I never believed in ghosts until the night I met him. The Messina Hotel has been in my family for three generations and is nestled on the edge of Woodland New York, a small, unassuming place. No grand chandeliers or velvet carpets; just old creaky floors, faded wallpaper and the kind of quiet that either soothes your soul or unsettles you. I've been the general manager for ten years and in that time, I've seen it all, from rowdy teenagers to runaway lovers and even the occasional criminal trying to lay low. Nothing ever shook me, that is until he checked in.

It was October 22nd and I remembered because the autumn chill had settled in early that year. The wind rattled the windows like an unwelcome guest. Business was slow and I sat at the front desk organizaing guest records. That's when the door creaked open and he stepped inside, his dark figure against the dim lobby lights. He wore a black trench coat, a Yankees cap pulled over his eyes, and worn sneakers. At first glance there was nothing remarkable about him until he spoke.

"I need a room," he said his voice low and gravelly. It was the kind of voice that lingered, curling around the air like smoke. "Of course," i replied, forcing a polite smile. How long will you be staying? He chuckled and I swear the lights flickered when he did. "A while, he said. 'You can call me Maxwell." I paused, pen hovering over the guest book. "Last name?"

His smile widened, but it wasn't warm. "They call me El Diablo." I laughed nervously, thinking it was a joke. "That's quite the nickname." He said nothing and just stared at me with eyes that felt too dark and too empty. I gave him a key to Room 306 and he walked away without uttering a word. That night the hotel changed, as the lights in the hallway flickered and dimmed until the bulbs burst one by one. A cold draft swept through the corridors, but no windows were open. Guests complained of strange noises and even claimed they saw shadows moving in the mirrors. By morning, half the guests had checked out.

When I went to Maxwell's room he wasn't there. The bed hadn't been slept in and the window was wide open despite the latch being rusted shut for years. I found only one thing on the pillow, an old yellowed piece of paper. "Hell is a place on earth, and the devil books his own room." I immediately locked the room and for months I tried to forget but every October these strange occurrences keep happening. When I checked the guest list, no one by the name of Maxwell had ever booked a stay. The strangest part is that every year without fail, I find an entry in the guest book scrawled in black ink and dated October 22nd. Maxwell Room 306 so i stopped assigning guests to that room. However what really shivers me from the inside is the sound of someone chuckling inside everytime i pass by the door late at night.