Ghastly Comfort XXI

Dearest Mother,

I must say: I thought I knew hard work before an unsigned letter bequeathed onto me this inn framed by ever-gray skies upon a cliff looking out over an ever-tumultuous sea. But I was wrong. After all, the tasks father gave me in my youth were of the simple variety, as he preferred to give the more advanced and rigorous projects to one of the stablehands or (more often) keep them for himself.

Perhaps now you will extend my apology to him for all the sulking I did when faced with such simple labor! For I understand, now, that there are more exhausting fates than brushing manes for two hours straight.

What is interesting here is how the fatigue creeps up on you. Gargantuan tasks, the kind that test one’s physical might, rarely grace my to-do list. Instead, I do battle with an expansive army of tiny chores from the moment I wake until the moment I return to my quarters at night, and only then do I realize how tired I am, barely able to count three crow-like water-damage impressions upon the ceiling (they are in my room as well as my office now, somehow!) before falling asleep.

But last week, I am embarrassed to admit, I did not make it to the end of the day.

I was doing my rounds in the afternoon when I saw steam pouring into the hallway. Someone forgot to close the sauna door, I thought. Only when the steam engulfed me did I remember we do not have a sauna here at the inn. In the next instant, it dissipated entirely. And when it did, the hallway looked different. Not in layout, but in color, and, dare I say, in age.

I went wandering back the way I came and eventually found my way to one of the common areas, where I saw something strange: an exceedingly tall and gaunt figure stood in the middle of a group, all of them pale, all of them dressed in tuxedos, and all of them wearing big goggle-like sunglasses. Among this group, I saw Hugo (though he looked younger).

Now, I have no say in what guests wear beyond requiring them to wear something. But I feel it is my duty to maintain a dress code among my staff. For this reason, I strode directly past the gaunt man and up to Hugo. “Take those silly things off,” I told him, before grabbing hold of the ridiculous eyewear and pulling it from his face. As soon as I did, Hugo, well, popped. Exploded. However you want to put it: there was a bang, a rush of air, and a showering of black confetti. I took a step back just as the others all began to remove their own sunglasses, one at a time, exploding in kind, until the room was filled with this black confetti and the sound of the gaunt man laughing.

I reached out and plucked one of the shreds from the air, finding words written in ornate cursive upon it: “Welcome back.” I turned to the gaunt man, who continued laughing, and asked if he had been to the inn before. “I ran it once upon a time,” he told me. “You’re the former proprietor?” I asked. And he nodded and said, “Former. And future.” I had no time to be confused; he snapped his fingers, and I awoke on the hammock, swinging dangerously close to the cliff. Luckily, Hugo was there to help me out, with neither youthfulness nor sunglasses present upon his face, only a look of wide-eyed concern.

Of course, I understood the meaning of all this instantly: I had not been drinking enough water!

But I have fixed this issue by purchasing a two-pack of LifeStraw Go 22oz Water Filter Bottles. They are designed for hiking, as they are equipped with a filter that removes 99.999999% of bacteria, 99.999% of parasites, and 99.999% of microplastics, chlorine, organic chemical matter, silt, sand, and cloudiness from water. But they are ideal for my work too, as the plumbing in this old inn will often result in a faucet spitting out something murky, or a bit sulfurous, or dark red, thick, and tasting of pennies.

Perhaps I should send one to father! He would find it useful on one of his long rides through the countryside. Or better yet, I will hold it here for him as a welcome gift when you two come to visit. Do let me know a date and I will prepare a room!

Sincerely,
Miranda Prillchisky
Proprietor
The Dread Inn at Death Rock