Bartholomew "Bart" Higgins, a man of thirty-three years, native to the rainy streets of London, found himself standing before the Blackwood Inn. It wasn't a place one happened upon accidentally.
Blackwood wasn't listed in any travel guides or advertised on trendy social media. Bart had learned of it through a whispered conversation in a darkened corner of a pub, a conversation he wasn't really supposed to hear.
The building itself looked as if it shouldn't be standing. The wood was ancient, a deep, corrupted black, and the windows resembled empty eye sockets staring out at a world they no longer understood. A single, flickering gas lamp above the heavy oak door offered the only welcome.
He pushed the door open, a low groan of aged wood echoing into the silence. The air inside was heavy, cold, a complete change from the mild autumn evening he'd left behind. A thick layer of dust coated everything, yet it didn't seem like the dust of neglect. It felt… intentional.
Behind a tall, imposing counter stood a man. He was older, perhaps in his late sixties, with skin the color of parchment and eyes that seemed to absorb rather than reflect light. He didn't smile, he didn't frown. He simply… was.
"You'll be Mr. Higgins," the man said, his voice a low, gravelly sound that didn't invite conversation. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Bart replied, his voice sounding small, even to his own ears. "I, uh, I heard about this place. I'm looking for somewhere… different."
The old man nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. He reached beneath the counter and produced a large, leather-bound book and a heavy, iron key attached to a tarnished wooden tag. "Room 7. Top of the stairs, to the left. Don't go wandering."
Bart took the key, its coldness surprising. "Don't go wandering?"
"The Blackwood has… guests. They're not always hospitable to strangers. Stay in your room. Don't cause trouble." The old man's tone wasn't threatening, it was simply a statement of fact.
He ascended the creaking staircase, each step groaning under his weight. The air grew colder with each level. The wallpaper, what remained of it, featured faded, indecipherable designs, shapes that seemed to twist and writhe when he didn't look directly at them.
Room 7 was at the end of a long, dark corridor. The key slid into the lock with a heavy click. The room itself was surprisingly… ordinary. A small, four-poster bed, a worn armchair, a dusty writing desk. A single window looked out onto the overgrown back garden, shrouded in darkness.
He felt an odd sense of… disappointment. He'd come seeking something strange, something unsettling, and yet this room was almost aggressively mundane.
Then, he heard it. A faint scratching sound. It seemed to be coming from inside the walls.
Bart pressed his ear against the wallpaper. The scratching became more distinct, more… deliberate. It sounded like fingernails, long and sharp, dragging across wood.
He backed away from the wall, his heart beginning to pound. He told himself it was just an old building, settling. Old buildings made noises. It was perfectly natural.
But the scratching continued. It grew louder, more insistent. And now, there was something else. A low, guttural whisper, just at the edge of hearing. He couldn't make out any words, but the tone… it was pure, unadulterated malice.
He spent the rest of the night huddled in the armchair, staring at the door, sleep a distant, impossible dream.
The next morning, he found the old man downstairs, sitting in the same spot behind the counter, seemingly unchanged. He looked as if he hadn't moved at all.
"How did you sleep?" the old man asked, his voice still that same, unnerving monotone.
Bart hesitated. "Not… great. I heard things. Scratching. Whispering."
The old man nodded, again, that slow, deliberate movement. "They're curious. They don't see many new faces."
"They?" Bart asked, a shiver running down his spine.
"The residents. The original owners, you might say. They built this place, a long, long time ago. They're… particular. About who stays here. About how they're treated."
"And… what if they don't like someone?" Bart asked, dreading the answer.
The old man's lips barely moved. "They have ways of making their displeasure known."
Bart spent the day exploring the town, or what passed for a town, near the Blackwood. It was a desolate place, a handful of dilapidated buildings, a general store that looked as if it hadn't seen a customer in decades, and a pub that smelled strongly of stale beer and despair. The few people he saw seemed to avoid his eyes, their faces worn and hollow.
He returned to the Blackwood just as the sun was setting, casting long, distorted shadows across the landscape. The air felt even colder, heavier than before.
He tried to avoid looking at the old man, but he felt those light-absorbing eyes on him as he climbed the stairs.
Back in Room 7, the scratching started almost immediately. It was louder now, more aggressive. The whispering was more distinct, too. He could almost make out words, fragmented phrases, filled with hate and something else… hunger.
He pressed his hands over his ears, but it did no good. The sounds seemed to be coming from inside his head.
He noticed something then, something he hadn't seen before. A small, almost imperceptible crack in the wall, near the floor. He knelt down, peering into it.
He saw… something. A glimpse of something dark, something… wrong. It moved, a slow, undulating movement, like a snake coiling. And then, he saw an eye.
It was large, yellow, with a slit pupil, like a cat's. But it wasn't a cat. It was something… else. Something ancient and malevolent.
It stared at him, and he felt a wave of pure, primal terror wash over him. He screamed, a high-pitched, desperate sound that was swallowed by the silence of the hotel.
He scrambled back, away from the wall, his mind reeling. He had to get out. He had to leave this place.
He threw open the door and ran, not caring where he was going, just needing to escape the suffocating horror of Room 7.
He ran down the corridor, past the faded wallpaper, past the closed doors, each one seeming to hide some unspeakable secret.
He reached the top of the staircase and saw, below him, the old man standing behind the counter, looking up at him. He hadn't moved. He was still just… there.
"I need to leave," Bart gasped, his voice shaking. "I need to get out of here."
The old man didn't speak. He simply tilted his head, a slight, almost imperceptible movement.
And then, Bart heard it. The sound of movement. From behind him. From every direction.
The scratching. The whispering. It was all around him now, filling the air, pressing in on him, suffocating him.
He turned and saw them. Shadows, emerging from the walls, from the floors, from the ceilings. Dark, amorphous shapes, with those yellow, slit-pupil eyes.
They were everywhere. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them.
They moved towards him, slowly, deliberately, their movements silent, their intent unmistakable.
He backed away, stumbling, falling down the stairs. He landed hard, pain shooting through his leg. He tried to get up, but he couldn't.
He looked up at the old man, a desperate plea in his eyes. "Help me!"
The old man remained silent, unmoving, watching.
The shadows reached him. They enveloped him, covering him, consuming him. He felt a thousand sharp points of pain, tearing at his flesh, ripping at his soul.
His screams echoed through the Blackwood, a symphony of agony and despair.
Then, silence.
The old man remained standing behind the counter, his expression unchanged. The shadows receded, returning to the walls, to the floors, to the ceilings, leaving no trace of Bartholomew Higgins behind.
The old man reached under the counter, producing a small, silver brush. He began, slowly, methodically, to brush the dust from the counter. It was, after all, important to keep things tidy. The residents appreciated it. And the old man appreciated the residents. They had an understanding, a long-standing agreement. He provided them with… guests. And they, in turn, kept him company.
He looked up at the ceiling, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "Another one, then," he murmured to the empty air. "They do get hungry, don't they?"
The Blackwood remained, silent and watchful, waiting for its next unsuspecting visitor, its next offering to the darkness within. The old man knew it, he had been taking care of it. The hotel took care of him.
The symbiotic relationship was perfect. The thing no one, especially Bart, realized was the owner was simply keeping them fed, keeping them strong. The owner protected them, and they protected him. They needed fresh blood. Bart had provided it.
He served his purpose. A necessary evil, in a necessary chain of events to keep the balance. The balance would continue, as long as the old man kept finding new "guests."
The old man went back to cleaning.