Miranda lay awake in bed staring up at the ceiling. The night outside was still and the branches casting shadows on the walls of her cornflower blue room were completely unmoving as if they had been painted directly onto the old wallpaper. The old bed and breakfast was the last overnight stop she'd have to make on her cross-country trek to visit her best friend, but it wasn't excitement keeping her awake that night.
With a clipped sigh, Miranda cast off the quilt and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The old floorboards groaned dispassionately as yet another pair of tired feet bowed their worn and aging bodies. The young woman crossed the room, noting the unique shapes of the period furniture that filled its walls and corners before coming to a halt before the window. Outside, the moon hung low and full in the sky, its cold light spilling over the decaying field and bare branches that defined the late autumn landscape. Not quite a quarter of a mile from the back porch of the old homestead, a dense forest cast a dark shadow over the clearing, its boughs allowing little light through, even after all the leaves had fallen.
I hate still nights in old houses, she thought to herself, staring out at the woods, her eyes glazing over at rambling thought took precedence. You hear everything. The person in the next room over snoring, the walls settling, animals outside. I'd rather sleep through a hailstorm.
The shadows flickered as something wove through the tree trunks.
Probably a deer.
Even if it was just a deer, her curiosity had been piqued. From the moment she'd turned out her light, Miranda had been acutely aware of her restlessness. Now, she finally had something to focus on besides the dimly-lit whorls in the ceiling plaster. She lost track of the silhouette as it paused somewhere just inside the treeline, finding it again a minute later when it resumed its path across the hazy black backdrop. Moving at a determined pace, it reached the edge of the forest in no time and stepped out into the moonlit backyard.
It's a person! I guess the fire ran out of logs. It just seems odd for the innkeeper to go out in the middle of the night for more wood, but I guess you do what you have to when you run a 150-year-old bed and breakfast with no modern heating.
Miranda watched, fixated, as the figure proceeded toward the house. From the second story and with only the moon's milky light to aid her eyes, it was difficult to tell much more about the silhouette than the fact that it was carrying something. Firewood, she presumed.
As the innkeeper's shape disappeared beneath the eave of the house, Miranda stepped back from the window and began shuffling across the creaky floorboards toward her bed. Halfway there, she heard a thump. Miranda paused. Thump. It sounded as if someone was tugging against-- Thump -- a bolted door. Moving as quietly as the ancient planks beneath her feet would allow, she pulled the quilt off of the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders before opening the bedroom door and stepping out into the hall. Thump.
"The innkeeper must've locked himself out," she murmured to herself as she crept down the stairs.
From the chilly foyer, she could see that the fire was indeed out in the main hearth. The brisk night air had wasted no time seeping in through the countless cracks left in the doorframes and windowpanes by the passage of time. She pulled the quilt closer around her shoulders and walked down the hall toward the kitchen.
By the time she reached the small room at the back of the house, the thumping had stopped. Even through the dusty window and its drawn shade, there was clearly no one standing outside on the step. Miranda shrugged and wandered over to the sink for a glass of water. As her fingers touched the faucet, another thump echoed from the front of the house. She frowned and set the empty glass down on the counter beside the sink.
"There must've been a key somewhere outside," she thought to herself as she moved carefully through the dark interior rooms. "That sounded like the front door closing."
Sure enough, at the front of the house, the door hung partly ajar. Its crooked frame required an extra push from anyone trying to shut the door completely. Miranda gave it a shove and latched the deadbolt.
I guess his hands were full, she thought, but the innkeeper, of all people, should have known the door needed more of a push. It wouldn't have been that hard to just lean back.
Back in the direction of the kitchen, a floorboard creaked. Miranda glanced toward the fireplace down the hall, its embers still visible, smoldering in the hearth. A chill, completely unrelated to the drafty house, ran down her spine. Another floorboard creaked, this time closer than before. The innkeeper had turned around.
"M-Mister Jackson," she called out quietly, so as not to wake the other guests sleeping soundly upstairs. "I just came down to see if you needed any help."
There was no answer from the belly of the old house.
"Well, I'll just be going back to bed then," she said, stepping quickly and calmly toward the stairs. "Goodnight."
With as much agility and speed as she could manage without making a racket, Miranda bounded back up the stairs and down the upstairs hallway to her room. The door had swung mostly shut in her absence. It opened with a small creak and closed with a thud as she turned around and leaned against it, suddenly winded.
Why am I panicking? She asked rhetorically, trying to soothe her racing heart. It's just the innkeeper. He got more firewood, he came inside, and that's that. No big deal. Right? Right.
Outside her door, she could hear the stairs creak. Miranda's heartbeat redoubled and she stifled a cough.
Okay, let's try this approach: What if it is an intruder? Why would they hunt me down? They didn't steal anything -- not that I saw -- and a murder would be a lot messier than some missing china.
The house creaked again, this time closer.
This is starting to feel a lot more like a horror movie. Weird shadow person, sketchy break-in, invisible ax murderer you don't get to see the face of until you're about to die--
Candlelight flickered into her room from underneath her door. Miranda held her breath as it continued along the floor and out of sight. After a pause, she let out a trembling sigh. The floor creaked only a few feet away from where she stood. She bit her tongue, hard enough that she tasted blood. The candlelight returned.
The world felt like it closed around her as something came to a halt outside the door, inches from her back. Her eyes wide with horror, Miranda watched as the doorknob slowly began to turn. She closed her eyes as the latch slid free of the frame and the door fell away from her back.
I already know what happens next.
With a clipped sigh, Miranda cast off the quilt and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The old floorboards groaned dispassionately as yet another pair of tired feet bowed their worn and aging bodies. The young woman crossed the room, noting the unique shapes of the period furniture that filled its walls and corners before coming to a halt before the window. Outside, the moon hung low and full in the sky, its cold light spilling over the decaying field and bare branches that defined the late autumn landscape. Not quite a quarter of a mile from the back porch of the old homestead, a dense forest cast a dark shadow over the clearing, its boughs allowing little light through, even after all the leaves had fallen.
I hate still nights in old houses, she thought to herself, staring out at the woods, her eyes glazing over at rambling thought took precedence. You hear everything. The person in the next room over snoring, the walls settling, animals outside. I'd rather sleep through a hailstorm.
The shadows flickered as something wove through the tree trunks.
Probably a deer.
Even if it was just a deer, her curiosity had been piqued. From the moment she'd turned out her light, Miranda had been acutely aware of her restlessness. Now, she finally had something to focus on besides the dimly-lit whorls in the ceiling plaster. She lost track of the silhouette as it paused somewhere just inside the treeline, finding it again a minute later when it resumed its path across the hazy black backdrop. Moving at a determined pace, it reached the edge of the forest in no time and stepped out into the moonlit backyard.
It's a person! I guess the fire ran out of logs. It just seems odd for the innkeeper to go out in the middle of the night for more wood, but I guess you do what you have to when you run a 150-year-old bed and breakfast with no modern heating.
Miranda watched, fixated, as the figure proceeded toward the house. From the second story and with only the moon's milky light to aid her eyes, it was difficult to tell much more about the silhouette than the fact that it was carrying something. Firewood, she presumed.
As the innkeeper's shape disappeared beneath the eave of the house, Miranda stepped back from the window and began shuffling across the creaky floorboards toward her bed. Halfway there, she heard a thump. Miranda paused. Thump. It sounded as if someone was tugging against-- Thump -- a bolted door. Moving as quietly as the ancient planks beneath her feet would allow, she pulled the quilt off of the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders before opening the bedroom door and stepping out into the hall. Thump.
"The innkeeper must've locked himself out," she murmured to herself as she crept down the stairs.
From the chilly foyer, she could see that the fire was indeed out in the main hearth. The brisk night air had wasted no time seeping in through the countless cracks left in the doorframes and windowpanes by the passage of time. She pulled the quilt closer around her shoulders and walked down the hall toward the kitchen.
By the time she reached the small room at the back of the house, the thumping had stopped. Even through the dusty window and its drawn shade, there was clearly no one standing outside on the step. Miranda shrugged and wandered over to the sink for a glass of water. As her fingers touched the faucet, another thump echoed from the front of the house. She frowned and set the empty glass down on the counter beside the sink.
"There must've been a key somewhere outside," she thought to herself as she moved carefully through the dark interior rooms. "That sounded like the front door closing."
Sure enough, at the front of the house, the door hung partly ajar. Its crooked frame required an extra push from anyone trying to shut the door completely. Miranda gave it a shove and latched the deadbolt.
I guess his hands were full, she thought, but the innkeeper, of all people, should have known the door needed more of a push. It wouldn't have been that hard to just lean back.
Back in the direction of the kitchen, a floorboard creaked. Miranda glanced toward the fireplace down the hall, its embers still visible, smoldering in the hearth. A chill, completely unrelated to the drafty house, ran down her spine. Another floorboard creaked, this time closer than before. The innkeeper had turned around.
"M-Mister Jackson," she called out quietly, so as not to wake the other guests sleeping soundly upstairs. "I just came down to see if you needed any help."
There was no answer from the belly of the old house.
"Well, I'll just be going back to bed then," she said, stepping quickly and calmly toward the stairs. "Goodnight."
With as much agility and speed as she could manage without making a racket, Miranda bounded back up the stairs and down the upstairs hallway to her room. The door had swung mostly shut in her absence. It opened with a small creak and closed with a thud as she turned around and leaned against it, suddenly winded.
Why am I panicking? She asked rhetorically, trying to soothe her racing heart. It's just the innkeeper. He got more firewood, he came inside, and that's that. No big deal. Right? Right.
Outside her door, she could hear the stairs creak. Miranda's heartbeat redoubled and she stifled a cough.
Okay, let's try this approach: What if it is an intruder? Why would they hunt me down? They didn't steal anything -- not that I saw -- and a murder would be a lot messier than some missing china.
The house creaked again, this time closer.
This is starting to feel a lot more like a horror movie. Weird shadow person, sketchy break-in, invisible ax murderer you don't get to see the face of until you're about to die--
Candlelight flickered into her room from underneath her door. Miranda held her breath as it continued along the floor and out of sight. After a pause, she let out a trembling sigh. The floor creaked only a few feet away from where she stood. She bit her tongue, hard enough that she tasted blood. The candlelight returned.
The world felt like it closed around her as something came to a halt outside the door, inches from her back. Her eyes wide with horror, Miranda watched as the doorknob slowly began to turn. She closed her eyes as the latch slid free of the frame and the door fell away from her back.
I already know what happens next.