“This historic inn,” Jenny reads on speaker, “was first built in 1857 by Pat Kelley and sold to John Stokes in 1866.” We step into the clearing. The Inskip Inn’s shadowy bulk looms ahead, a relic squatting in the open. “Destroyed by fire and rebuilt in 1868,” she goes on, “it’s the only remaining hotel of five that served the Inskip mining community.”
It’s only two stories, but the corrugated triangular roof shoots up another two, making it look top-heavy, almost brushing the treetops. My flashlight catches warped siding where the white “Inskip Inn” letters are half-eaten by peeling red paint and rot, like the building is sloughing off its own name.
“Nope.” I’ve heard enough. “Huh-uh.”
Ash walks straight past me toward the porch. “Come on. It’s freezing.”
“I didn’t even get to the ghost yet,” Jenny protests.
“Can you not?” I say. “Am I the only one who thinks sleeping in a building that’s already burned once is a bad omen right now?”
“Not a wildfire,” Jenny says, delighted. “Legend has it an arsonist barred the doors one night and torched the place with a full house inside. Charlie, the ghost of John Stokes, is said to roam the inn, locking doors and stomping around in 1800s attire, looking for the culprit. The fire was so hot it destroyed everything except an old trunk of books and accounts. And John was deep in debt, so some people think the arsonist was a debt collector.”
“Seriously, there has to be another option,” I plead, eyes adjusting to all this tasteful moonlit horror. “Ash?”
He’s gone.
“Jenny, Ash is gone.”
“You think it’s Charlie?” she guffaws.
“This isn’t funny. Ash?” I whisper, sweeping my flashlight over boarded-up windows.
The silence thickens. My light jitters over the siding in my shaky grip. The whole bottom floor is boarded over with scrap wood. The rusting metal roof slopes up over a second story of broken windows and flayed crimson paint.
“I’m not joking,” I say, not quite loud enough for anyone but the ghost to hear.
My feet won’t move. I’m too far back for the light to really bite into the shadows. To find him, I’ll have to get closer to this hell house.
Crack.
Something crashes behind the inn. Adrenaline rips my feet free and I yelp, spinning toward the tree line. “Ash!”
“What was that?” Jenny asks, suddenly hushed.
“This place is cursed,” I breathe. “Something crashed inside.”
“Is Ash okay?”
“I think he’s fucking with me.” The forest pushes against my back, daring me to either run back into its black shadows or walk up to the cursed inn. Rocky Balboa is in my hand on instinct.“This is fine,” I mutter to him, taking a wide arc around the side. “Ash? Seriously, are you in there? This isn’t funny.”
“What do you see?” Jenny whispers.
“One of the boards on the back door’s been pried off.” The darkness inside eats my flashlight’s beam. “Ash! Are you in there?”
“Charlie,” Jenny moans, dropping into a low, ghost-voice wail. “Ooooh?—”
“You suck,” I tell her, my hand shaking as I stare into the gap.
I take one step closer. A shadow explodes out of the doorway and barrels toward me. I drop my phone and bolt for the trees.
Ash’s laughter pops the panic.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” My voice shakes between breaths.
He’s doubled over, holding both phones, Jenny’s laugh echoing from his. “Oh, you should see him,” he says.
“Are you twelve?”
