The Guestbook of Blackwood Anchorage

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August 14, 1924 Arthur Penhaligon. A most peculiar stay. The establishment is quaint, though the salt air is pervasive. I encountered a gentleman in the foyer who claimed the room in the east wing. He spoke with a sound like crushed mollusks beneath a boot. He requested a lock of my hair for the privilege of the hearth; I complied, thinking it a local eccentricity. The room was cold, but the sleep was deep. November 2, 1958 Evelyn Thorne. The atmosphere here is oppressive. I saw the Guest in the hallway last night. His footprints are glistening, brine-heavy pools that refuse to evaporate even in the dry heat of the radiators. When he spoke, it was the sound of shells grinding in a tide. He asked for the memory of my first love in exchange for the key to the east wing. I felt the thought slip away, a void where a face used to be. I paid for the room, but the silence he left behind is heavier than the fog. July 19, 1991 Marcus Vane. Avoid the East Wing. The Guest is here. He does not walk so much as leak across the floorboards. The footprints are still wet from Tuesday; it is now Friday. The sound of his voice is an abrasive friction, like coral scraping against slate. He wanted my sight in the left eye. He stated the room was expensive this year. I gave it to him. I can still hear him breathing in the walls, and the smell of old tidepools is everywhere. October 31, 2023 Elias Blackwood, Innkeeper. The ledger is full. For a century, the Guest arrived with the autumn tides. He took a lock of hair, a memory, an eye. He always departed when the first frost hit the coastline. This year, the frost came two weeks ago. The East Wing door remains bolted from the inside. The wet footprints now extend from the foyer to my own bedroom door. He is not waiting for the tide. He has decided to stay.