The Last Room at Black Hollow Inn
When the road breaks down… some places offer more than just shelter
Michael – a 32-year-old adventurous yet skeptical husband
Emily – his 29-year-old intuitive and sensitive wife
---
Michael and Emily were on their way to a weekend getaway—a cabin up in the northern mountains, far from work, emails, and city noise. The day had gone beautifully; clear skies, coffee breaks, and long chats. But as night crept in and the road twisted through dense woods, the GPS lost signal, and an eerie fog began to roll in.
“I told you we should’ve left earlier,” Emily murmured, hugging her shawl tighter.
Michael chuckled nervously. “Relax. Just another hour or so, and we’ll be sipping hot cocoa by a fireplace.”
That’s when the car made a loud clunk, sputtered, and rolled to a slow stop on the side of the road.
“No, no, no…” Michael muttered, turning the key repeatedly. Nothing. The engine was dead.
They were surrounded by thick forest. No signals. No lights. Only the rustle of unseen things in the darkness.
“We can’t stay here,” Emily whispered.
Michael grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment and scanned the woods. That’s when he saw it—a crooked wooden sign almost hidden by vines:
“Black Hollow Inn – 0.3 miles →”
“Well,” he sighed, “Looks like we’re hiking.”
---
The path to the inn was barely visible, overgrown and twisted. The trees seemed to close in as they walked, and the air grew colder with every step. Emily kept glancing behind them, swearing she heard soft footsteps that didn’t match theirs.
Finally, they saw it.
Black Hollow Inn stood like a memory left to rot—three stories of rotting wood, broken shutters, and dim yellow windows. But oddly, there was a soft glow from inside… as if someone was expecting them.
Michael knocked hesitantly. The door creaked open before he touched it.
A woman stood there. Tall. Pale. Unblinking. Her voice was dry as dust.
“Room?”
“Uh, yes, our car broke down. Just for the night,” Michael replied.
She handed them a key. “Room 9. Third floor. Do not leave the room after midnight.”
Emily frowned. “Why?”
The woman didn’t blink. “Rules are rules.”
---
The hallway inside smelled of old rain and rotting wood. The lights flickered, and the wallpaper peeled like skin. As they passed Room 4, a faint cry echoed behind it. Emily clutched Michael’s arm.
“This place… something’s wrong.”
Michael nodded slowly, finally sensing what she felt all along.
Room 9 was cold. Too cold. The window wouldn’t shut, and the heater didn’t work. Still, they locked the door and sat on the creaky bed.
At 11:54 PM, they heard it.
A slow dragging sound… down the hallway.
Shhhh... thump. Shhhh... thump.
Emily whispered, “Someone’s outside.”
The sound stopped… right at their door.
Michael looked through the peephole—and recoiled. “What the hell…”
There was a figure standing there. A man, or what used to be one. Hollow eyes, skin grey and cracked, his mouth stitched shut with rusty wire.
He held a sign: “It’s past midnight.”
The lights went out.
---
They held their breath.
The doorknob jiggled.
Then silence.
Then… scratching.
The door trembled as the thing outside clawed at it, slowly, like it had all the time in the world.
Emily screamed as the mirror on the wall cracked by itself, and the room filled with the smell of burnt hair.
Suddenly, the key on the nightstand glowed red.
Michael grabbed it—his hands burned—but the door flew open before he could do anything.
And then—nothing.
No hallway.
No creature.
Just… a forest. Where the hallway should’ve been.
Emily gasped. “This isn’t real…”
Michael hesitated, then stepped through the doorway—and vanished.
“Michael!” Emily shouted and followed—
---
They landed outside the inn. It was daylight. Birds chirped. Their car stood nearby, perfectly fine. Not a scratch. As if nothing had happened.
Confused and shaking, they drove away as fast as they could.
---
Back in the city, they tried searching for Black Hollow Inn online. There was no record of it. No photos. No GPS location. Locals they asked simply said, “That place burned down in 1972… everyone inside vanished.”
Emily never forgot the stitched face.
Michael never spoke of the glowing key.
But both agreed on one thing: they had not been dreaming.
Every year, on the same day, Michael finds a white envelope in their mailbox.
Inside, only a piece of paper that reads:
“You broke the rule. We’re still watching.”
---
Moral:
Not all shelters are safe. And not every door leads back home.
---
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