MicroHorror

Funny name for an inn, I thought, but it had been raining all day and I was soaked to the skin. This was a lonely part of the road and I didn’t fancy sleeping under a hedgerow tonight–any port in a storm, I thought, and reined in the mare.

The sign creaked over my head like a gallows–it was crudely painted and showed a pantomime devil roasting gobbets of flesh on a pitchfork over a blazing fire. Rain ran down the sign and funneled down the back of my neck, quenching my indecision. I raised my hand to the knocker–this one another gargoyle–and let it fall. A peal resounded through the house and I heard slow shuffling footsteps. Eventually the door opened to reveal a small wizened creature in mobcap and apron.

“Will you come in, sir?” it croaked and I stepped over the threshold.

“Will you look to my mare?”

She called an ancient ostler and he led the mare away to the stable. I should check on her later, I thought, but for now I was glad to get in from the weather.

The interior of the inn was not encouraging. I got the impression there was little or no custom in the house and yet there was a fire lit in the parlor and nothing wrong with the glass of brandy my hostess offered me “to keep out the cold.” Looking at her by candlelight she was no beauty but she seemed anxious to make me comfortable and I felt a bit ashamed of my earlier prejudice. I was no oil painting myself. It was time to make amends for my brusqueness, show her I was no savage.

“My compliments to the master of the house.”

“He’ll be here shortly,” she said. I wondered if she was deaf. She bustled around laying out supper for me, a dish of chicken soup with a curiously wrought long spoon, freshly baked bread and a thick wedge of cheese. I ate heartily; I was famished and drank deeply of the pitcher of foaming beer. The hostess had taken my sodden greatcoat to dry, and as I stared into the embers of the fire I found myself relaxing, the events of the day receded, I felt myself sliding towards sleep.

The door blew open with a crash and as I gathered my fuddled senses I saw that I had been joined by my host. He wore a crimson smoking jacket and seated himself in the chair facing me. The landlady hovered around him, filling his glass, but he waved her away and she went out, cackling gently.

“Welcome to my house,” he said. “Did you have a pleasant journey?”

“No,” I said, “but I am glad to be here and thank you for your hospitality.”

“The honor is mine,” he said. “Is that blood on your shirt?”

I glanced down at the spreading stain over my heart. “But…”

“Don’t worry, your adversary is dead.”

“I know.” I’d made sure of it. There were tears on my face. I shook my head blearily. “How did you–who are you?”

“Did you not read the sign?”

“The Devil’s Within?”

He nodded slowly. “All of us. When you let that boy die, you found your path to my door and you accepted my invitation to come in.”