never believed in haunted houses or paranormal nonsense, yet even he could not deny the palpable aura of foreboding that clung to this place. As he stepped out of his car, a chill wind clutched at him with spectral fingers, carrying the faint echoes of long-dead guests whose fates had become forever intertwined with the cursed hotel.

“Detective Ross,” a uniformed cop greeted him, urgency woven into the fabric of his words. “You’re the first one here from homicide.”

“What’s the sitrep?” Ross demanded, pulling his coat tighter around him.

“Hostage situation inside.”

The detective’s sigh cut through the crisp air. “They ought to have razed this place to the ground when they had the chance.”

“Can’t, it’s a landmark—”

“It’s a historical pain in the ass, is what it is.” Ross shifted his focus. “Have we established contact?”

“Communication is one-way. The hostage-takers last made contact forty-five minutes ago. We haven’t been able to get in touch with them since.”

Before Ross could express his increasing annoyance, another cop interrupted. “We’re picking up another message.”

A technician fiddled with a portable radio device, its signal caught between stations. Strangely enough, it was on an FM low band that was usually just static.

“We have hostages, all living, for now. If our demands are not met, none of the hostages or anyone in this city will be safe,” came the ghostly voice, fading into the ether as abruptly as it had arrived.

The message was a chilling aria that seemed to hang in the air long after it ended.

Ross turned to the officer. “Any idea who the hostage-takers are? Or how many hostages they have?”

“No to both,” the cop replied. “We’re working on getting the hotel guest registry, but so far, we’ve got nothing.”

Ross shook his head. “What is it about this place that makes it a magnet for trouble?”

Before he could ruminate further, a pair of uniformed officers moved wooden barricades, allowing a car to glide through the congestion. The door opened, and out stepped Detective Zhara Fuller. Late forties, attractively humanoid with sensual, darkly intense eyes, she seemed about as enthusiastic as a plumber arriving just before quitting time.

Ross’s jaw set. “A neghostiator?”

“The hostage-takers are spirits. I thought you knew that?” the cop retorted.

Ross scowled. “They neglected to fill me in on that tidbit. There are other neghostiators on the force; why not call one of them?”

“Brass thinks she’s the right one for the job.”

“After what happened at Lord’s Keep, she has no business being anywhere near a hostage negotiation—ghosts or no ghosts.”

“We know each other, detective?” Zhara asked once she was within earshot. “That level of disdain seems personal.”

“No, we never met, but I know some of the people you nearly got killed.”

“Don’t tell me, you had friends in Lord’s Keep, am I right?” Zhara sighed. “Guess what, so did I. The op didn’t go down as planned, the department needed a scapegoat and I took one for the team. So, you don’t want to work with me—and this goes for the rest of you as well—take it up with your bosses. But stay out of my way while I do my job.”

“I don’t care who requested you,” Ross’ voice carried a note of seriousness. “This operation goes by the book, or I’ll bounce you out on your ass personally.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Zhara’s gaze was unyielding.

Before Ross could respond, the radio emitted a harrowing screech, a cacophony that defied interpretation. Within the walls of the Grand Anomaly Hotel, an unknown horror was unfolding.

A palpable dread settled over the scene, an intangible weight that promised a reckoning. The tale of Ross and Zhara, bound by destiny’s indifferent hand, was on the cusp of beginning. In their shared narrative, the lines between ally and adversary were as blurred as the ghostly figures that held the hotel in their otherworldly grip, and the future of the city hung in the balance.

Not. The. End.