The Last Night at Hollow Inn

The storm began just as Clara reached the Hollow Inn. The sky cracked with lightning, casting brief, blinding flashes across the desolate countryside. Her car had broken down a few miles back, and this was the only building she’d seen in hours.

The inn stood crooked and forgotten, its sign half-hanging, creaking with the wind. The windows were dark, but a flicker of orange light glowed from inside — maybe a fireplace or candle. Clara’s soaked boots squelched against the wooden steps as she knocked.

The door creaked open without a hand.

She hesitated. “Hello?”

A voice floated from inside. “Come in, dear. I’ve been expecting you.”

Clara’s heart skipped. Expecting me?

An elderly woman appeared at the reception desk. Her eyes were pale gray, almost white, and her skin looked like paper soaked in tea. “Storm’s nasty,” she said with a brittle smile. “You’ll want Room 6. Best view of the lake.”

“I don’t have money—my car broke down, and I—”

“Don’t worry,” the woman said softly. “We only charge stories here.”

Clara blinked. “Stories?”

“Everyone who stays must share a story before dawn. That’s the only price.”

Clara, a travel blogger by passion, chuckled nervously. “Alright, fair trade.”

The woman handed her a brass key on a worn leather strap. “No matter what you hear… don’t open the window.”

Room 6 smelled of damp wood and old memories. The wallpaper peeled like sunburnt skin. But the lake view was breathtaking — especially in the storm. Raindrops raced each other across the windowpane, and thunder rolled like ancient drums.

Clara set up her phone to record, planning to make a vlog about this creepy old inn. She looked at the key again — heavy, antique, with an engraving: Don’t Let It In.

Just a gimmick, she thought.

Around midnight, Clara awoke to a sound. A whisper.

Not inside.

Outside.

She sat up. The window was foggy, but through the condensation, she saw a figure. Barefoot. Pale. Standing in the rain, staring directly into her window. Unmoving.

Another whisper. This time, inside her room.

She spun around.

No one.

She crept to the window, hand trembling. The figure outside raised a hand and pressed it to the glass. Her hand hovered above the lock.

Then she remembered: Don’t open the window.

She stepped back.

The whispering grew louder. Thousands of voices overlapping — some begging, some laughing, some weeping.

She covered her ears.

Suddenly, silence.

She turned toward the window again.

Empty.

Then — tap. tap. tap.

The sound came from the closet.

Clara’s body tensed. With slow steps, she walked toward it and opened the door.

Nothing inside. Just dust.

Then she saw it — scrawled inside the closet wall in charcoal:

“The window is not the only way in.”

By 3 a.m., she couldn’t sleep. She paced the room, checked every corner, even locked the bathroom. She tried the front door — bolted. She called the front desk. No answer.

Suddenly, a voice behind her.

“Your story, Clara.”

She turned. The old woman stood by the fireplace.

“How do you know my name?”

“You told me... in your story,” she said calmly. “Everyone tells me something. Regret. Fear. A memory they try to bury.”

Clara stepped back. “I—I don’t understand—”

“You do,” the woman whispered. “You know why you’re here. You never told that story.”

The lights flickered.

Clara dropped to her knees, her voice shaky. “When I was ten... I locked my little sister in a closet during hide and seek. I forgot. I fell asleep. When I woke up… she was gone. They never found her. I never told anyone.”

The wind howled, and the fireplace burst into green flames.

“Now,” the woman said, eyes glowing, “you’ve paid.”

The floor beneath Clara split open like an old wound. Black, writhing hands reached up, pulling her down into the dark.

The next morning, the storm had passed.

A young couple pulled up to the inn, seeking shelter after a flat tire. The old woman greeted them warmly.

“Stormy night,” she smiled. “You’ll want Room 6. Best view of the lake.”

The girl nodded. “Looks perfect.”

As they turned to leave the desk, the boy glanced at the wall behind the counter.

A faded photo hung there. A young woman — soaked, smiling — stood in front of Room 6.

The caption read:
“Clara M. – Checked in: July 17th, 2024. Never checked out.”