Ghastly Comfort X

Dearest Mother,

It has been a long time since I have written you a letter from this inn upon a cliff overlooking a forever tumultuous sea that reflects the forever gray sky above it, gifted to me by an unknown entity via an unsigned letter. For that, I must apologize, though I should say, my lack of correspondence is not for a lack of effort.

I composed many letters to you using a pen found in a drawer I had not previously noticed on my desk. Only, every envelope returned to me, still sealed somehow, despite the fact that someone had managed to remove each of my messages from within and deposit their own notes scrawled upon our same hotel stationary stating things such as “I SHALL TAKE BACK WHAT IS MINE,” always with the same signature: “the former proprietor.”

I am displeased to say this sort of thing is not out of the ordinary here. The post office has been a mess since the previous postmaster drove off in one of the mail trucks, claiming to have tickets to ride a ferry that had not run in nigh thirty years.

Still, I hope this will reach you, as I would like to relate a strange thing that occurred just the other day. I was walking through the gardens late at night to clear my mind after a long day, when what did I see but an elaborate holiday celebration taking place in one of the grand rooms. I stepped up to the windows to observe which guests might be involved, and, despite being separated only by glass, I could hear nothing of the proceedings inside, as if they were taking place in absolute silence. I knocked on one of the panes, drawing the attention of the figures gathered there, and for a moment, I could have sworn they possessed no faces at all.

In reality, I am sure there is some simple explanation for this. Perhaps it was a trick of the light in union with our still-in-place mask policy for indoor communal spaces. (I have not lifted it yet, out of an excess of caution, but also because our guests seem to take great joy in wearing elaborate masks regardless of the requirement.) At any rate, when I finally made my way inside in to investigate closer, I found they had taken everything down, and though they must have rushed they did a very thorough job, leaving nothing behind. Too bad, really. I love such festivities!

When I related all of this to Hugo, he went pale and said something about the family whose house this old inn once was, and then mumbled for an extended period about a “Red Christmas in June.” What he meant by this, I do not know. Perhaps it has something to do with the seasons. Red is a warmer color, after all, and June is a warmer month.

As I see it, though, the lesson here is not to look back but rather to cast one’s eyes to the future. Yes, it may be a warm summer day today, when it is ideal to lounge in one’s bed under only a light sheet, a warm breeze wafting through the open window. But the colder holiday season will return eventually, and so I should invest in some heftier inventory now. Which is why I have purchased a number of Serta White Goose Feather and Down Fiber Blankets. They are so soft and luxurious, and I just know the guests will love them!

Speaking of looking forward: what is that phrase father always says? “The foal becomes a stallion whether you prepare or not”?

Perhaps you and father could look to the future and plan a visit this fall!

Sincerely,
Miranda Prillchisky
Proprietor
The Dread Inn at Death Rock