The room at The oblivious Hotel in downtown Seattle smelled of lavender and old dust. It was one of those historic establishments—velvet curtains, mahogany furniture, and mirrors that looked like they had trapped the souls of guests from the 1920s.

Sarah kicked off her heels and let out a groan that was equal parts exhaustion and relief. The conference had been a marathon. Twelve hours of networking, fake smiles, and pretending to care about Q3 projections for a mid-sized logistics firm.

She threw her blazer onto the armchair and flopped onto the king-sized bed. The mattress was soft, sinking under her weight. She checked her phone. 11:42 PM.

Three missed calls and five texts. All from Mark.

Did you check in? Why aren’t you answering? Call me when you’re in the room. Sarah? Call me.

Sarah rolled her eyes, a pang of irritation mixing with her fatigue. Mark had always been protective, but lately, he was suffocating. Since he lost his job at the architectural firm six months ago, his anxiety had spiked. He spent his days at home in Portland, doom-scrolling news about crime rates and tracking Sarah’s location on the “Find My” app.

It was bordering on controlling. Actually, no, it was controlling.

She tapped the FaceTime icon. It rang once before he picked up.

Mark’s face filled the screen. He was sitting in their living room, the only light coming from the TV flickering in the background. He looked disheveled, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes.

“You’re late,” Mark said. No hello. No ‘how was the flight.’

“I’m not late, Mark. I grabbed a drink with the regional team,” Sarah said, walking over to the mini-bar to grab a bottle of water. “I told you I would.”

“You didn’t text me,” Mark said, his voice tight. “I’ve been sitting here thinking your Uber crashed. Or worse.”

“I’m fine. I’m here. Look,” Sarah held the phone up, spinning in a slow circle. “Four walls. A bed. A door with a deadbolt. I am safe.”

Mark squinted at the screen. “Show me the room.”

Sarah sighed, loudly enough for the microphone to pick it up. “Mark, really? I’m thirty-two years old. I don’t need a curfew check.”

“Just… humor me, okay?” Mark’s voice cracked slightly. “The hotel is old. The locks on those places are jokes. Just show me the layout so I can sleep.”

“Fine.”

Sarah switched the camera to the rear view. She walked through the room, narrating with sarcastic enthusiasm.

“Here is the bathroom, complete with a clawfoot tub I won’t use. Here is the closet, empty because I haven’t unpacked. Here is the window, looking out at a brick wall. Happy?”

She walked back toward the bed and sat down on the edge. She propped the phone up against the silver ice bucket on the nightstand so she could take off her earrings. She switched the camera back to selfie mode.

Mark was staring at the screen. He wasn’t looking at her face, though. His eyes were darting around the frame, scanning the background behind her.

“Is the door locked?” Mark asked.

“Yes, Mark. I did the deadbolt and the little swing-latch thing,” Sarah said, pulling her left earring out.

“Check it again.”

“No.”

“Sarah, please.”

“I am not getting up!” Sarah snapped. “God, you are being unbearable tonight. Do you think I have a man in here? Is that it? You think I’m hiding someone in the bathroom?”

Mark didn’t answer. He went completely still.

Sarah looked at the screen. The pixelated image of her husband had frozen.

“Great,” she muttered. “The Wi-Fi froze. Mark? Can you hear me?”

Mark’s image un-froze. But his face had changed. The annoyance was gone. His skin had turned a waxy, pale gray. His mouth was slightly open.

“Mark?” Sarah asked, her anger replaced by a sudden flicker of concern. “You okay? You look like you’re gonna be sick.”

Mark swallowed hard. His eyes were locked on something behind her, over her shoulder.

“I’m… yeah,” Mark stammered. His voice was breathless, barely a whisper. “I’m fine. Just… heartburn.”

“You need to stop eating those spicy chips before bed,” Sarah said, reaching for her makeup wipe.

“Hey,” Mark said. His tone was suddenly sickeningly sweet. It was forced, unnatural. “Sarah, honey?”

“What?”

“I was thinking… the signal is really bad. The video keeps lagging.”

“It seems fine to me.”

“No, it’s really blurry,” Mark lied. “Why don’t you… why don’t you go stand by the door? The signal might be better in the hallway. Just to say goodnight properly.”

Sarah stared at him. “Mark, I am in my pajamas. I am not going out into the hallway.”

Mark’s eyes widened slightly. He looked terrified. “Please, babe. Just step out for a second. I want to show you something… I want to show you the dog. Buster is doing something funny. But I can’t show you if the video cuts out.”

“I don’t care about the dog right now, Mark. I’m tired.”

“Sarah!” Mark barked. It was loud, commanding. Sarah flinched.

Then, Mark seemed to catch himself. He forced a smile that looked more like a rictus of pain. “I mean… please. Just do this for me. Walk to the door. Open it. Step outside. Just for ten seconds.”

“You are acting crazy,” Sarah said, reaching for the phone. “I’m hanging up. We can talk in the morning when you’ve taken a Xanax.”

“No! Don’t hang—”

Sarah tapped the red button. The screen went black.

She threw the phone onto the duvet. “Unbelievable,” she whispered to the empty room.

The silence of the hotel room rushed back in. The hum of the heater. The drip of the faucet in the bathroom.

Sarah sat there, fuming. She felt guilty for hanging up, but his behavior was escalating. She couldn’t enable it. She needed to set boundaries.

She stood up and walked to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She looked at herself in the large, ornate mirror above the sink. She looked exhausted.

Buzz.

Her phone vibrated on the bed.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

He was calling back.

“I am not answering,” she said to her reflection. She squeezed toothpaste onto her brush.

Buzz.

Then, the phone stopped buzzing.

A moment later, the hotel room phone—the landline on the nightstand—rang.

It was a shrill, mechanical ring that made her jump.

Sarah spit out the toothpaste and wiped her mouth. She walked out of the bathroom. Who calls a hotel landline in 2026?

She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Miller?” A man’s voice. Deep, calm, professional.

“Yes?”

“This is the Front Desk. We’ve had a report of a gas leak in the room directly adjacent to yours. Room 404.”

Sarah frowned. “I didn’t smell anything.”

“It’s odorless, ma’am. Carbon monoxide. We need to evacuate your room immediately. Please, do not pack. Just walk to the door and exit now.”

Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. “Okay. Okay, I’m coming.”

She hung up. Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in her chest. She looked around for her purse. She couldn’t leave her laptop; it had the presentation.

She grabbed her purse and her phone.

As she reached for the door handle, her phone lit up with a text message from Mark.

DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR FOR ANYONE BUT THE POLICE.

Sarah froze, her hand hovering over the deadbolt.

A second text came through.

THAT WASN’T THE FRONT DESK.

Sarah stared at the screen. The blood roared in her ears.

If that wasn’t the front desk… then who just called her room to get her to open the door?

She backed away from the door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three soft, rhythmic raps on the wood.

“Mrs. Miller?” The voice from the phone. “Front desk. Please open up. It’s an emergency.”

It wasn’t the front desk. The voice was too close. He was standing right there.

Sarah retreated until her legs hit the edge of the bed. She looked at the heavy velvet curtains covering the window. She was on the fourth floor. No escape.

She looked at her phone. Mark was typing.

I CALLED 911. THEY ARE IN THE ELEVATOR. LOCK YOURSELF IN THE BATHROOM.

Sarah didn’t think. She bolted for the bathroom.

As she slammed the bathroom door and twisted the lock, she heard the sound that would haunt her nightmares forever.

The electronic beep-whirrr-click of the hotel room keycard lock disengaging.

Someone had a key.

Sarah scrambled into the bathtub, pulling the shower curtain closed, clutching her phone to her chest. She held her breath, tears streaming silently down her face.

She heard the main door open.

She heard heavy footsteps on the carpet. Slow. Deliberate.

“Sarah?” The voice called out. It wasn’t the ‘Front Desk’ voice anymore. It was mocking. “Honey? Hubby says you’re in here.”

The footsteps stopped outside the bathroom door.

The doorknob jiggled.

Sarah clamped her hand over her mouth to stop a scream.

Crack.

The wood of the door frame splintered as a shoulder slammed into it.

Crack.

He was breaking it down.

Sarah squeezed her eyes shut. She thought of Mark. She thought of how she had hung up on him. She thought of how annoyed she had been. I’m sorry, she screamed in her head. I’m so sorry.

Then—chaos.

“POLICE! GET ON THE GROUND! NOW!”

A concussive boom shook the room—a flashbang grenade? Or just the sheer volume of five shouting voices.

“SHOW ME YOUR HANDS! SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!”

A thud of a body hitting the floor. A pained grunt. The sound of handcuffs ratcheting tight.

“Room clear! Subject in custody!”

Sarah stayed in the tub, shaking so hard her teeth chattered.

“Ma’am?” A new voice. “Seattle PD. You can come out now. You’re safe.”

Sarah pulled back the shower curtain. A police officer in tactical gear was standing in the doorway of the ruined bathroom, his weapon lowered.

She tried to stand, but her legs gave out. The officer caught her.

“It’s okay,” he said, guiding her out. “We got him.”

They led her into the bedroom.

The room was full of cops. In the center of the room, face pressed into the carpet, was a man. He was wearing a hotel maintenance uniform.

“He had a master key cloner,” one officer said to another, bagging a device found on the floor. “He’s been hitting hotels in the district for a month. The ‘Gas Leak’ rapist. Looks like he finally got sloppy.”

Sarah looked at the man. He twisted his head to look at her, a sneer on his face.

“Get him out of here,” the sergeant barked.

As they dragged him out, Sarah’s phone rang.

It was Mark.

She answered it, sobbing. “Mark? Mark, oh my god.”

“Are they there?” Mark’s voice was hysterical. “Did they get him? Sarah, say something!”

“They got him,” Sarah cried, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “They got him. How did you know? How did you know he was at the door?”

“I didn’t know he was at the door,” Mark said, his breathing ragged. “I knew he was in the room.”

Sarah froze. “What?”

“When we were on FaceTime,” Mark said, his voice trembling. “When you were sitting on the bed taking off your earrings.”

“Yeah?”

“You had the phone propped up against the ice bucket. You were facing the camera.”

“Yeah.”

“Sarah… behind you. On the wall. The big mirror.”

Sarah turned around. Directly behind where she had been sitting was a massive, gilt-framed mirror. It reflected the entire room—the bed, the armchairs, and the heavy velvet curtains covering the window.

“What about it?” Sarah whispered.

“The angle,” Mark said. “I could see the reflection of the floor under the bed. There was a gap between the bed skirt and the floor.”

Sarah looked at the bed. The bed skirt was slightly lifted on one side.

“I saw a hand,” Mark said, starting to cry. “I saw a man’s hand reaching out from under the bed. He was trying to grab your ankle. He had a roll of duct tape.”

Sarah felt the room spin. She looked at the gap under the bed. It was dark, deep, and terrifying.

“He was under the bed the whole time?” she choked out.

“Yes,” Mark said. “I saw him pull his hand back when you shifted your weight. I knew… I knew if I screamed, if I told you ‘There’s a man under the bed,’ you would panic. You would turn around. And if you turned around… he would have grabbed you. He was too close, Sarah. He was inches away.”

Sarah realized why Mark had asked her to go to the hallway. Why he had lied about the signal. Why he had sounded so strange.

He was trying to lure her out of the room calmly. He was trying to get her away from the bed without tipping off the predator that he had been spotted.

“I tried to get you to leave,” Mark sobbed. “But you wouldn’t go. You hung up.”

“I thought you were just being jealous,” Sarah whispered, the shame burning hotter than the fear.

“When you hung up, I called the Seattle police immediately. I told them there was an intruder in the room. I was watching the ‘Find My’ dot, praying it wouldn’t move.”

“He must have heard me talking,” Sarah realized. “When I hung up… he knew he had to act. He must have crawled out when I went to the bathroom.”

“He probably went to the door to block your exit,” Mark said. “Or he called the room phone to trick you into opening the door so he could grab you without making noise.”

Sarah looked at the mirror again. That beautiful, antique mirror.

If Mark hadn’t been “controlling”… If Mark hadn’t insisted on seeing the room… If Mark hadn’t been staring at every pixel of her background…

She would be dead. Or worse.

“Mark,” Sarah said, her voice steadying. “I’m coming home. I’m booking the first flight out.”

“I’m already in the car,” Mark said. “I’m driving to Seattle. I can’t sit here. I need to see you.”

“It’s a three-hour drive, Mark.”

“I’ll be there in two.”

Sarah hung up the phone. She looked at the police officer standing by the door.

“Officer?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Can you check under the bed? Just to be sure.”

The officer smiled sadly. He walked over, lifted the heavy mattress, and shined his flashlight.

“It’s empty, ma’am.”

But there, on the carpet, in the dust bunnies under the frame, was a distinct imprint. The shape of a large man’s body. And right near the edge, a small, silver object.

The officer reached in and picked it up with a gloved hand.

It was a knife. A six-inch hunting knife.

Sarah stared at the blade.

Mark hadn’t just seen a hand. He had saved her from a slaughter.

She picked up her phone and texted him one word.

Thankyou.

Then she walked out of the hotel room, stepping over the splintered door frame, and didn’t look back.