Wetwood Inn

It was a chilly Thursday night in Wetwood with the cosmic display twinkling in all its beauty. Streets were eerily empty, only a dark shadow was moving across the spindly pine trees lining the fence of an Old Inn. The rest of town and its main road seemed distant as the shadow walked into the quiet of that hauntingly secluded place. Suddenly the shadow heard a noise like egg shells crunching under his shoe. Only it wasn’t an egg but a snail. Poor thing. The shadow walked into the inn, the gas-lights flared and flickered.

“May I help you?”, said an elderly voice behind the desk.

“Yes. I need a room. Is there any room available?”, said Oliver.

“Please, fill out your details here”, the old man put a register in front of him. Out of curiosity and boredom he asked, “So, what brings you here in Wetwood?”

“I’m a writer and sometimes I need a quiet place to disappear to and write.”

Oliver took the keys and went upstairs. The door was already opened. The light from the hallway filtering through the half-opened door began to dim and flicker. He felt his heart pounding and palms sweat. He peeked inside the door. He saw nothing but ghosts dancing in the dark, speaking without a voice. A black wind battered the window and the cries of an owl from far could be heard. Chills went up and down his spine.

“Oh! That’s not your room. Its right here”, the old man came to his relief.

His room was tidy and quite comfy. “Whose room is that?”, Oliver tried to sound calm but a feverish eagerness came through in his voice.

“No one takes that room”, said the old man with a cold smile. His expression was impenetrable. Oliver sensed something.

“If you need anything, just ring the bell”, before Oliver could say anything the old man was gone.

Next morning, it was cold and a blustery wind was sending flurries of rain against Oliver’s window. He woke up and got dressed for the breakfast. He was heading downstairs when in the hallway he felt the pull. It was like some obscure force and a strong impulse. He found himself walking into the room that no one takes. He stepped inside. It was a tapestry of light and shadow. All the furniture was old and rusted. An old clock on the wall was heard striking the hour. All the paintings were gone. Wallpapers with a pattern of roses once bright and bold were tearing off. There was no carpet on the floor, just ply boards with faded fuzzy rugs on them. Suddenly, something flew over his head. It was just the bats. A scream swelled and died in his throat.

After breakfast, he looked up on the internet about the Inn. He found an old newspaper article. It was a mansion before it was bought and turned into an Inn. The occupants were a family of five, two boys, a girl and their parents. A week after they moved into the inn, everyone was found dead in the backyard. Only the girl, Angela was missing. Nobody had seen her since then.

At night Oliver couldn’t sleep. Wind was gusting through the branches of pine trees. Foreboding sky and ominous clouds were sending scattered showers. He heard voices whispering. He felt like someone called to him, though not in a human voice. He couldn’t see anything; the subtle ghosts grew subtler. It was beyond the radius of his sight and understanding. He wanted to say something but he couldn’t utter a word, his throat parted like pliant lips. He breathed out; his heart was beating faster as if something was about to happen. He felt the pull again, only this time it was more intense. It heaved him out of the bed and he found himself walking out of his room. His stomach ached. In the hallway, the gas-lamp was flickering frantically. He heard a muffled cry for help. The door was closed this time. He mustered up all the courage and stepped inside the room. It was far darker than he had imagined. On the nightstand there was a candle teetering over the short wick and burning wax. Wallpaper was ripped off the walls and the spidery oriental writing on the walls looked sinister.

“There is beauty in death and in death there is art.”

It left him completely flabbergasted. Panic choked Oliver’s senses.

          By the morning the branches of pine trees stopped quivering. Oliver dressed up and went downstairs. The pain in his stomach was still there. He was headed to the town’s Paper office. The publisher gave him some old copies of paper from twenty years ago. The articles said that before Angela’s family a couple used to live there who had a nine years old daughter. Shortly after they moved in, the couple was found dead in the living room and the girl was missing. Authorities looked for the girl for months but found no clue. Before this couple, a widow used to live there. She had a son and a daughter. One day some unidentified miscreants set the mansion on fire. The lady and his son managed to escape while the girl suffered severe burns and died of suffocation. Two days after this incident, the widow hanged herself. She was found dead, hanging to the ceiling of her daughter’s room. The boy left the town and after some years he sold the mansion. The mansion was transformed into an Inn and that’s when strange things started occurring. Anyone who stayed in the Inn experienced burning sensations, doors slamming, floor boards creaking, shadows whispering and sound of cries.

       “What do you think it means?”, asked the old man. Oliver said nothing. He went straight to his room with a pale face and dry throat. A bead of sweat ran down on his forehead. His shoulders ached and his spine felt like it had a knife struck in it. A burning desire to escape Wetwood engulfed him. All his instincts were screaming at him to leave at once. Frustration took over him, the feeling of wanting to cry was intimidating.

Dove pink dawn creeped across the sky. Thursday dawned bright and sunny. Oliver was sitting in the arm chair.  Old man entered his room carrying a food tray. It had poached eggs, toast, butter and coffee. Food didn’t hold Oliver’s attention for a second, he kept staring at the paper in his hand. “Do you need anything else?”, asked the old man in a concerning voice while pouring coffee for him. Still no answer. He touched his shoulder which made Oliver fell off the chair. The paper in his hand said,

“I have been awake for seven days. If there is beauty in death and in death there is art then so it be”.