Step into the Thrilling World of Blue Spring Hotel

Twelve strangers are stranded by a storm in a remote mountain hotel. The fire crackles, the wind howls—and whispers of a recent murder drift through the drawing room. A wealthy widow has been killed in the nearby town, and, curiously, each of the guests seems to be connected to the crime. Welcome to the Blue Spring Hotel… where nothing is as it seems.

Prologue

A tall man stood by the open window, lost in thought as he gazed out at the street. Rain was falling steadily, soaking the air with dampness and turning the roadside ditches into rushing streams.

He looked to be about forty. By most standards, he was a handsome man: a high forehead, dark—almost black—hair, sharp gray eyes beneath thick eyebrows, and a strong chin. These masculine features were softened by unexpectedly full lips, hinting at a passionate and artistic nature. His large head would have suited a broad, powerful neck—but instead, his thin neck and slouching posture made him seem more fragile than he was.

His gray eyes wandered over the passing cars and the scattered pedestrians hurrying through the rain beneath wet umbrellas. Suddenly, an ambulance rounded the corner at full speed, siren wailing. He flinched at the sound, scowled, and closed the window. Drawing the curtain, he turned toward the desk.

The desk was cluttered with brochures for country hotels. He picked up one lying off to the side, sank into an armchair, and stared at the photo on the cover.

“Mountain Hotel Blue Spring…” he read aloud. “…At our small, family-run hotel, you’ll find everything you need for a perfect nature getaway…”

He mumbled the last line, dropped the brochure into his lap, and stared blankly into space. It was clear he’d read the ad many times and had memorized every word.

“Is this the right decision?” he murmured. “Everything’s falling into place, but…”

His gaze drifted toward the digital clock on the nightstand.

A little superstitious, the man had developed his own way of predicting outcomes through numbers. Six, for instance—a sixth-floor office, a 6:3 hockey score, a pair of sixes in a phone number—meant good luck. Eight, on the other hand, meant quite the opposite: failure, frustration, and plans gone awry.

The clock read 11:08.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “If I’d glanced a minute earlier or later, that damn eight wouldn’t have been there.”

He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.

“…has been the sales leader for the sixth day in a row!” a cheerful announcer’s voice rang out.

The man perked up a bit at the “good” number. He picked up the brochure again and flipped it over. The contact information was printed at the bottom.

“You can reach us at…” he began reading aloud—then stopped. His face darkened. The hotel’s phone number included three eights.

He clenched his jaw and turned toward the suitcase by the bed.

“No,” he said after a quick pause. “The decision is made.”

He glanced at the brochure again. His eyes now gleamed with feverish resolve. Then he reached for the phone and dialed the number.

“Blue Spring Hotel? I’d like to book a room for this coming weekend. Single, please… Great, let’s do it. My name is Ben Sanders. S-A-N-D-E-R-S. Yes, that’s right… Okay. That works for me. Thank you. See you soon.”

Chapter 1: The Hotel Guests

Ben Sanders stepped out of the taxi, stretched his back after the nearly hour-long ride, and looked around. To his right, a breathtaking view unfolded: the radiant May sun lit up a dense pine forest, its vibrant green hues standing in sharp contrast to the towering, snow-capped peaks beyond. To his left stood a large, weathered wooden lodge with a faded sign that read: BLUE SPRING HOTEL. Beneath the lettering, a chubby, awkward-looking fish had been painted, as if by a child’s hand.

The driver—a gloomy man who had maintained a stony silence the entire trip—perked up slightly as he retrieved the suitcase from the trunk and gestured toward the forest’s edge.

“You can’t see it from here, but past those trees, down at the foot of the mountain, there’s a spring. They call it the Blue Spring—just a fancy name, really. Nothing blue about it. The water flows into a small lake, and that lake’s the best fishing spot in the county,” he said. “Though fishing season hasn’t started yet. You should come back in August—that’s when the fishing’s good.”

“Thanks for the tip…” Ben replied, guardedly. “But I’m not much of a fisherman.”

“I see…” The driver’s disapproving gaze made it clear he held little regard for those who didn’t respect the time-honored tradition of fishing.

Ben paid the fare, adding a generous tip, but it didn’t soften the driver’s heart. He stuffed the cash into his pocket, muttered a curt goodbye, and drove off toward the city without a backward glance.

Before climbing the hotel steps, Ben paused to look around. The place seemed deserted. The wind gently rocked the swings on the empty playground; a forgotten rubber ball lay abandoned at the bottom of a dry pool; two rusty old cars were living out their final days in the parking lot. It all confirmed what the driver had said about the off-season.

Exactly what I need, Ben thought, feeling a sudden wave of nervous tension.

“…a delightful getaway from the hustle and bustle of the city… air filled with birdsong…” he recalled from the hotel brochure, smiling faintly. At the moment, the only sound was the low, mechanical hum coming from somewhere behind the building.

“Everything in its own time,” he told himself as he climbed the steps. “The birds will sing in the morning. It’s late afternoon now.”

Ben pushed open the door, stepped into the spacious lobby, and glanced around. Trying to suppress a growing unease, he took in the surroundings. There was nothing remarkable about the place—it looked like hundreds of other mountain hotels: wooden panels and staircases; walls adorned with generic landscape paintings of mountains and lakes; cheerful blue floral curtains and upholstery; a large fireplace made of river stones. The faded carpet and threadbare furniture suggested the hotel’s best years were behind it.

The lobby was empty, but as soon as Ben entered, a woman’s muffled voice rang out from somewhere deeper inside.

“I’m coming, I’m coming… Just a second!”

Ben moved to the reception desk and set his suitcase down. A moment later, the voice’s owner appeared in the hallway—a pleasant-looking, slightly plump young woman in jeans and an oversized shirt. Her blonde hair was twisted into a loose bun on top of her head, with a few bleached strands sticking out at odd angles. She was holding a cleaning cloth.

“Good afternoon,” she was out of breath. “I’m so sorry. We’ve had a lot of guests today. I wish I had more time.”

She gave Ben an apologetic smile, shoved the cloth out of sight under the desk, and pulled out a guestbook.

“Welcome to the Blue Spring Hotel,” she announced with exaggerated ceremony, opening the book and handing him a pen. “My name is Mrs. Dorothy Boyer, and I’m the owner. Is this your first time with us, Mr.…?”

“Sanders. Ben Sanders,” he answered, his voice hoarse with anxiety. “I… I’ve booked a room.”

“Of course you did,” she flashed him a broader smile. “Otherwise, why would you be here, right?”

“Yes…” Ben managed a weak grin. “But… could someone show up without a booking? Just… unexpectedly?”

“Unexpectedly?” She looked mildly puzzled. “Well… I suppose they could. But it’s never happened before. This is a dead-end road. For hundreds of miles, there’s nothing but forest.”

“I see…” Ben nodded, feeling himself begin to relax. He exhaled and straightened his shoulders.

“All right. Please write your name and address here, and sign right here,” Mrs. Boyer pointed to the spaces in the register.

While Ben filled in the form, she kept chatting cheerfully.

“You know, I’m completely swamped today. The kitchen’s under renovation, and out of nowhere, eleven guests showed up at once. I had to shut everything down, clean the rooms, run out for groceries… It’s the busiest I’ve been in years. But that’s how it goes—sometimes life surprises you.” She finished with a philosophical shrug.

“Yes, it does…” Ben muttered, handing the book back.

His voice, despite his attempt to sound casual, wavered, and Mrs. Boyer picked up on the shift in his mood immediately.

“Looking for some peace and quiet?” she asked with a knowing smile. “Don’t worry, you’ve come to the right place. Eleven guests isn’t that many, and there are plenty of quiet corners where you won’t be bothered.”

“Thank you,” Ben replied, keeping his tone neutral.

“You’ll like it for sure. And you know what? I’ll give you the quietest room,” she added cheerfully. She turned and took a key from the rack. “Here you go. Room number eight. It’s a lovely room on the second floor with its own private entrance.”

“Number eight?” Ben tensed. “Do you have any other rooms with a private entrance?”

“No, just this one.”

Ben paused, weighing the ominous prospects of number eight against the benefit of a private entrance—and the entrance won.

“All right,” he sighed. “I’m in.”

“Let me show you to your room,” Mrs. Boyer said, coming out from behind the counter. But right then, the sound of a car pulling up outside reached them.

She threw up her hands and added apologetically, “Oh, more guests! I have to go greet them. Please wait here a minute—I’ll have Nina show you to your room.”

“Nina!” she called, facing toward the stairs.

A muffled reply came from above, and soon a tall, grim-faced girl appeared at the top of the stairs. She held a mop, and one of her arms was bandaged from wrist to elbow.

“Nina, I told you I’d mop the floor myself,” Mrs. Boyer scolded gently.

Getting back to Ben, she sighed, “On top of everything, our housekeeper sprained her arm yesterday.”

Then she faced the girl again.

“Nina, please show Mr. Sanders to room eight.”

The girl nodded silently, leaned the mop against the wall, and started down the stairs. At the bottom, she turned left and motioned for Ben to follow. He grabbed his suitcase and went after her. Before they rounded the corner, he glanced back and saw the new guests coming in.

There were three of them: a man and a woman in their forties—both short and plump, with fair hair and rosy faces—and a girl of about fifteen, also short but slender, with black hair. As soon as they entered, the man and woman launched into loud conversation with Mrs. Boyer, raving about the magnificent views they’d seen on their way to the hotel, driving along the cliffs. The girl stood off to the side, looking around with indifference. For some reason, the trio made Sanders think of two well-fed cats and a small black mouse.

“Sa-bu-ni,” the woman announced clearly several times. “Our surname is Sabuni.”

Meanwhile, the housekeeper had crossed the dining room and was already stepping onto the veranda through the wide sliding doors. Realizing she was about to vanish from sight, Ben quickly followed.

Outside, they walked along the wall and rounded the corner. On this side of the house, the ground floor appeared to be a barn or workshop—its heavy doors shut tight, its windows coated in dust. A narrow wooden staircase led up to the second floor, ending at a single door marked with the number eight.

Ben paused at the bottom and looked around. The forest came right up to the house here, cutting this secluded corner off from the rest of the property. Honestly, if someone wanted to slip in or out unnoticed, they’d have no trouble at all.

He followed Nina up the stairs and into the room. He liked it immediately and even forgot about the unlucky number. Sunlight poured through the window, flooding the cozy space with golden warmth. The wide bed, piled with plump pillows and covered in a brightly patterned country quilt, reminded him of his grandmother’s house.

“Breakfast starts at nine,” the girl said curtly, speaking for the first time. “Lunch at two. Dinner to order. Area information’s on the table.”

She turned to leave, but Ben stopped her.

“Wait, Nina—please,” he said. “Your hostess mentioned she’s expecting a lot of guests this weekend. I was the first to arrive, right?”

“No,” she replied with a shrug. “You’re the second. The Perkins family got here this morning.”

“Thanks,” Sanders said. He wanted to ask something more, but under Nina’s unfriendly stare, he thought better of it.

“Perkins… Perkins… Who the hell are the Perkins?” he muttered as he unpacked his clothes. The name meant nothing to him—yet it scratched at something deep in his brain.

“Because your nerves are shot,” his inner voice suggested mockingly. “You’re overreacting to every little thing.”

“Exactly,” Sanders muttered, agreeing with the voice—and immediately getting annoyed with himself. “I need to stop this. Let’s go see these Perkins.”

Leaving his suitcase half-unpacked, Ben rushed to the door and headed downstairs. He misjudged the route and, instead of reentering the hotel the way Nina had brought him in, ended up circling around the opposite side of the house and coming in through the main entrance. The Sabuni family was already gone, and only the hotel owner remained behind the counter, scribbling and crossing things out in her notebook.

“You don’t like the room?” Mrs. Boyer asked, glancing up at his distressed face.

“The room?” Ben blinked. “Eh…, no. The room’s fine. I… I meant to ask—do you have a bar lounge? I think this long drive made me carsick.”

“Of course. Happens all the time,” she said with an understanding smile. “Come with me.”

She led him to the far end of the hall, where a dining area opened onto a bar counter lined with gleaming bottles.

“Whiskey?” she offered over her shoulder.

“Yes, that would be great,” Ben replied, trailing after her and quickly sizing up the best spot—somewhere he could see everyone passing through the lobby and, hopefully, get a glimpse of the mysterious, naggingly familiar Perkins.

“Oh, I’m sorry—no ice,” she said after peeking into the fridge. “How about a splash of soda instead?”

“Sure,” Ben agreed automatically, barely registering her words.

A tight knot of anxiety had settled in his stomach. The hotel’s rustic charm no longer felt cozy. The pale wood of the stairs had a sickly green tint creeping along the edges. The exposed ceiling beams loomed heavily overhead. Even the cheerful blue flowers on the sofa cushions looked faded and wilted. The sunny landscape above the fireplace now seemed shadowy and cold.

Mrs. Boyer set a glass on the counter and poured in some whiskey. As she turned to get a bottle of soda from the fridge, Ben—lost in thought—picked up the glass and downed it in one gulp. When she turned back and saw the empty glass, she paused mid-motion—then, without a word, topped it off with more whiskey.

“My cousin’s the same—gets horribly carsick,” she said, a note of understanding in her voice.

Ben glanced from the glass to the still-sealed bottle of soda and felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck.

“Sorry, I… I must’ve been really carsick,” he mumbled.

“No problem at all,” she said lightly. “So—how do you want it? With soda or without?”

Ben flushed deeper.

Now she’ll think I’m a drunk, he thought miserably.

“With soda, please. And lots of it,” he said in a rush. “Please don’t think I came here just to drink. It’s just been… one thing after another, you know.”

Mrs. Boyer didn’t reply right away, but her green eyes were warm and kind, and to his own surprise, Ben found himself trusting her.

“You see, Mrs. Boyer…” he began, sighing heavily.

“Call me Dora,” she offered with a gentle smile.

“Thank you, Dora… I’m going through such a rough time right now. Everything’s hitting me all at once. My job contract is hanging by a thread. The last show was a total flop. I really need to rest.”

Ben lifted his glass with resolve and took a long drink—nearly half—prompting the innkeeper to quietly doubt his intentions to stay sober.

“Are you a director?” she asked with interest, refilling his glass.

“I’m a screenwriter. If I don’t come up with a new, brilliant script soon, no one will want to work with me anymore. And so far, I’ve got nothing. Not a single idea!” His voice cracked with desperation.

“You’ll write it,” Dora said with calm certainty. “No doubt about it. Look how beautiful it is here.”

She nodded toward the wide window overlooking the veranda, and for a moment, a shadow of memory flickered across her face.

“My husband left me for another woman four years ago. I didn’t think I’d be able to run the hotel on my own. But there’s something about these mountains—something that carries you through the hardest times and makes you stronger. Take a walk along the lake, hike up Eagle Peak—you’ll see. The ideas will come. I’m sure of it.”

Ben didn’t have time to respond. A car engine sounded outside, and another vehicle pulled up to the porch.

“Oh, more guests,” Dora said, her face tightening with concern. “Excuse me, I need to greet them.”

She placed the bottle of whiskey and the soda on the counter in front of him.

“Help yourself, all right?” she smiled, then hurried toward the reception desk.

Why the hell are you spilling your guts to her, you idiot? Ben scolded himself as he watched her walk away. Great job. Why not just broadcast all your problems to the whole world while you’re at it?

He poured himself another whiskey, added a generous splash of soda, but didn’t drink it. Swirling the glass in his hand, he angled himself toward the bar to keep an eye on everything happening in the lobby.

The new guests turned out to be two elderly ladies, thin and tightly wound in matching tweed suits the color of swamp water—utterly dreadful. They looked like they’d marched straight out of a children’s book: classic stern schoolmistresses, with ramrod backs and expressions of sharp disapproval. The one in front looked a bit older.

“Miss Adelaide and Miss Aurelia Knockshott,” came the clipped introduction.

Does anyone still dress like that? Ben thought, eyeing their thick stockings and clunky shoes.

After registering with Dora, the sisters briskly hauled their suitcases upstairs, trailed by a grim-faced Nina.

Their footsteps had barely faded when the low rumble of another car sounded outside, and moments later, a man and woman in their mid-thirties entered the lobby. Both wore sour expressions, and the woman’s flushed cheeks hinted at a recent argument. When he spotted the innkeeper, the man stepped forward and arranged his face into something vaguely resembling a friendly smile.

“Good afternoon,” he said with deliberate flair. “We have a room reserved. Mr. and Mrs. Ross.”
“Hello, Mr. Ross. Mrs. Ross.” The hostess nodded, offering each of them a warm smile.
Her sharp gaze registered their barely contained excitement at once—and her hospitable smile grew even wider.

“I’m happy to welcome you to the Blue Spring Hotel. I hope you enjoy your room—it has a gorgeous view of the mountains.”

“We asked for a lake view,” Mrs. Ross said with a challenging lift of her eyebrow.

“We don’t have any lake view rooms,” Dora replied, a little puzzled.

“No, dear,” Mr. Ross cut in, squeezing his wife’s arm. “We wanted to book one, but ended up reserving what was available.”

“But—” she began, clearly ready to argue, but her husband shot her a warning glance, and she fell silent.

“The lake’s very close by,” Dora offered quickly. “You can’t see it from the windows because of the trees, but if you walk past the parking lot, the view is beautiful.”

“Oh, absolutely!” Mr. Ross lit up with exaggerated cheer. “You see, darling? We’re guaranteed spectacular views. What could be better than waking up and seeing the sun rise over the mountains from bed?”

“Um…” Dora hesitated. “Actually, you won’t see the sunrise from your window. The sun rises on the other side of the house.”

“What?” he exclaimed. “Then give us a different room—with a sunrise view. Do you have one?”

“We do,” Dora replied patiently, clearly accustomed to guest demands. “But unfortunately, it’s already taken.”

“What a pity! Well…” Mr. Ross sighed theatrically. “But won’t that room be available, let’s say, tomorrow?”

“Unfortunately, not.” She shook her head. “The Perkins family—like you—booked it for the entire weekend.”

“Perkins? That name rings a bell,” the man said, frowning thoughtfully and asked his wife. “Do you remember, dear? Weren’t they the ones who lived to the left of us on Richmond Street?”

“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Ross snapped, pursing her lips in clear displeasure.

“Here they are!” Dora announced cheerfully, pointing toward the entrance. “Now you can find out whether you know them or not.”

“Perkins…” Ben tensed as he heard the name again and leaned forward for a better look.

The door swung open, and in walked a short, broad-shouldered man with a full head of gray hair and a prominent aristocratic nose. He looked to be at least sixty. His lively blue eyes scanned the room with cheerful curiosity. With his tanned face and cap emblazoned with a golden crab, he looked every inch a sailor, and Ben immediately dubbed him the Captain.

The Captain wasn’t alone. Right behind him came a man and a woman—and Sanders knew at once that this was the Perkins couple. Both were tall and solidly built and radiated an aura of irreproachable moral fiber. One look was enough to know these were the kind of kind-hearted people who had never once stepped out of line and spent their days helping old ladies cross the street and rescuing kittens stuck in trees. Both smiled in unison, wearing the same all-forgiving expression—just like good priests bestowing benediction on their foolish flock.

“Here we are!” the Captain boomed. He turned to the Perkinses. “I am immensely grateful to you, my friends!”

“It’s nothing. It’s our duty to help our fellow man,” the bald husband replied with modest pride.

“Anyone would’ve done the same,” Mrs. Perkins added cheerfully.

Dora opened her registration book.

“You must be Mr. Lawrence Powere?” she asked the man in the crab cap, checking her list.

“Pare. Lawrence Pare,” the sailor corrected, smiling slyly. “But for such a charming woman as yourself—I’m Larry.”

He extended his hand toward the righteous couple and declared grandly,

“These wonderful people helped me find your wonderful hotel. The taxi I was in got a flat, and if I hadn’t run into them, I’d still be out there waving at trees.”

“Oh, we were out walking,” the Perkinses said, eyes modestly lowered. “Really, anyone would’ve helped. We simply couldn’t leave someone stranded.”

While the Captain made his flowery speech, Ben stared at the couple, annoyed with himself once again. Perfectly ordinary people. Complete strangers. What on earth was it about their name that had unsettled him so?

“Ah!” Dora beamed at the Captain. “Then you must be the final guest we’ve been waiting for. Everyone’s here now.”

Everyone’s here now. We shall begin, Sanders echoed inwardly—and shuddered. That was what they always said in the theatre before a rehearsal.

The memory hit like a jolt of pain. Far from comforting, it only deepened his unease. The whiskey had done nothing to settle his nerves. He stood up abruptly and hurried back to his room.

Chapter 2: The Ruined Dinner