The rain began without warning; fat, heavy drops smearing the windshield in rhythmic slashes as Ira squinted through the fading light. Her phone had long stopped chirping directions, the map frozen mid-route, leaving only a narrow forest road that twisted like it had been laid down by memory rather than asphalt.
The dashboard clock blinked 7:33 PM. Too late to make it to the city. Too early to sleep in her car again.
She spotted it just beyond the next bend, an old-fashioned sign half-sunk in moss:
**Welcome to Velm Hollow**
Population... scratched out, replaced by a smear of black paint.
Trees pressed in tighter, the branches knitting together overhead like fingers holding back the sky. The first house she passed had no lights, just a curtain swaying in the window, as if someone had just stepped away.
Her tires crackled over wet gravel as she pulled up to an inn that looked too perfectly placed to be real. Hand-carved beams. Candlelight in the windows. And an old woman standing on the porch with no umbrella, staring straight at her.
Before Ira could roll down her window, the woman stepped forward and said softly:
"You're just in time. We've been waiting."
Ira was extremely exhausted to even process what the woman had just said.
She hesitated for a beat, the engine still humming beneath her. But the old woman didn't blink or shift, just held the door open as if this moment had been rehearsed countless times.
The rain softened into mist as Ira stepped out. Gravel crunched beneath her boots. Despite the cottage's rustic charm, something felt off, like it had never truly been abandoned, nor truly lived in.
Inside, the air smelled of herbs, old wood, and something faintly metallic. Candles flickered along the hallway, though there was no breeze. Paintings of faceless figures lined the walls, their heads tilted, as if listening.
The woman glided ahead without speaking, her white shawl trailing over the floor like smoke.
Down the corridor, she turned and finally spoke in a voice like pressed velvet:
"We keep the silence here. It's the only way they sleep."
Ira didn't ask who they were. But in the hush, she swore the floor creaked behind her, though no one followed.
She was curious. "They? Who are you talking about?"
The old woman turned to look at her but didn't say a word, she continued walking, Ira did nothing but follow.
The hallway narrowed as they walked, the wooden floorboards sighing beneath their steps. The candles lining the corridor burned low, their flames stretching unnaturally tall, casting distorted shadows that danced like memories on the walls.
The woman stopped in front of a black-painted door with no number. The brass handle was cold and dulled with age. She turned to Ira with the faintest smile, a crack, not warmth, and said only:
"They don't dream here. It's safe."
She pushed the door open. The room inside was modest but pristine:
- A four-poster bed with white linens so crisp they looked starched from another century.
- A wardrobe carved with crescent moons and spirals.
- A writing desk under a curtained window.
- And in the corner, a mirror facing away from the bed—as if it was intentionally turned to avoid watching.
Ira stepped inside, and the air changed; denser, like the weight of sleep already coiled in the walls.
Before she could ask the woman anything, the door gently clicked shut behind her. Alone now, she approached the window. Outside, fog clung to the village streets like breath held too long.
"That woman sure is weird. (Sighs) I'd leave early tomorrow morning anyway, just have to spend the night here… something definitely feels off. I just can't point out what…"
Ira undressed in the bathroom and changed into something more comfy for the night.
She changed out of her damp jeans and hoodie, trading them for an oversized tee and wool socks, the kind of comfort that usually softened the edge of long days. But the moment she sat on the bed, something shifted.
The mattress didn't sigh beneath her like old beds do. It stiffened, a tension, like it wasn't used to being touched.
She ran her palm across the white sheets. Crisp, yes. Cold, yes. But then she noticed it: a faint impression beside her. Not hers. As if someone had been lying there minutes ago.
She leaned closer.
A few strands of dark hair lay twisted on the pillow, short, coarse, not hers. The scent was faint, but present: rosemary, candle wax... and something that smelled faintly burned.
Ira tilted her head. Wondered if it had been the caretaker. Or something more strange.
But the bed was warm. Not just from her. Like it had recently hosted someone.
She stared a while, then slid beneath the covers. The impression stayed next to her as she drifted off.