"The Last Guest"

 

A JOURNEY INTO THE MOUNTAINS

The car rolled smoothly along the winding mountain road, headlights slicing through the velvet dusk. The weather was unusually clear for this time of year—no mist, no fog, only the fading hues of the sun painting the sky in shades of orange and crimson. A stretch of open wilderness unfolded around them: towering pines, sharp cliffs, and distant peaks that glowed faintly under the last kiss of daylight.

Inside the car, the atmosphere was anything but calm.

Eli was hunched in the passenger seat, arms folded tightly across his chest. His expression was halfway between worry and annoyance. “I still don’t see why we had to come all the way to some mountain lodge for a party,” he muttered, glancing suspiciously at the road ahead. “Parties mean noise, and noise means people, and people usually mean trouble.”

Zane Faulkner, behind the wheel, wore his usual sly smile. His tousled dark hair caught faint streaks of light from the dashboard. He tapped the steering wheel lightly as if drumming to some private rhythm, utterly unfazed by Eli’s complaints.

“Eli, my dear fellow,” Zane said in a mock-serious tone, “you’re treating this like an execution. It’s merely a social gathering. People laugh, people dance, people spill drinks on each other—tragedies of civilization, I admit, but not crimes. At least not usually.”

“Not usually?” Eli shot back, alarm flashing in his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Zane replied, still smiling, “that I’m giving fate the benefit of the doubt tonight.”

From the backseat, Lyra leaned forward, her arms crossed over the seat. Her striking eyes studied Zane with something between amusement and irritation. “You brought us here on the pretext of a simple evening, Zane. And you’ve already started hinting at mysteries before we’ve even arrived.”

Zane turned his head slightly, catching her gaze in the rear-view mirror. He grinned. “Ah, but you love when I do that, don’t you?”

Lyra huffed and leaned back with exaggerated annoyance. “Absolutely not. I despise it. One day, your constant teasing will drive me insane.”

“Then at least,” Zane said with mock gravity, “I shall have the honor of being the man who made you lose your mind.”

Eli groaned. “For heaven’s sake, Zane, can you keep your flirting out of the car? It’s a small space. Some of us are trying to breathe.”

Zane chuckled, and Lyra, though she turned her head toward the window, couldn’t hide the faint upward curl of her lips. The playful battle between them was an endless game, and though she masked it with irritation, her eyes often betrayed her fondness for him.

The car sped on, climbing higher. Shadows lengthened across the forest as night finally settled. The lodge, their destination, was known to be one of the oldest in the region—an estate tucked into the mountains, famous for its isolation and grandeur. Tonight, it was hosting a party that promised fine dining, music, and distinguished guests.

And for once, Zane had come not as a detective, but simply as a guest.

Or so he claimed.

THE LODGE IN THE DARKNESS

The final turn revealed the building. Rising from the cliffs like some relic of a forgotten century, the lodge stood tall against the night sky. Its stone walls gleamed faintly under lanterns, and its peaked roof seemed to slice into the darkness. Long windows glowed with golden light, spilling hints of laughter and music into the air.

“It looks like something out of a Gothic novel,” Lyra whispered, her tone half mocking, half awed.

Eli gulped. “It looks like something where people get murdered.”

Zane parked the car at the gravel driveway, stepped out, and stretched with deliberate leisure. He glanced up at the building, that sly smile never leaving his lips. “Perfect ambiance for a party. Grand architecture, remote location, a touch of the macabre—it’s practically begging for secrets to unfold.”

Lyra climbed out, fixing her coat against the cool night breeze. “You can’t even step through the door before turning everything into a riddle.”

“And yet,” Zane said softly, “you followed me here.”

She looked away quickly, cheeks warming despite herself.

Eli slammed the door harder than necessary. “If you two are done exchanging poetry, can we go inside before I freeze to death?”

The three of them approached the grand entrance. Heavy wooden doors creaked open as if rehearsed, revealing a butler in immaculate attire who ushered them in.

Inside, the lodge was a masterpiece of shadows and light. Chandeliers dripped with crystal, their glow reflecting off polished wood and marble. The great hall opened into a ballroom where music floated through the air, elegant and lively. Guests mingled in evening gowns and tailored suits, laughter echoing across the high ceilings.

Zane, ever at ease, bowed his head slightly as they were announced. Lyra scanned the crowd with curious eyes, while Eli tried to make himself as small as possible.

They were merely guests tonight. At least, that was the intention.

AN EVENING OF SHADOWS

The party unfolded with effortless elegance. A jazz band played in the corner, couples danced across polished floors, and waiters glided with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Outside the tall windows, the night was still calm, stars glittering above the peaks.

Zane moved through the crowd like water slipping through fingers. He exchanged pleasantries with strangers, his charm disarming, his wit never resting. Lyra followed at a distance, often catching him in the act of dropping sly remarks that left people either laughing or blushing. She would roll her eyes, mutter about his incorrigible behavior, but never once did she truly walk away.

Eli, meanwhile, had found a corner chair near the fireplace and refused to leave it. Whenever a stranger tried to engage him in small talk, he answered in monosyllables, clearly counting the minutes until the night was over.

Yet beneath the glamour, something faintly unsettling lingered. Zane noticed it first in the way certain guests avoided each other’s eyes, in conversations that stopped abruptly when someone else passed by. He noticed it in the forced laughter, the hushed whispers, the sidelong glances.

Secrets floated in the air, though they had yet to take shape.

THE COMING STORM

It was near midnight when the first rumble of thunder rolled across the mountains. At first, it went unnoticed—just a whisper beneath the music. Then came another, louder, shaking the windows in their frames.

Guests paused, looking uneasily toward the tall glass panes. Rain began to patter against them, faint at first, then harder, until it was as if the heavens had split open. Lightning slashed across the sky, casting the ballroom in sudden, ghostly light.

The storm had come without warning, swift and merciless.

The butler moved to secure the windows, and murmurs swept the crowd. Some guests laughed nervously, claiming it only added to the atmosphere, while others whispered that the mountain road would now be impassable. The lodge was cut off until the weather cleared.

Zane stood near one of the tall windows, watching the storm with sharp eyes. He smiled faintly. “Well, fate has a peculiar sense of humor. We are all, it seems, prisoners of the storm.”

Lyra joined him, arms folded. “You sound far too pleased about that.”

“On the contrary,” Zane said smoothly. “I’m merely fascinated. Nights like this often bring out truths people usually hide.”

She shook her head, exasperated. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you,” he said, tilting his head, “are beautiful when you’re pretending to be angry.”

Her eyes flashed, though her lips trembled with the hint of a smile. “Stop it, Zane.”

Eli appeared at their side, wringing his hands. “I knew it! I knew something bad would happen. We’re trapped. Stranded. Locked in with strangers. This is the part where the murders begin, isn’t it?”

Zane patted his shoulder with mock sympathy. “You read far too many mystery novels, Eli.”

But even as he spoke, a strange silence fell over the hall.

THE FIRST CRACK IN THE NIGHT

The music faltered. Conversations ceased. All heads turned toward the staircase that curved down into the hall. A man—tall, distinguished, dressed in evening black—was stumbling down, clutching the railing as though his strength had abandoned him.

Gasps rippled through the room. The man’s face was pale, his lips trembling. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but only a strangled cough escaped. His hand slipped from the railing.

He collapsed at the bottom of the stairs.

A woman screamed.

Chaos erupted. Guests rushed forward, some shrieking, others frozen in place. The band’s instruments gave a discordant note before silence swallowed the room.

Zane’s smile faded, his eyes sharpening instantly. He stepped through the crowd, Eli and Lyra at his heels. He knelt beside the fallen man, fingers brushing against his neck.

The man was dead.

A DEAD MAN AT THE STAIRS

The ballroom had fallen into complete silence, broken only by the relentless drumming of rain against the tall windows. The lifeless figure at the bottom of the stairs seemed to drain the very air from the room.

Whispers swirled.

“Is he… dead?” someone asked, their voice trembling.

Zane rose slowly, his sharp eyes scanning the shocked faces around him. “Yes,” he said softly. “He is.”

A ripple of panic followed. Several women clutched their pearls, men muttered anxiously, and the butler hovered at the edge of the crowd, pale and unsteady.

Eli tugged at Zane’s sleeve. “We need to leave. Right now. We’re trapped in here with a murderer!”

Zane’s mouth curved faintly, but his eyes held none of their usual levity. “Leaving is quite impossible, Eli. The storm has seen to that. And besides—would you abandon these fine people in their hour of terror?”

“Yes!” Eli blurted without hesitation.

Lyra smacked his arm. “Show some decency!”

Zane crouched again beside the corpse, studying it with unnerving calm. The dead man was Sir Alistair Hargrove, a wealthy industrialist known for his ruthless deals. His face was contorted as if in agony, and faint froth clung to his lips. Zane’s fingers brushed lightly over the man’s cuff, then toward his glass, which had rolled a short distance across the marble floor.

“Poison,” Zane murmured. “Most likely delivered in his drink.”

Gasps echoed again. Guests recoiled, clutching their glasses in horror.

LOCKED IN WITH SECRETS

The storm raged on, rattling the windows with a fury that made escape impossible. The road was washed away by landslides, the phones were dead, and electricity flickered ominously. The grand lodge had become a cage.

Zane gathered the guests in the lounge, the fire roaring as lightning flashed through stained glass. He stood before them like a conductor before an orchestra, calm and unreadable.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “we must accept the simple truth: Sir Alistair has been murdered. Which means the murderer is here, among us. None may leave this lodge until the truth is revealed.”

A tremor passed through the crowd. Some protested, others pleaded. Zane’s hand lifted, silencing them with effortless authority.

“I ask for your cooperation. I need to know who Sir Alistair quarreled with, who held grudges, who stood to gain by his death.”

At first, silence. Then, voices tumbled over each other.

A businessman admitted Sir Alistair had ruined him financially.

A woman whispered of an affair Alistair had kept secret.

A rival industrialist claimed Alistair had stolen patents.

One after another, secrets spilled, painting the dead man as a villain who had collected enemies like moths to a flame.

Eli leaned close to Zane, whispering, “So everyone had a motive. That’s… helpful.”

Zane’s lips twitched. “Indeed. The difficulty lies not in finding suspects, but in narrowing them.”

Lyra, seated nearby, studied Zane intently. She knew that behind his teasing smile lay a mind already racing ahead, assembling fragments like a puzzle.

THE STRANGE CLUES

Zane began his quiet inspection of the lodge. Lyra shadowed him, her curiosity piqued despite herself. Eli followed reluctantly, muttering complaints about being dragged into danger yet again.

They examined Sir Alistair’s glass. No scent, no residue. The poison had been cleverly masked.

Then Zane’s gaze shifted to the staircase. “Strange,” he murmured.

“What?” Lyra asked.

“His collapse was dramatic, theatrical even. But the glass is too far from his hand. As though… placed.”

They climbed the stairs, searching the corridor above. A torn scrap of paper lay near the railing, damp from the storm drifting in through an open window. On it were scrawled the words: Checkmate.

Lyra frowned. “Checkmate? As in chess?”

Zane’s eyes glimmered. “Or as in life.”

Eli groaned. “This is exactly what I feared. First a storm, now cryptic notes. Next thing you know, ghosts will show up.”

But Zane pocketed the scrap with quiet interest. The game had begun.

THE SECOND DEATH

Hours crawled by. The storm did not relent. Guests huddled in anxious clusters, whispering suspicions.

Then came another scream.

They rushed to the library. A young man—Alistair’s secretary—lay slumped over the desk, a dagger buried in his back. Books scattered around him, as though he had been searching frantically for something.

Blood pooled across ancient maps.

The room erupted in hysteria.

Two deaths in one night.

Lyra’s voice trembled. “This… this is no ordinary murder. Someone planned this.”

Zane’s face was calm, but his eyes burned with intensity. “Yes. Someone is weaving a performance. Each act darker than the last.”

He plucked a chess piece from the secretary’s desk—an ivory bishop, its base stained with fresh blood.

“Another message,” Zane whispered.

THE SHOCKING TWIST

It was in the drawing room that the storm reached its fiercest crescendo, and with it, the revelation that altered everything.

The butler, trembling, admitted under questioning that Sir Alistair had received a sealed envelope earlier in the evening. He had opened it privately before descending the stairs to his death.

Zane demanded to see it. After much hesitation, the butler produced the envelope from a locked drawer.

Inside was a single photograph.

The room collectively gasped.

It showed Sir Alistair in a clandestine meeting—with Lucian Vale.

Lyra’s blood ran cold. Eli nearly fell backward.

Zane’s expression tightened, though he hid it behind a wry smile. “Ah. The Architect leaves his signature. Subtle, elegant, impossible to ignore.”

“Lucian Vale?” Lyra whispered. “Here? In this lodge?”

Zane slipped the photo back into the envelope. “Perhaps not. But his shadow lingers. And that is enough.”

The implication was chilling: this was no random crime. The Architect’s hand was in it, manipulating from afar—or worse, from within their very midst.

ZANE’S DEDUCTIONS

Through the long hours, Zane pieced together threads others could not see.

Sir Alistair had been blackmailed with secrets of his dealings.

The secretary had discovered the source but was silenced.

The chess motifs, the staged deaths, the cryptic messages—they all bore the mark of someone turning murder into a game.

Zane gathered the remaining guests in the great hall, lightning illuminating his figure like a phantom conductor. Eli hovered nervously at his side, Lyra’s gaze steady on him despite the storm’s fury.

“It is time,” Zane announced, “to unmask the truth.”

THE GRAND REVEAL

One by one, Zane dismantled the tangled web.

The poison: delivered through Alistair’s custom flask, switched while he danced.

The dagger: planted to silence the secretary who uncovered the deception.

The chess notes: psychological warfare, taunting the intelligence of anyone who might pursue the truth.

At last, he turned toward a figure at the edge of the hall—the rival industrialist who had feigned outrage all evening.

“You,” Zane said, his voice sharp as lightning. “You orchestrated this charade. You poisoned Alistair, silenced the secretary, and attempted to cloak it all beneath the Architect’s shadow. Clever—but not clever enough.”

The man stammered, denied, but Zane advanced with quiet menace. “You left the bishop on the desk, but you failed to notice the secretary’s notes. He wrote one word before dying. Rival. It was his final clue. Your mask is broken.”

The crowd erupted, voices overlapping, accusations flying. Guards restrained the man as he screamed his innocence, but the truth was clear, the evidence damning.

Zane turned away, dusting his hands as though the matter were trivial. “Case closed.”

A STORM ENDS

By dawn, the storm finally broke. The rain softened to a gentle drizzle, mist curling through the pines outside the lodge. The nightmare was over.

Zane, Lyra, and Eli stepped into the cool morning air. The sky was pale silver, fresh with the scent of rain. Guests were packing, murmuring relief that the nightmare had passed.

Eli stretched and sighed. “I’ll never forgive you for dragging me here. Never.”

Zane smirked. “You say that after every case, Eli. It’s losing its effect.”

Lyra walked beside them, silent for a while, until her curiosity got the better of her. She turned to Zane, her expression sharp.

“There’s one thing you didn’t explain,” she said. “The envelope with Lucian Vale’s photograph. If the killer was just a rival industrialist using the Architect’s shadow as a disguise… why would Alistair have that photo at all?”

Eli froze. “She’s right. That doesn’t add up.”

For the first time that night, Zane did not answer immediately. He stopped, gazing out over the misty valley, his face unreadable. Then slowly, deliberately, he smiled.

“A good detective,” he said softly, “never reveals all his cards at once. But since you insist, Lyra—let me remind you of a detail you both overlooked.”

He leaned close, voice dropping like a secret meant only for them. “The envelope was sealed with wax. And the crest… was not the rival’s. It was Vale’s.”

Lyra’s eyes widened. Eli’s jaw fell open.

“You mean—” Eli began, but Zane was already walking toward the car, his coat billowing in the mist.

He glanced back once, his smile mysterious, unreadable. “The Architect was here long before tonight. And perhaps… he never truly left.”

Without another word, he slid into the driver’s seat.

Lyra and Eli stood frozen in the drizzle, the weight of his words sinking in, their hearts thudding with the realization that this nightmare was only the beginning.

Zane’s engine roared to life.

And just like that, the detective vanished into the morning mist, leaving behind questions that would haunt them long after the storm had gone.