The Guest Book Novels & Stories

KACELA I went into the front desk and up to the reception. “Hey ya! I would like to get a guest membership, please.” I gave a big, perky grin to the tiny blonde girl working the desk. She looked at me and gave me a once over. I knew the type. She was used to being intimidating. I could have had fun playing her game but I needed something from her so I kept my cool. “Sorry, honey. We don’t do that here. You gotta pay for a year’s membership.” she said, turning back to her computer. I could see she was badly losing a solitaire game.

She couldn't help studying the building more carefully. This guesthouse appeared to have been operating longer than the others. It was probably the oldest in the village. One of its distinctive features was a large cabinet filled with guestbooks. It was tidy and clean, yet brimming with a sense of history at every turn. Rebecca stood in front of the cabinet, wondering if there might be a page with Darren's message. But they were about to leave, and there were far too many books to search through. A voice came from behind her. "Looking for Darren's message?"

Gabriel slid into the backseat beside me, still chewing on a stick of gum he’d picked up at the airport kiosk. “You sure you’re ready for this?” he asked around it, his voice unusually quiet. “No,” I admitted. “But I’m doing it anyway.” He smiled crookedly, almost approving. “That’s my kind of crazy.” ********** The publishing house was a squat brick building tucked on a quiet street, its windows tall and lined with blinds. It was not flashy at all and almost seemed deliberately unremarkable. Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of ink and old paper. Behind a reception desk, a young woman with a red scarf looped around her neck looked up and smiled brightly.

Four walls and a bed — that was enough. The lobby smelled like lemon polish and old coffee, a little tired but serviceable. I stepped up to the counter, Kellan beside me, solid as always. The receptionist looked up and tried to straighten like my stare put him on the spot. “Evening, gentlemen. Checking in?” “Yeah. Two rooms.” I leaned in, steady. “But first, I’ve got a question. Did an Angela Hunter check in here?” His fingers froze. He cleared his throat and tried a polite smile. “Sorry, sir. Privacy policy. I can’t give out guest details.”

“Mrs. Woods?” “That’s right.” “I’m Emily Samuels.” The clattering of keys stalled. “Oh dear, is it that late already? I meant to meet you in the lobby.” “That’s all right, I have my keycard already.” “Well, come in and have a seat. I have some paperwork for you to fill out and then I’ll show you around the place, explain our procedures, introduce you to our guests.” “Guests?” “We find it puts people more at ease than calling them patients.”

I didn't pull away, and neither did he. The guest records were incomplete, with several pages damaged or missing, but there was one ledger from the month Raina died. Harold had been right about the building's system, because every guest entering the private garage was supposed to have either a resident's authorization or a signed guest pass. I turned each page carefully. Most of the names meant nothing to me. Delivery drivers, business associates, relatives of residents, and people I had never heard of filled the entries, each followed by a date and apartment number.

She sends it to Cristina from the airport, forty minutes before boarding. Cristina calls while they are in the departure lounge. "Page nine," Cristina says. "The paragraph about the guest books." "Yes." "You are arguing that the guest books should be the primary marketing asset. Not the rooms, not the landscape, not the food. The guest books." "The guest books are the record of what the hotel actually does," Valentina says. "Everything else — the rooms, the landscape, the food — produces the experience. The guest books prove it, in th

Guests are welcomed with a meal. After the meal, they were giving out handbooks that patiently and happily explained with their Luna, one of the staff in the office. "Thank you, everyone! Our handsome cowboys will be going to guide you all to your respective log cabins. Enjoy your stay here at M&B Creek Ranch. See you all tomorrow. Goodnight!" ended Luna. She handed the list of the guests and their assigned cabins to me. I read it to them, to all the guests who belong to each cabin number and then also took the same golf cart number. Then all the guests went outside to find their golf cart numbers.

Its halls filled with proof. Proof that people could find one another again. Proof that stories mattered. Proof that hope traveled. The front doors stood open. As always. Inside, visitors moved quietly among photographs and letters. The Book of Arrivals rested near the entrance. I smiled. Then froze. Because someone was writing in it. An elderly woman stood beside the book. Travel-worn coat. Silver hair. Gentle eyes. A newcomer. An arrival. One more story. I watched quietly as she finished writing.

Ragnar, the land of the gods, thought about what awaited him there. selected "You are all chosen." Lanex said, looking at the newcomers from Speaker Rock. a large piece of rock projecting like an afang; The ends are cut to form the catwalk. The entire stone is carved, and the side facing the audience looks like a snarling wolf's head. "And now you're probably wondering why that is."