The Last Guest

The storm had swallowed the cliff road, forcing the guests one by one through the heavy oak doors of Lang Manor. Lightning lit the sea below in violent flashes. Inside, the air smelled of wood polish and old secrets.

Seven strangers gathered around the dining table. Their host, Victor Lang—the elusive art dealer—sat at the head, glass of red wine in hand.

He smiled, though his eyes never seemed to settle on anyone for long.
“Welcome, friends. I trust you found the place?”

Priya, the journalist, muttered, “Odd invitation. No press, no reason, just… dinner.”

Victor tilted his head. “Sometimes, answers come at the table.”

There was a small pause before he raised his glass. The lightning flickered again, throwing his features into shadow.

The glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the floor. His body sagged against the chair, lifeless.

Panic spread instantly.

“He’s poisoned,” Dr. Grant muttered, checking the pulse. “Fast. Precise.”

Helena, Victor’s ex-wife, pressed a trembling hand to her chest. “Then one of us—”

“—is a killer,” Marcus, the lawyer, finished.

They looked around the table. Seven guests. One dead host.

No phone lines. No signal. The storm had taken the road. They were trapped.

As the night dragged on, suspicion clawed at their nerves.

Priya accused Marcus of slipping something into Victor’s wine. Helena screamed that Priya had always hated Victor. Dr. Grant swore Amelia had wandered too close to the cellar earlier.

All the while, Thomas—the quietest guest—sat apart. He rarely spoke, though his gaze lingered on the family portraits lining the walls. Every time lightning flared, Amelia noticed his eyes flick to the largest frame: a painted likeness of Victor, younger, with another man at his side. The resemblance was uncanny.

When she asked about it, Thomas merely said, “Families often hide their ghosts.”

Hours later, Marcus was found dead in the study, slumped across the desk. Not long after, Priya vanished, leaving only a blood-smeared notebook in the library.

Helena sobbed until her voice broke. Dr. Grant paced the halls, muttering calculations of poison doses. Amelia clutched a candlestick, certain she’d be next.

Only Thomas seemed calm. Almost… patient.

By dawn, just Amelia and Thomas remained in the drawing room.

The storm had eased, but the air inside was heavy with smoke and fear. Amelia sat trembling by the fire.

“You’re too calm,” she whispered. “As if you knew this would happen.”

Thomas leaned forward, voice quiet but steady.
“You never asked why I was here.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Because Victor invited you.”

Thomas gave a thin smile. “Did he? Did anyone see him write those invitations? Did anyone even hear him speak their names tonight?”

Amelia’s throat tightened. She remembered—Victor had given no greetings. No personal remarks. He had spoken in riddles, then gone silent.

Thomas stood slowly, the firelight catching the sharpness of his face.
“My name isn’t Thomas. It’s Daniel Lang. Victor’s brother. The one erased from the portraits, from the estate, from his life.”

Amelia’s breath caught. The resemblance—the jawline, the eyes—how had she not noticed before?

“You killed them,” she whispered.

Daniel’s voice was almost tender.
“I freed them. Each had blood on their hands—his, mine, each other’s. And you, Amelia… you never hated Victor. That makes you the last guest. The witness.”

The front door creaked open. The storm had passed. Police sirens wailed faintly in the distance.

Daniel gave a small bow, like a gentleman excusing himself from a dance.
“Tell them your truth. But truth, spoken by the last survivor, always sounds like madness.”

And with that, he stepped into the mist and was gone.

Moments later, the police stormed inside.

They found Amelia standing alone, gripping Victor’s shattered wine glass. Her wide eyes darted to the portraits on the wall—Victor, smiling with another man who looked exactly like Thomas.

Her voice broke into a whisper, the words trembling out:

“There never was a host.”