There it is, he thought. The Haunted Inn.The sign swayed slightly with the wind, it hanging a few feet from the inn itself. The inn was three stories tall and in good shape. It had been around since the 1800s, and it looked a tad out of place in the midst of the decidedly more modern village that harbored it. It wasn't a very large village, and at 7:45 p.m. on a cool late September night, there weren't many people on the street, giving the place an aura of abandonment.Morris took a picture of the sign, then the building it belonged to. He had finally arrived. One plane and one train had brought him here, over ten hours of travel all told. But he was finally doing what he always wanted to do but never had the heart, the money, or the time to do. (Or, maybe, the guts.) He was going to stay in a haunted inn. The fact that this place was literally called The Haunted Inn made it an easy choice after he googled "haunted inns" only a few nights ago.Morris entered the lobby, which was quaint, with a slightly rustic tinge. On his right, a polished coffee table and four empty chairs were being heated by a crackling fireplace. To his left, a wall adorned with art and old photographs; he would look more closely at them later. He approached a large desk that sat just before a flight of stairs. There was music playing from somewhere, a gentle piano piece he recognized but couldn't place. Yes, he thought, this is just how I imagined it would be.When he arrived at the desk he looked to see if there was a bell for summoning a manager or bellhop. He couldn't find one. There was a computer on the desk; a desktop that looked to be from the 1990s. Morris leaned over to peer at the monitor, but a sound startled him and he went rigidly back into place. The sound came from the hallway on the right, past the fireplace. Footsteps approached; the hallway was dark and Morris couldn't see who was coming. After a few seconds, a man came into view. He was tall, slender, middle-aged, with wide eyes and a tiny mustache above thin lips. He wore a suit that looked to be a size too big for his frame."Ahh!" he said as he strutted purposefully, taking his place behind the desk. "A new arrival. How are you this evening, sir?" The man had a hint of an English accent."Fine, very well, thanks," Morris said. The man gestured to the seat next to Morris, and they both sat in their respective chairs at the same time."I'm Kent, the night manager. Do you have a reservation with us?""No, I don't," Morris said, feeling slightly embarrassed. "Actually, I found that I wanted to chance it, you know? I just made the arrangements to travel here and, well, wanted to see what you have available."Kent smiled agreeably. "Nothing to worry about, mister...?""Morris. Lawrence Morris.""Mr. Morris, we have plenty of rooms available. You know, not as many people want to stay here as you might think. Oh, we get the curiosity seekers and the folks who can't find accommodations elsewhere, and sometimes we find we have a fortuitous glut of out-of-towners during the summer season, but it's unfortunate to admit that in this modern age people just don't seem to be interested in hotels such as ours anymore."“We're too cynical nowadays,” Morris said. “No imagination."Kent clapped his hands together and looked at Morris with gratitude. "No imagination. Precisely. Dead on. The younger folk want their five star palaces, big TVs, lavatories with heated floors and the like. I fear there might come a day when all the cozy inns of the world will be as extinct as the passenger pigeon."Morris nodded earnestly. "A shame.""But," Kent said, sitting up, "you're here now, let's get you a room."Morris began to feel some nervous excitement in his belly. "Well, tell me. Tell me about, you know... the ghost?"Kent, without missing a beat, said: "Which?""Oh," Morris said. "There's more than one?""Oh certainly, certainly. This isn't your standard haunted inn.” Kent made exaggerated air quotes as he said it. "This is the Haunted Inn, my good man, and we have some of the most exceptional ghosts this side of the Atlantic."Morris frowned. "But how... I mean, how is it that you have multiple ghosts? I can see one haunting at an inn, maybe, but—""Ah, well, how does any place find itself haunted? A person dies under unfortunate circumstances and thanks—or no thanks, I should say!—to whatever divine entity makes the rules in this world, they find themselves trapped in the very place they took their last. It just so happens that this inn has been the site of, well, many unfortunate circumstances."Morris said nothing. He stared at Kent and Kent stared right back at him. A thought occurred to Kent, prompting him to hold up his hands defensively. "Oh, don't you worry, sir! It's not like we have an unfortunate circumstance every other day, or even every other year. No, it's pretty rare, but still, in just under two hundred years, this place has seen a little over a dozen people shuffle off within its quiet confines. That's not such a bad average, is it?"Morris had to agree that no, it wasn't."Naturally, it wasn't always called The Haunted Inn, that would be rather extraordinary, wouldn't it? A self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts? No, it's had plenty of names prior, but the last owner—that is, the most recent owner, Mr. Sheppard—decided to take advantage of its propensity for creating ghosts and, well, it's now The Haunted Inn. Bit on the nose, yes, but it fits!" Kent shrugged in a what can you do? gesture. "It fits.""I see. That's very interesting. Um, well, what rooms are available?"Kent turned to the computer, tapped a key repeatedly, and studied the monitor carefully. "Let us take a look. You're in luck, my good man, as there are several rooms available this very night. Let's look, let's look, let's lo—ah-ha. Room 2 is free, yes. Bartlett's room.""Bartlett's room?""Yes, Bartlett Kingery, nice old fellow. Came here in the 50s, I believe. Choked on a pork chop. Ah, the poor fellow. Can't seem to get it up, even to this day. Just a dreadful sound, all that choking and hacking. Can't think of a worse way to check out, can you?"Morris shook his head, mortified. "No. Dreadful indeed.""Some folks around here call him ‘Lamb Chop’, not ‘Pork Chop’, I don’t know why. Yes, we like to think one day he'll get it out, but..." Kent trailed off and went back to the monitor. "Ah-ha, Room 4, open now. Sparkling room, beautiful. Really one of our best. Although, because of Slimer, it gets, well, rather sticky. It comes complete with shower and bath, a bidet-""Slimer?" Morris asked, very perplexed. "Like, from the movie?""Eh?" said Kent, actually confused for a second. "Oh! No, no. The man in there, he's just rather slimy; we're not sure what causes that and neither is he. Shame. We don't know his given name, and there really is no other name for him—he's very slimy—so that label stuck. No imagination, weren't we just saying that?" Kent chuckled. "Other than that, he's a gentle soul. He'll talk to you about a myriad of things. The market—well, the market such as it was in the 20s. Ummm, food, baseball, slime. You name it. He's on the chatty side."Morris didn't react, but it was clear that Kent got the hint: Room 4 was not for him. Kent clicked a few keys again."Naturally, there's Ol' Swine Head, as he's affectionately known. Room 5. A hog-headed beast man who oinks and grumbles under the bed, though sometimes he's in the trunk at the end of the bed."Morris' jaw dropped a little. "How did a 'hog-headed beast man' come to haunt the inn?""Well, this inn has been in existence since 1829, so it has seen plenty of travelers come and go." He paused and smirked. "Well, some of them don't go, as we were saying.""Right, but there are no hog-headed beast men—""Then in Room 6 we have the Cudgel," Kent said, ignoring Morris' compelling point. "Bit of a sad room, if I’m being frank. The Cudgel is lonely because no one wants to stay with him. The obvious reasons: he has the tendency to bonk people on the head with a club as they slumber, mischievous sort that he is. Means well, though. That's Room 6 if you want?" Kent looked at Morris with interest.Morris shook his head very deliberately, leaving Kent no doubt that he most certainly did not want to stay with the Cudgel. The man sighed and continued looking."Let's see, Room 7... Room 7 isn't haunted. It's very, very clean though. If you decide to stay there you won't sneeze a bit."Morris considered this. He'd rather, of course, stay in one of the haunted rooms, but it was good to know about Room 7 just in case he tired of the haunting, or got bloody or slimy or anything.Kent, noting his disinterest, continued. "Room 8 has the mice. Mice everywhere. They never leave the room, thank goodness, because then the entire inn would be crawling with the buggers.”“Are they... spirits?” Morris asked, thoroughly confounded.Kent winced in a display of uncertainty. “Not necessarily, but there’s no good explanation for some of their behavior. The mice keep to themselves for the most part during the day, but I warn you: If you decide to stay in Room 8, the mice will skitter about all night; get into your clothes, sleep on your head, flush the toilet over and over, really just do whatever they want... Also, Room 8 is my room, I stay in there when my shift is over."Morris recoiled a bit, hopefully not insulting Kent in the process. The man didn't seem to notice, or care. Morris bit his lip, as if he were considering this, then finally shook his head. But then an eerie thought occurred to him, one he just had to put voice to: "You're not a ghost, are you?" He said it in a kidding manner—hoped that's how it sounded anyway.Kent grinned, placed his hands flat on the desk, and nudged himself forward ominously. "If I were, I'd probably be known as the Night Manager. A tidy man who politely ushers weary and wary travelers to uncertain fates. Eh?" He chuckled and sat back again."Right. Yes..." Morris decided to ignore that altogether. "I say, I wonder who the most recent ghost is? The most recent traveler to, you know... not make it out.""Ah, interesting question, you have a curious mind," Kent said lightheartedly. "Incidentally, that would be Room 11. It used to be the room of Lucretia, the shrieking harlot, but now it's the room of Lucretia, the shrieking harlot, and Ronald Davenport of Brighton Beach, New York. 1994, this was. Yes, Ronnie wanted to stay in the room with the shrieking harlot for reasons he never explained and, as you might've guessed, she shrieked at him all through the night. Most likely it wasn't the experience he had imagined, though what that might have been I'm not sure. Ronnie, apparently fed up with the shrieks and insults, slipped and fell as he tried to escape the room. Poor man, his leg got hooked around a chair leg, causing him to tumble forward. He hit his head right on the corner of the desk, very nasty business. One of our maids found him, dead as the late, great James K. Polk. We removed the body, of course, but he's still in there, moaning and complaining about Lucretia." Kent looked upward, wondering about something. "It's a very... mmmmm... unpleasant room to be in, if you don't mind my saying. More so than even the Cudgel's room, or the one with all the mice.""I won't be staying with Lucretia and Ronnie, then," Morris said with authority. Kent nodded. Morris took a deep breath and considered the options thus far."Ah," Kent said with a finger pointed upward. "There's always Violet... Violet—Shrinking Violet, as we sometimes call her—is in Room 10. She's, well, she's just lovely. Elegant, delicate, hair as soft as mulberry silk. Transparent lace nightgown. She hovers, you know, over the bed. Very demure, very feminine. Been with the inn since 1912 or so. No one really knows where she came from, no records of her checking in. She couldn't have been older than 21. Violet is a vision, she really is. More scared of you than you of her, but she will warm up to you as the night marches on, no doubt about that." He waggled his eyebrows lasciviously. "It's always the shy ones, don't you know."Morris, nodding the entire time, continued to nod after Kent was finished. He once again bit his lip in an effort to look deep in thought for a moment, then he gently banged his fist on the desk in a decisive gesture. "I'll take Room 10, then."Kent smiled, satisfied. "Excellent, excellent. Now, I should tell you, Room 10 is booked until the summer of 2032. Quite a popular room, that one."Morris' heart sank like a stone, falling into the pit of his stomach. "I see."Kent tapped on the keyboard, looking intently at the monitor. "Yes, July 30th of that year is our next open date. Would you like to book now?"Morris shrugged. “I suppose.” Kent went about typing some more. "Still," Morris continued meekly, "I'd like to stay here tonight as well."Kent nodded as he typed. "Of course, of course. You've made your way here, silly to turn right around. We'll settle your reservation for eleven years from now in a moment. Would you like the paper in the morning? I'll put you down, no charge." Kent typed some more, then clasped his hands together when finished. "That's settled. As for tonight... Oh! What about the room with your dead father in it?"Morris opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Then opened it again. "My dead...?""Yes, yes. Everyone who stays in there sees their dead father. Quite spooky!”"But... what if your father isn't dead?""You still see him, it's remarkable. Honestly, not sure why that is, nor have I been keen to investigate. I myself have never gone in; I do not want to see my dead father."Morris was starting to feel a bit woozy; this was a bit more baffling than he had prepared for. Kent, sensing some uneasiness in his prospective guest, took a lower, less enthusiastic tone. "Maybe you're interested in a, well, relaxing evening; a room without shrieks or slime. May I suggest Room 14, the top floor. The Betsy Ross Room."Morris was about to ask, but Kent held up a hand and answered before he could get it out. "Yes, of course, Betsy Ross resides there.""Betsy—of, like, the American Flag, that—""Indeed, indeed. Splendid woman. Blind as a newborn kitten, and just as sweet. She just sits and rocks in her chair. I hope you don't mind the sound of rocking?""Um... no, not particularly. But.. Betsy Ross, I mean, how did—""Most people are under the assumption she passed in Pennsylvania, but no, she stayed here during her final days. Only a handful of years after the inn opened, incidentally. She is our longest-tenured resident.""How did she..?""Oh, terrible," Kent said, waving a hand dismissively. "But the story goes she was getting out of bed and slipped on a roller skate that was just underneath her. What a roller skate was doing there is anyone's guess—and she was blind, you know—but yes, she spat out an expletive and hit the deck and that was that. Tragic, but what a noble life. Blind Betsy... I'll add, do watch out for that roller skate, you know, people have had trouble with it in the past, never know where it's gone off to.""Huh," Morris muttered, thoroughly disoriented by this latest revelation. “And you’re not just calling her Betsy Ross, it’s really—”“Oh yes, yes. We wouldn’t joke about a thing like that,” Kent said, frowning briefly.A new thought occurred to Morris. "Do the ghosts know about each other? Like, are they aware of... all the strange things happening here?"Kent looked taken aback, before an expression of wonderment crossed his face. "Hmm. You know, I'm not sure if anyone's ever..." He clicked a pen and intensely scribbled on the pad in front of him.Morris sighed and twiddled his thumbs nervously. Having finished his note, Kent clicked the pen a few times while eyeballing Morris. One final click and then the pen was tossed down; Kent leaned forward. "If you don't mind my asking, sir... why did you come here? I mean, of course we're all curious about places such as this, but why did you up and come here, no reservation, no real knowledge of the place, on this day? If I'm not being too prodding, of course."

Morris contemplated Kent's question. After a nervous pause, he began. "I've always had a fascination with spirits. Ghosts. I think... no, I know... when I was a young boy I saw a ghost. It was at my grandmother's house. It was late at night, I was sneaking around outside—they had a great little piece of land, a few acres in the country. I was doing, you know, whatever little boys do, playing war with imaginary friends or whatever, just running around and getting dirty, when I saw... a shape. A figure. It was near the big weeping willow they had in the yard. I couldn't see its face, but it was all white. I can't explain it, but I wasn't scared. I was startled, yes, but more than anything I felt... enchanted. This was a monumental moment for me—for anyone! After about a minute where I felt as if I couldn’t even move, I ran over to where it was, wanting to, I dunno, reach out, make contact, something. But as I dashed—perhaps too eagerly—toward it, it glided behind that big tree. When I got there, it was gone. I never felt so disappointed, my heart ached. I never saw it again. And I know I didn't imagine it."He looked up at Kent, who was staring at him with serious interest, maybe even compassion."Ever since then I've wanted to see a ghost. Another ghost, that is. I never went for it though, not until, well, today. I said, I’m going to stay in a haunted inn and experience that again, that feeling of awe. I guess I’ve always been scared—not scared of being scared, you know, but scared that I'd never see another one."Kent nodded, as if he fully understood what Morris was saying.Morris sighed, looking down at his thumbs again. "And now I'm here and you're describing all these... unusual phantoms to me. I guess it's not what I was expecting.”Kent leaned back in his chair, still focused on the visitor. He rubbed his chin for a few seconds, pondering something. Then, quietly, he said: "Mr. Morris... There is one room I haven't yet told you about. It's a very special room, and it's free tonight. In fact, it's almost always free. Can I recommend this room to you? Now, it comes with a catch, and what that catch is..? I won't tell you. But I think it's the right room for you this evening."Morris took a deep breath and chewed on this. He figured it was now or never, and if the room was inhabited by some loud, ridiculous specter that made him want to flee the premises immediately, well...After some deliberation, he nodded. Kent nodded too.---The room wasn't really a room; it was the cellar. Kent referred to it as "Room Zero." The stairs were creaky on the way down, the air was musty. It was a large cellar, filled with all sorts of clutter: tables, chairs, clothes, tools. A storage space more than anything, with poor overhead lighting coming from a series of bare lightbulbs. Morris took this in with some skepticism but didn't lodge a complaint; Kent seemed to know what he was doing.The night manager led him toward the far end of the cellar where, surprisingly, a queen-size bed awaited them. It looked relatively clean, had fresh sheets and two pillows on it. A nightstand sat nearby; atop it were a telephone and an old analog alarm clock, which read 8:25. Kent gestured warmly toward the bed, placing Morris' one bag (he had traveled lightly) on it. "If you need anything, ring me. I'm here til five in the morning." He started away."Do you want a credit card first?" Morris asked.Kent stopped and gave Morris a look of sincere kindness. "Why not wait until morning? Long day, I'm sure."Morris agreed and, with that, Kent walked away, his footsteps taking a while to exit the premises. The door shut softly, but the sound still echoed throughout the dimly-lit cellar. Morris sat on the bed and put his hand on his bag, not sure what to do. He supposed that the best thing was to lay down and see what happened next.---Morris was startled awake. He didn't know where he was at first, but then remembered the cellar. Room Zero. He glanced over at the clock; it was 10:59. He sat up and looked around. The room seemed darker, but perhaps that was just his blurred vision. It was eerily silent down there, with just the hum of an unseen boiler audible. Morris sighed, and after a few minutes he lay back down and closed his eyes. The bed and pillows were surprisingly comfortable, but now he felt awake, the two-hour nap temporarily destroying any urge for an actual night's sleep.There was a whooshing sound in the distance, like a large fan had been turned on for a second then switched off again. Morris' eyes opened and darted here and there, but otherwise he lay completely motionless. Another whooshing sound, this time closer. He bolted upward, resting on his elbows as he searched the cellar. Nothing there, but the air was different somehow. It smelled of dying flowers.From the dark emerged a girl. A petite girl, no older than 10. She wore a simple yellow (or yellowing) dress, a floppy straw hat with a pink band around it, and ivory low heel shoes. They made no sound as she walked. The girl carried a bouquet of flowers that were starting to wilt; she peeked cautiously above them at Morris as she slowly came closer.Morris’ heart was thumping; he was prepared for anything at this point. The girl looked afraid—but then why did she approach with mute determination? She got near the side of the bed and stopped, only a few feet away from him. After a moment’s hesitation, Morris swung his legs around the side of the bed and sat, hoping not to unnerve her. After a pause, the girl held the flowers out. Morris waited a second, then took them. They were very real in his hand.“Thank you,” Morris said. “Do you have a pot or a vase we can put these in?”The girl shook her head glumly. She put her hands behind her and swayed back and forth nervously. Morris laid the flowers on the bed next to him, unsure of what to do or say. Finally, he cleared his throat and said: “My name is Lawrence. Do you have a name?”The girl looked at the floor and pursed her lips together. Then she spoke, sounding for all the world like a tangible 10-year-old girl. “Vanessa.”“Oh, Vanessa. That’s a lovely name.” Morris’ heart was slowing a bit, but his nerves still felt very much on edge.The girl, who hadn’t looked at him in the eye up until this point, finally met his gaze. “They don’t call me that here, though,” she said in a bitter tone. “They call me mean names.”“Ohh, I’m sorry, Vanessa,” Morris was tempted to reach out and pat her shoulder, but thought better of it.“Yeah. It’s not nice,” Vanessa said, her bottom lip trembling. Morris didn’t have children of his own, but he knew the look of one that was about to cry, and Vanessa had it. A few seconds later, something did come out of her eye, but it was not a tear drop. Something tiny and black. It inched down her cheek, stopped halfway, then started going back up again. More black dots followed, all cascading downward at first before going in separate directions across her face. Morris instinctively leaned closer, even as his heart sped up again. They were spiders. Tiny spiders escaping her tear ducts and crawling along her face as she sniffled. Some even went up her nostrils and into her ears, though if it hurt or irritated her she did not indicate as much.Morris reached for a handkerchief but had none. He wasn’t sure if it would help anyway. He looked at the child with sympathy as she whimpered and cleared his throat once more. “Do they call you something like... the girl who cries spiders?”She met his eyes again and shrugged. “Sometimes just Spiderface,” she said, her quiet sobbing resuming.Morris shook his head and felt terrible for the girl, whose face was now covered with no less than 25-30 tiny spiders, all moving aimlessly around her pale cheeks. He patted the bed next to him and, after a moment of suspicion on the small ghost’s part, she sat next to him.They sat in silence for at least two full minutes; her crying began to subside and the spiders retreated back inside her eyelids. He tried not to stare but found he couldn’t help himself. Soon, they were all gone, leaving no indication they had ever been there. The girl seemed to calm down, swinging her legs lazily and humming some indiscernible tune. It looked like the hint of a smile even began to grow on her face. Morris was about to ask her if she knew about the other guests in the inn, Lamb Chop and Ol’ Swine Head and the rest, but he didn’t. He decided he wouldn’t ask her anything else.Morris thought of Kent, sitting at the desk upstairs, or maybe he’d retreated to the darkened hallway again, and how the manager looked at him so warmly as he told his minor ghost story, and now he knew his being sent down to Room Zero was something of a benevolent act from the skinny man in the ill-fitting suit. A benevolent act toward Morris, and especially toward the smiling girl next to him whose name was Vanessa.THE END