Ghastly Comfort XXVI

Dearest mother,

In some ways, one would expect that my proprietorship of this inn that sits atop a cliff, overlooking a forever tumultuous sea and framed by ever gray skies, might better acquaint me than most with the sheer variety that exists within humankind. After all, in hospitality you work not with a select few clients but rather new people every day. And yet, in some ways the opposite is true; the sheer breadth of visitors that I experience each week overwhelms me, and I find the faces of the guests blurring together, their features smudged or hazy in my memory.

(It does not help that, recently, many arrive wearing the same thing: brown robes with hoods that cast a shadow, obscuring their eyes. It must be a new style. Or maybe there is an event in town.)

In some ways, I marvel more at humanity’s variance after the guests depart than when they are present. For example, some leave their rooms entirely clean. Others leave them disheveled. And others still leave items behind: anything from a sock to a phone charger to a little bag of tooth-shaped pearls.

Some have even left the entirety of their luggage right there in the room, and when we have contacted them to inquire about returning it, they have said not to bother. (At least that is the message in so many words. One former guest who comes to mind claimed that her clothing had been “tainted” during her stay. When I offered to launder it before sending, she claimed that they were “irreparably stained in ways that cannot be easily seen.” My guess is she meant grease, which can be a bother to get out.)

But the most frustrating recent reminder of how each human differs from another came while cleaning a room on the second floor last week. The guest had complained at check-out that, after taking a steamy shower, several unkind messages, written by someone’s finger, appeared on the bathroom mirror and the glass door of the shower. One said, “Get out.” And another said, “Leave this place.” And a third said, “I am the ghost of Orwell Sanders, and I lurk under the tiles, waiting to pinch your toes if ever you stand still.” A prank, obviously, though a well-researched one. There had been a guest by that name here once, according to Hugo, but of course, he often grows solemn and speaks in riddles, so I lost the throughline of the story he tried to tell. “Took a ride on a bar of soap and acquainted his noggin with the tub’s edge.” Seriously, what could that possibly mean?

Anyway, whoever this prankster was, I cannot say. What is clear, however–and here we return to the topic of humanity’s variance–is that the oils that secrete from their skin must be among the strongest of any person on Earth. How else do you explain the fact that, after five wipings, the messages continue to appear?

Luckily, I was able to find a good deal on a Horsepower Waterproof Power Scrubber. Capable of 350 rpms, it can clean calcium, mold, and grease. So I am hoping it does the trick on the mirror and shower door. We shall see!

At any rate, I must be wrapping up. I need to investigate a complaint I received an hour ago. Apparently, one of the hooded guests was spotted trying to sneak a goat into the conference room! Do not tell father about that, or else he will insist upon bringing one of his horses when you two finally visit.

Of course, if it got you here, I would make an exception and allow it. Do let me know when you can make time for a stay!

Sincerely,
Miranda Prillchisky
Proprietor
The Dread Inn at Death Rock