Welcome To Hotel Toyohashi

Present Day. Toyohashi, Japan.

Time had not been kind to the old inn on the mountainside.

Once known as Horaji Ryokan, it now wore a newer name — Hotel Toyohashi — as if rebranding could wash away what had once taken place within its walls. The renovations were superficial: new signage, brighter paint, automated toilets. Even the strongest Wi-Fi signal couldn't scrub out the chill that spread like mold after sundown.

Something inside the hotel resisted modernization.

Something old.
Something bitter.

Tourism in Toyohashi had dwindled after the storms last year. Most blamed an economic slump, or poor marketing. But the owners of Hotel Toyohashi knew better.

Guests were vanishing.

First, a businessman on a writing retreat who never checked out. Then, a newlywed couple from Yokohama — married, but not to each other. Police found few leads. Locals had plenty of theories. Ghost stories rooted deep like weeds, stubborn and spreading.

The once-charming inn was now almost empty.

In desperation, the last descendants of the ryokan’s founding family did something they had never dared before:

They invited an outsider.

Haruki Tendo, thirty-one, married with one child, had never set foot in Toyohashi. Born and raised in Shibuya, he was a rising design star in Tokyo — part minimalist architect, part part-time session guitarist. His specialty? Restoring acoustic spaces. Shrines, music halls, abandoned bathhouses.

He didn’t believe in ghosts. But he believed in sound.

So when the invitation arrived — free lodging, meals, and a stipend — Haruki took the bullet train without hesitation. Not for the money, but for the curiosity. A mountain inn with failing acoustics? Intriguing. Plus, a few days away from Tokyo meant a chance to finish that ambient EP he’d half-abandoned on his laptop.

The only condition: he had to stay on-site.

His assigned room?

Room 219.

The first few days were... quiet.

Too quiet.

The hallways creaked more than expected for a building with reinforced subflooring. The wind didn’t whistle — it sighed, like someone holding their breath. And the shoji doors occasionally slid open on their own. The staff blamed the draft from Mt. Horaji.

Haruki didn’t mind. The silence helped him think.

Mornings, he sketched layouts, reworking the lobby’s soundscape in his head. Afternoons, he hiked the mist-laced trails. Evenings, he wandered the hotel corridors with his acoustic guitar, strumming quietly in forgotten corners.

On the third night, around 9:00 PM, he sat by the lobby hearth and played an old tune he’d learned back in university.

“On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair...”

The chords of Hotel California echoed across stone walls. His voice, soft and haunting — perfectly imperfect. The song always stirred something in him. Longing. Sadness. A sense of déjà vu.

Then, something strange.

Mr. Nakai, the hotel manager, stopped mid-step.

He stared at Haruki for a long moment, eyes glistening.

Then he whispered, "Shion...?"

Haruki smiled. “No, Haruki. First time here.”

Mr. Nakai didn’t reply. Just nodded, too slowly, and walked away.

Later that night, Haruki returned to Room 219.

He liked the room. Strange, yes. Cold in the corners, and the faint scent of something earthy, almost wooden. But quiet — save for a sound that had begun the night before.

At 2:19 AM, he heard it: the static of a radio.

At 2:45, just before sleep would take him, a faint melody would drift through the walls. Not from the hallway. Not from another floor.

From somewhere else.

It wasn’t modern music. It sounded like a broadcast from a forgotten time — static-laced strings, delicate vocals in a language he couldn’t place. Maybe French. Maybe nothing real at all.

It was oddly soothing.

On the fourth night, over dinner with the few remaining staff, Haruki mentioned it offhand:

“I just wanted to say… thank you. That late-night classical broadcast, or background music you play before 3 AM? It really helps me sleep. Beautiful touch.”

Silence.

Chopsticks froze mid-air. A spoon clinked against ceramic.

The staff looked around, uneasy.

Mr. Nakai cleared his throat. “We don’t play music after 10 PM. There are no scheduled broadcasts. No… radios.”

Haruki frowned. “Really? It plays every night. 2:19 AM, some kind of radio static. Then around 2:45, shamisen music — classical stuff. You know, old radio… AM tone.”

This time, the silence had weight.

A younger staff member rose too quickly to clear plates. Another whispered something in a hushed voice Haruki couldn’t catch.

He smiled awkwardly. “Well… maybe I’m just dreaming it.” Haruki bowed. He stacked his tray neatly, carried it to the return station, then stepped outside the canteen, his steps relaxed, almost meditative.

Slipping on his headphones, he tapped play. Hotel California hummed into the night.

He didn’t see the look on Mr. Nakai’s face.

He didn’t notice the way a waitress made the sign of the cross — despite claiming to be Buddhist.

He didn’t hear the soft creak in the hallway, as if someone — or something — shifted just outside his door, waiting.

The staff exchanged glances with Mr. Nakai.

A silent understanding passed between them:
It’s starting again.

One of them made a quiet prayer, then returned to washing dishes.

Mr. Nakai leaned in and said softly, “Whatever he says… don’t react. Don’t let him sense anything strange.”

He would do whatever it took to keep Haruki from uncovering the hotel’s buried history. Mr. Nakai couldn't afford another delay in the redesign—especially not one triggered by old rumors, lingering misfortunes, or the whispers of things best left forgotten. And yet, even as he clung to silence, a quiet doubt gnawed at him. Was hiding the truth really the safest path? Or was the silence itself part of the curse?

Later that evening, two men returned to the hotel — not in uniform this time, but in dark suits that made them look like ordinary salarymen.

Haruki barely noticed them. Just other guests, he thought. Or maybe potential investors.

Mr. Nakai quietly instructed the staff to prepare tea. Then he led the investigators to the conference room, away from prying eyes.

[Next: Buried Blueprints]