Ghastly Comfort XXIV

Dearest Mother,

I must say that the past two days have made me rethink certain things I always enjoyed in my childhood. For example, I have the fondest memories of sitting in my chair at the kitchen table, eating breakfast cereal and studying the back of whatever cereal box it came from, while you prepared lunch for the stable hands and washed and polished apples for the horses. A veritable playground for the mind, I relished each activity presented, but my favorites were always the mazes. Unlike the various word-based puzzles that challenged my burgeoning intellect, they presented a low-stress delight.

Or so I thought.

What I never considered was how terrifying it would be to find myself not looking down upon the intricate arrangement of passages as a whole but, rather, within one. And now that I have had this experience, I can say my love of mazes has greatly diminished.

You see, this inn, bequeathed to me by unsigned letter and sitting atop a cliff overlooking an ever tumultuous sea and framed by ever gray skies, is old. Moreover, certain parts of it are older than others. As such, it not only fails conform to modern standards of architectural efficiency, but it is the work of multiple, non-collaborating architects, with each expansive addition presenting a unique vision whose relation to the original structure is vague at best. (Many of these architects also proved to be mad, I should add, at least according to my analysis of the inn’s history. And while said madness afflicted them after their work on the inn in most cases, who is to say whether or not it lurked somewhere within them as they put together their designs?)

Regardless, this is not generally an issue, with all the signage and well-lit corridors. Some might even consider it a part of the building’s charm. But this past week, we experienced a windstorm, which knocked out our power for about seventy-two hours. And during this time, the familiar hallways became dark and strangely impossible to navigate. Guests kept getting lost.

One reported taking a wrong turn and ending up in a sort of trophy room, except, rather than animals, mangled bicycle handles were mounted, each one with a plaque that gave the date of a cycling accident that had occurred along one of the winding cliffside passes nearby. Apparently, the only way the guest could read these was by the light of a fire in the room’s hearth that seemed to give off no heat. Another found herself in what she called a wine cellar. As her eyes adjusted, she saw barrels lining the walls, including one with a spout. Next to it, on the floor, stood a glass. She sampled its offering, only to spit it out, its contents thick and dark and tasting of pennies. As for myself, I went to deliver towels at one point, only to open a door that led to a sheer drop from one of the building’s turrets, despite the fact that I did not remember ascending any stairs.

Why such a door would be there, I have no idea, nor have I been able to find my way back to seal it up now that power has returned. In fact, I cannot locate any of these rooms in which guests found themselves marooned. I imagine it was all a trick of shadows and imagination, even the plaques.

At any rate, it was a disastrous period. I could not, of course, charge guests the full rate. I could, however, offer to charge their various devices (as well as keep my own powered up and ready), thanks to my two Letscom Mobile Power Banks. With their 30,000mAh of charging capacity, built-in cables and ports, and solar panel for daytime recharging during an outage, they certainly came in handy!

But wind as strong as that is not common here, mother! And I shall say, you do not need to worry about such an ordeal when you and father visit!

Remind me when that will be, if you would not mind?

Sincerely,
Miranda Prillchisky
Proprietor
The Dread Inn at Death Rock