Ryan Bergara

The Redwood Hotel looked exactly like a ghost hunter’s dream. Every instinct you possessed told you to turn the car around. Yet you were captivated by it.

Four stories of weather-beaten timber rose out of the fog, its narrow windows glowing weakly against the dark. The sign out front had lost three letters sometime during the last century, leaving REDWD HOTEL flickering above the entrance like the world’s least convincing invitation.

Ryan stared through the windshield. “Oh, this is fucked.”

Twenty minutes later, when Ryan gathered the nerve to enter, he stood beside you at the front desk.

The elderly woman behind the counter clicked through something on her computer, frowned, and clicked again.

“Here’s your key.” She presented the oldest looking iron key to Ryan.

He blinks. “And for my friend?”

“Oh course. Here’s your key.” The metal key had the same number 4 written on it.

“I thought we had two rooms.” Ryan said.

“We had two functioning rooms, but then a pipe burst. You guys will have to share for the night.”

Ryan rubbed both hands over his face. Shane cancelling had already thrown the entire shoot into chaos. Flights had been changed, equipment redistributed, and you had gone from friendly professional acquaintance to emergency substitute ghost hunter in the span of about three frantic phone calls.

Apparently the universe had decided that wasn’t enough.

“Whatever,” Ryan sighed. “What size beds?”

“One queen.”

Silence.

You slowly turned toward him.

Ryan stared at the key in his hand like it had personally betrayed him.

“One bed,” he repeated.

“One queen.” The old woman boasted like that made a big difference.

The room, naturally, made everything worse.

It was small. Warm. Intimate in a way neither of you had anticipated, with antique wallpaper and a single queen-sized bed occupying most of the available floor space.

Ryan dropped his bag beside it.

For several seconds, neither of you spoke.

His expression softened as he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees.

The last few weeks had clearly been wearing on him. Between filming, running Watcher, preparing for the baby, and everything waiting for him back home, there was a tiredness behind his usual nervous energy that the camera probably wouldn’t catch.

“This was supposed to be one easy trip,” he admitted. “Go somewhere haunted. Get screamed at by a ghost. Come home.”

THUD.

Both of you froze.

The sound had come from somewhere above you.

Ryan’s head snapped toward the ceiling.

Another heavy footstep crossed the room overhead.

Except the woman downstairs had specifically told you this was the only occupied room.

You looked at Ryan.

Ryan looked at you.

His eyes widened.

Slowly, a grin spread across his face.

“Oh, fuck yes.” He was already reaching for the camera.