Ghastly Comfort XIX

Dearest mother,

Each time I write to you from this hotel gifted to me by unsigned letter, I make note of the cliff upon which it sits and the ever-tumultuous sea it overlooks, all of it framed by an ever-gray sky. But something interesting happened this past week: the wind picked up and the gray disappeared behind a sheet of white as a blizzard rolled in!

Now, it is not the first time it snowed here, mind you. But it is the biggest storm we have seen since my arrival. And it caused no shortage of issues. An older man called the front desk to complain that the howling wind rattling his windows sounded like a baby crying, but alas, it was merely the infant in the next room. Another man told me he heard a dog angrily growling in the wind’s howl, but I assured him it was the service dog staying in the room just below his, likely made as nervous as everyone else by the inclement weather. An elderly woman, meanwhile, phoned the desk to say that, within the wind, she heard a voice whispering, “Johnathon Aughstberry is not who he seems. Neither a lawyer nor a gentleman, he built his fortune with false stomach-easing tinctures and a hot spoon to the eye of anyone who defied him.” And I am sure there is an explanation for that as well.

(The name sounded familiar, so I asked Hugo. Apparently, I had seen it on the plaque adorning the statue in the central square. He was the village’s founder!)

Most troubling, though, was the report of a young man, or so he seemed. He called the front desk from the apparent room in which he and his apparent new wife were lodging. (You will soon understand why I cast such suspicions). The young man claimed he saw someone out in the snow, a figure in nothing more than a bowler hat and a tattered sweater, wandering confusedly through the storm. At once, Hugo and I gathered our warmest clothes and set out, struggling against the harsh gusts and snow to make our way around the perimeter of the building, but found nothing. We returned to the phone ringing again. It was the young man. I informed him of our findings (or lack thereof) and told him we would alert local police to the situation, but the man sounded baffled, claiming instead that the figure was standing right outside of their window now.

Again, we made our way around the perimeter and again saw nothing. As with the last time, the phone was already ringing when we arrived back inside, both of us feeling chilled to the bone. We told the young man that again, we saw no one, but the man was incredulous. He said the person was tapping on his window and he would let him in. His fingernails were long, the supposed guest said in a slow, trance-like voice, and he wore goggles of an impenetrably dark tint. Upon his back was an instrument case, and apparently, when he smiled, it revealed a mouth of strangely sharp teeth. At that point, I had the good sense to ask him for his room number so I could go there at once and provide assistance to the wanderer. And the man on the phone gave a number on the fourth floor! Ha! Can you believe that? A crank call!

Sure enough, the room was not even occupied (though, to my chagrin, the previous guest had left the window open), and when I checked the guest log, I found a hole burnt through the paper where a guest’s name should be, further evidence of its vacancy. Hugo did not share in my dismay at this turn of events. When I recounted everything the man said over the phone, he grew pale and muttered something about how “Claude” the “banjoist of hell” had “taken two more to their doom.” Such an odd duck, that Hugo.

At any rate, the storm left me exhausted, and moreover, it left me cold. The heating in these old buildings is not up to our modern standards and my office is often quite chilly. Luckily, I have a pair of 1500W Oscillating 99° Space Heaters. I keep one right next to my desk and another near the window to stop the frost from forming on the single pane. (I know it’s silly, but I swear I see crows in the frost formations, just like in the water damage.)

But fear not mother, the room I will set aside for you and father will be very, very warm. As warm as when father brings the horses into the living room on those cold winter nights, but I daresay, not as crowded! Just let me know the date and I shall reserve it in your name!

Sincerely,
Miranda Prillchisky
Proprietor
The Dread Inn at Death Rock