Deadman's Inn

The house is angry with me. This is the twenty-first day I must curl up on the couch in the sitting room because I can't find my bedroom. I should be grateful that Old Alfred doesn't hide the kitchen from me, but I suspect it has more to do with the fact that it has no door. It can't be hidden if the kitchen is always in my line of sight.

As I turn off the stove and pour the final draughts of tea into my mug, I pat the walls. My twisted arthritic fingers look to be blending in with the swirl of wood grain.

"It'll be all righ', old friend," I cough.

In response, Old Alfred knocks my photographs off the walls with a thump.

I put my forehead to the wall and explain, "Don't be like tha'. I must go. I've run out o' life, and Mr. Long Arms will want a night keeper who isn't so close to death like I am. I can hardly keep chopping the wood to keep meself warm. Have some mercy on this old soul. My arthritis chews my knees like a rabid wolf."

I wait, but the house is silent. If anything, it feels colder. In the sixty years I've worked here, Old Alfred has never once acted like this. Sure, he's forgotten to warm the bathwater in the wee hours of the morn or rattled the windows when he sneezed. Now he's slamming doors and letting in annoying drafts that make my stay quite unbearable.

The drafts alone sink right to my bones because of the holes in my ragged cable knit sweater. My good one is saved for my trips to town, so the best I can do with my everyday sweater is sew up the holes. None of that does any good, though. I have to brew eight pots of strong tea to survive the end of my workday.

The guests don't mind it. They are ghosts, after all. They don't have bodies that chill or ears to hear. And it's not the guests Old Alfred is after, so they seem to find their rooms just fine, not that they need a door.

Despite everything he's putting me through, I'm going to miss Old Alfred when I retire. I hate to do it, but my time's up. Mr. Long Arms added forty extra years to my life so I could work on this mountain. That's why Old Alfred is upset. He'd have me stay forever if he could, but I'm turning one-hundred-and-twenty and I'm just not spry enough to keep up with these hell-bound souls.

I sigh and tidy up the front desk for tomorrow.

I say front desk, but it's just a hole cut into one of the kitchen walls. Nonetheless, it suits me just fine. Guests coming in from the door can see me, and that's all I need.

Today, only one soul checks in, and I jot her name down in the record book. I place it beneath the counter, along with my pen, next to the mixing bowls.

Taking a swig from my mug, I pull two moth-eaten wool blankets from the top of the bookshelf. I know I'm not going to find my bedroom, so I make my bed on the couch like I've done for the last three weeks.

"When I go, I'll be a guest here. How's that, Alfred?" I wheeze a chuckle, but the fire in the grate seems warmer than before. I heave the chaise closer to the hearth and settle onto the padding.

Old Alfred and I still have much to talk about, but I'll leave that for tomorrow. My neck is still sore from having to deal with Mr. Walsh in the Purple Room. He was upset that he couldn't extend his stay, so he flashed around the room the whole day. Neither my eyes nor my neck can keep up with a ghost like that.

Still, the angry guests are easier to handle than the crying ones. I'm always afraid they'll try to haunt me, but Old Alfred spits them outside when I inform them it’s time to check out. He's a good house—best I've ever had.

Glancing at the clock, I huddle around the lip of my mug, hoping to transfer some of the heat to my hands. I'm getting quite comfortable when I hear a knock at the door.

Rattle. Rattle. Rattle.

Frowning, I hoist myself out of my makeshift bed and open the door. A gust rushes inside, bites my poor ankles, and threatens to make away with my nose. I turn away from the spray of snow that scratches my skin, but already I can feel Old Alfred pushing the storm out with our tiny fire. The heat expands the air in the house, and it gives off a high-pitched sigh as it forces the last of the cold from the sitting room.

My eyes water as I squint into the darkness.

At first, I don't see a soul in the skies, but as I look down, I find a living man standing on the porch. His torso is buffeted about by the wind—leaning helplessly like the trees behind him. He would surely have been blown away had he not been anchored to the ground by his two stout legs, but even those are barely hanging on.

His thin face has the appearance of starvation. I look at him questioningly. "Hello." I don’t have any humans in my reservation book for the rest of the month.

The poor man is shivering, and his ruddy face looks like sandpaper. He must have been out in the storm a while. His freckles have blended into his raw, ruddy cheeks. "Pardon me, but I am lost. Might I have shelter and a bit to eat, madam?" he says hoarsely.

Lost. I should have known.

The living don't find Old Alfred. Perhaps lousy luck had driven him here, as this man no doubt believes, but I'm sure that this is Mr. Long Arm's doing. The young man shivering before me is my successor.

Old Alfred knows this too, and the walls shiver. From the kitchen, I hear a crash as the glass finally breaks on my faithful photographs.

"O' course," I smile, pulling his attention from the kitchen to me. I swing the door back enough for him to walk through.

As he looks around, I put my shoulder into the heavy door to close it. Breathing heavily, I ask, "How in the world did you find yerself here? You mus' be a hiker."

The man desperately moves to the fireplace, rubbing its warmth into his hands. "No, I live on Hauta Mountain, same as you. I moved to a cottage near the timber church a year ago. I was out foraging and lost my path. I've been wandering for two days eating only snow."

My steps stop. "You were foraging in the winter?"

The man eyes my jars of preserved herring and seats himself on my makeshift bed. "Did I say foraging? No, no! I was looking for my missing sheep and lost the path."

He pulls his green knit hat off of his head and places it on the coffee table. It frees his mousy red hair that no doubt looked exactly like that when he woke this morn.

"So, you're a herder, then?"

"Of sorts, yes." His eyes dart to the ground and self-satisfied smile tugs the corners of his thin mouth.

"A sheepherder," I asserted more than asked.

Around us, Old Alfred huffs, pulling at the walls before settling them down. The wood groans.

At the sound of creaking, the man asks, "Is someone else here?"

"No, no, laddie," I smile, pulling a wooden chair and sitting across from him. "It's the house."

His relief appears to heighten his focus rather than relax him, and I want to laugh. His grin is a little too wide and it can't cover the triumphant glitter in his muddy green eyes. Not even his hands can hide what he's feeling. Their back-and-forth friction—reminiscent of starting fires—changes into something more anticipatory, like he's trying to crack his knuckles. He cups his hands as if he's going to ask me for a few coins, only to pick my pockets when I'm not looking.

"The name's Mairi," I say, sticking out my gnarled hand. "We... I run an inn here on my lonesome for those crossing Footless Bridge. I mostly get old souls coming this way, so I've never had a young one. We have plenty o' rooms for you to stay in while the storm blows over."

"I'm called Aato. Do you have guests staying here now?" Aato glances at the hallway leading away from the kitchen. His hands are sweating so much, they're leaving imprints on his trousers.

I debate how much to reveal. It's a wee bit early to introduce Aato to his new job. "There are three guests staying tonight, but one of them should be leaving tomorrow."

"And you said they're all older folks?"

"Yes, quite old."

Pretending to be unaffected, Aato sniffs. He stuffs his hand in his coat pocket and leans forward, asking, "Can I have a cup of tea, Mairi? I feel like an icicle."

"Sure yeh can!" I try not to laugh at Aato's efforts. Hiding a grin with my turned back, I go to the kitchen for another cup. I take my time, but still grab a mug and a tin of biscuits. I know he likely won't have them now, but he might get hungry after his blustering.

When I walk back out, Aato has a knife pointed at me. His shoulders are pulled back and he's standing up straight. There's a confidence to his stance now. It must have been tucked away in his nerves.

This is a man I could see running the inn.

He glares at me coldly. "I need all of your money and food."

Placing my tray on the counter, I chuckle, "What you gonna do with tha'?" Both my hands find its way to my hips.

"I said, give me all your money and food or I will kill you." Angry purple splotches appear like ink across his face.

"Come now," I say, leaning on the kitchen entrance. "Where yeh plannin' on going with the money and the food during a blizzard? There's no need for it. Sit yourself down, Aato, and we'll drink some tea. After all, I got my last tin of biscuits out fer yeh."

The knife in his hand lowers, but when I move closer, his fist smashes into my face and I'm out cold.

What feels like no time at all, I wake up to my hands tied to the wooden chair behind me. What an imbecile. The chair is broken and it'll easily come apart.

I'm exasperated because I’m dizzy and I can feel the heat swelling my left eye. This isn't how I imagined my last moments. If Aato had gotten to the tea, he would have noticed I put arsenic in my own cup. I could have been dead by now, becoming his first guest, and he would have had the lockbox. And the food!

Before I crossed the bridge, I wanted at least a month to relax with Old Alfred. I could have mentored Aato on how to file everything. There was simply no need for this harsh business.

Aato crouches in front of me as I groan. Blinking, I blearily glance at the ransacked room. The couch has been turned over and the biscuits and tea are all over the floor. From what I can see of the kitchen floor, it's a mess of broken dishes and piles of pickled herring. Already, the sharp scent of fermentation and mustard is perfuming the air.

Old Alfred is quiet, probably keeping an eye on the guests to ensure they weren't bothered. I can't blame him. Old Alfred hates the scent of vinegar.

Aato pulls my head up with a firm grip of my hair. Another flash of irritation runs through me as he yanks some of it out of my ponytail.

"Where is the money?" he growls. A sheen of sweat coats his forehead, and a puddle was already forming above his thin lips.

"It's in the drawer under the reception counter," I mumble, trying to fight around my headache. I barely see the coffee table even though I'm looking right at it.

His feet drum across the floor to the reception window carved into the kitchen wall and the noise feels like hammers to my forehead. He desperately searches through almost every drawer in the kitchen when all he needs to open are two at most. I feel sorry for Old Alfred. Aato won't be an intelligent or considerate partner.

I lean my head against the chair. If Aato doesn't lighten up, his experience here will be horrible. You need a sense of humor if you're working in death. My clients would possess him if they're kind and eat him if they're agitated.

I pull on the rope and sigh. My poor back strains against my skin, rumbling at the joints. I imagine there’s a fine powder of bone at the base of my spine from where they grind together.

Lockbox in hand, Aato returns and asks, "Now where's the food?"

"You smashed it. Those pickled herrings and biscuits were all I had left. You'll need to go shopping if you want more food."

We both look at the kitchen floor where the food has a crust of fine glass on it. No one would be eating that.

Over the next few days, Aato checks each room for any hidden valuables or morsels. The searching is fruitless, and his face gets darker as the snow piles higher and higher. We can't even see the sunlight now because the thick coat covers the windows. I can hardly tell what time of day it is since I don't have a clock.

For now, we live off of tea and biscuit crumbs.

The smell is unbearable now. The herring has started to rot, and every time I think of getting used to it, the pungency renews.

Meanwhile, I am still tied to the chair and sitting in the same spot. I'm afraid I won't be able to walk even if he decides to cut me loose.

The guests don't notice anything amiss, of course. They probably didn't even notice Aato barging into their rooms. They're caught up in their own concerns, replaying any number of nightmares.

Mr. Long Arms will notice, though. He's been calling since the second day, which was when Mr. Walsh in the Purple Room was supposed to check out. Since there's no answering machine, the phone keeps ringing until Aato finally unplugs it.

He goes back to the Yellow Room where he's taken up residence for the time being.

Aato's patience isn't long. On the fourth day, he yells at me for not having food stocked during the winter. He must have been starving before he came to the inn. There's a dark hollow below his cheekbone that doesn't take long to form. Now that he's not wearing his coats, I can see that his shirt hangs limp and vacuous like laundry on a line, concaving in the wind.

On the sixth day, Aato spends the day muttering to himself. I can't say for sure, but I don't think he notices the angry way Old Alfred is going about his business. Doors slam, cupboards rattle, and the rooms are shuffled. At times, Aato jolts up at the noise, but quickly falls back into his mutterings and nail-biting. Perhaps he thinks he's hallucinating from the hunger.

On the seventh day, he approaches me with a hypnotized glaze in his eyes. He's staring at my leg. Yesterday, it was my arm.

"Why?" Aato's voice is pleading, whining. "Why don't you have any food stocked? It's winter in the mountains, and storms come nearly every day."

"I don't eat much," I wheeze, lifting my shoulder. I'm thirsty. The cup of tea I get every day isn't enough. I hack a dry cough.

A butcher's knife that I keep for any game the neighbors drop by is in Aato's hand. He slowly advances on me, like I'm a wee hare that will bolt at the slightest sound. I can tell he's gone. His pupils are blown up so wide that I can't see his muddy green irises anymore.

This is a weak replacement for me. I'm insulted that Mr. Long Arms sent this lad to do my job.

His fingers reach my ankle, and he grips it tightly. "This is all your fault. If only you had enough food, I wouldn't need to do this."

My knee screams as he yanks it towards him. I hit my head on the edge of the chair as I lose my balance. Warmth trickles down the back of my head and I know it’s blood. My patience is wearing thin. If only I had my youth, I could subdue this untoward and foolish man.

From behind my lashes, I see a smile creep over his face. He chuckles as if he can't believe what he's doing.

That kind of humor will get him nowhere. The people who succeed as the innkeeper are people who find humor in reality. He needs it to anchor himself to the land of the living. Without his sanity, he'll be sucked into the guests' memories. The weeping and wailing alone will cut his lifespan in half.

The butcher knife flashes in the air, and in the arc of the clean blade I see my bruised face. I can almost see fear there, but it's gone just as fast as it came. I brace.

With a thock, the knife smashes into my shin just below the knee.

I scream, but it comes out in broken segments. I'm too dehydrated to sustain my voice.

Bright red blood dots his face, and I scream again when he pulls the knife out. It got halfway through the bone, and the pain brings tears to my eyes.

He brings it down again but misses the mark he's already made. He shatters my kneecap instead. My lower lip trembles and my weak limbs start shaking.

He hacks at my leg again and again—the sound becoming more liquid—until finally, he's severed the bottom half from my knee and the end is a ragged nub. Blood pools from the opening, and Aato makes no move to treat it.

At my wit's end, I break out of the wooden chair and use the twine that tied my wrists to tie my leg off above the wound. Cutting off the circulation will also help manage my discomfort. I make poor decisions when I'm in pain.

I watch Aato eat my leg, and I find myself disappointed at his table manners.

He has a chunk that he's chewing in his mouth, but he doesn't have the teeth for it. He masticates the bloody muscle for a few minutes before spitting it out and gagging. This is what I dislike about people who've lost their mind; they start to lose their rationale. Aato's already forgotten how to eat meat. I would bet Old Alfred's foundation that Aato's never eaten it raw before. You have to cook it, of course. The Idiot.

I roll my eyes, and the chimney puffs three times as Old Alfred laughs. Mr. Long Arms is due to check on me since I haven't responded to his calls.

On what we think is the fourteenth day, Aato goes through the kitchen floor to look at whatever he can salvage of the pickled herring. One by one, he picks the glass fragments from the mess he made. I don't have it in me to call it food any longer. It putrefied around day three.

He's mumbling again.

Personally, I hope he eats it and chokes on glass shards or, at the very least, has a very unpleasant trip to the restroom.

For about a week, I haven’t moved from the couch. I stare longingly at the tea tin where I hide my arsenic. Aato's gone through half of my supply of tea, opening this tin and that, but so far, he hasn't made tea with the poisoned tin by some miraculous luck.

I long to get up and plug the phone back in for a call to Mr. Long Arms, but I can't reach it with these stumps at the end of my legs. He’s eaten both past the knee.

I turn to look at Aato and where he is in the process of digging through glass. I'm startled when he suddenly yells, "These aren't fish at all!"

I crane my neck to look at his face. "Yes, they are."

"They look like beef. I'd bet my mother's knee caps they aren't herring!"

"Of course they're herring," I say.

"No, they're not. The meat is a little pink, almost red."

"Now, why would they be red?"

"Because they're not herring! Now that I look at it, the texture is all wrong. The meat is denser…"

"If they're not fish, what else could they be?" I cough.

"I-I think they're beef or perhaps pork." His voice trails up in question at the end.

And I can't help it. I start chuckling. "Where am I going to find cows and swine this far up the mountain? There's not many of us around, and the shops in the nearest towns only carry chicken."

"Elk then," he amends, forgetting his role as aggressor. He grumbles, "And where would you find fish anyway?"

I open my mouth to respond, but I'm cut off by a high-pitched screech. Aato is scrambling back toward the doorway. Even from the back of his neck, I can see that he's pale as the moon. His wild eyes connect with mine.

Shivers wrack his body as his horrified face looks at me anew. His lips are trembling, but he manages to ask, "Why is there a finger in one of the jars?"

I try to keep the innocent look on my face, but I can tell he sees the insincerity behind my expression. I'm not really afraid.

Lifting myself up by my elbows, I grin at him. "Maybe yeh should ask Mr. Walsh in the Purple Room."

Aato's eyes dart down the hall, then back to me. He swallows. "There's no one there. I've checked every room."

"You haven't guessed by now? How disappointing. When I was yer age, I could see all sorts of ghosts. I can't believe Mr. Long Arms sent a useless boy to do me job."

A wrinkle forms between Aato’s brows. "N-no one sent me,” he sputters. He’s trying to look brave, but he’s scrambling back to the knife. His eyes wildly rove to the hallway.

I wave his words away. "No need fer tha' business. I know why yer here. Yeh've come to harvest my soul fer the next order."

"What?"

I stare at his blank face. I tilt my head to the side. "Yeh don't know Mr. Long Arms?"

"No." Aato plasters himself to the wall as if he's afraid of little old me. It's funny because he's eaten my legs and now he's scared because I eat people too.

A deep belly laugh wracks my body, and for a little while, I forget about the pain. What a mistake I've made! I can't die yet!

I sit up and get a good look at him, but he's already scrambling back.

"Oh, don't be such a frightened cat. I'm human," I say.

"Then why don't you look like you're in pain?"

"Oh, I'm in pain enough, Laddie. I just know what to expect." To prove my point, a single drop of sweat rolls down my face and seeps into the dijon-yellow couch.

"Why is that?"

"Because I do it to others all the time." I nod to the kitchen floor.

"You kill everyone that comes here?"

"I prefer the term 'harvest,' but I only harvest about half. The other half arrive on their own."

"You mean they come here to commit suicide?"

"No, no, they come to me already dead."

We stop talking, and Aato tenses. Behind him, footsteps land forcefully down the hallway floor. I almost think that it's Old Alfred creaking and popping the wood, but I remember that harsh, jabbing walk. When he came in, he had an incredible obsession with keeping his feet connected to the floor as if it would anchor him to this world.

Mr. Walsh from the Purple Room appears in the hallway entrance. I throw a glance at Aato to see if he has the sight. He doesn't, and his face is thoroughly unnerved. A shiver snakes down his spine.

"I was wondering why you weren't kicking me out of the inn," comes the ghoulish, echoing sound of what is probably a disembodied voice to Aato.

I raise a hand in greeting and reply, "Yes, we've had some complications."

Mr. Walsh turns his eyeless sockets to Aato, then back to me. Across from him, Aato is doing the same thing. They look so alike that I pause and study the two of them for a moment.

I can feel the slow spread of a grin as an idea hits me.

I turn to Mr. Walsh and ask, "Do you still want to stay at the inn a little longer?"

At the edge of the hallway, Mr. Walsh's head smokes as he tries to figure out my motives. "Ye-es," he draws. In a completely opposite move from check-in day, he stays completely still as he observes me.

"Well, the order from across Footless Bridge doesn't specify which souls are handed over. It just matters that the count remains as requested." I look from Mr. Walsh to the unfortunate human sitting in front of me.

Understanding dawns on Mr. Walsh's transparent face as a panicked Aato tries to pull at the windows and doors. But Old Alfred is too reliable. None of them open. We both watch as Aato dashes across the front room into the kitchen and yanks at the back door. I almost feel sorry for the guy.

But I look at my legs and remind myself that he's not my replacement. He wouldn't be able to offer me what I'm offering Mr. Walsh if he kills me.

At the same moment, Aato comes back into the front room. He's breathing hard and has a renewed grip on the butcher knife. Perhaps he realizes that the only way to save himself is to kill me.

It's just that it's too late.

Mr. Walsh unwrinkles himself from where he's just finished shaking my hand.

When the storm finally abates, I call the police. I stare at Aato's body and sigh at the waste. I've eaten bits of his leg, of course; I am intensely starving after all. After watching Aato destroy all of my food storage, I want to can his flesh for later, but that wouldn't help me when I show the police. Eventually, I have to go to the hospital, and these wounds will invite questions. Better to give the officials a picture of what happened here.

I've given Old Alfred consent to eat my leg bones so that he doesn't go rabid with his own hunger. He tends to swallow the furniture when he isn't fed.

Old Alfred opens the door for me, and the breeze lifts my spirits. The snow is about halfway down the door, and sunlight sinks into the room. The aroma of pine and rich forest dirt takes up residence where there was an awful rotting smell.

With Mr. Walsh's help, I've cleaned the kitchen and double knotted the trash bag. Since our deal, we've come to an understanding. He acts as my legs, taking me where I want to go, so my missing ones don’t cause too much of an inconvenience.

In the sunlight, it looks like I'm floating, and it just tickles me pink. All that's left is to wait for the police and Mr. Long Arms to pack up the souls and send them to his contacts in hell.

Without the arthritis in my knees, I have a better outlook on life. I really do make odd decisions when I'm in pain.