Chapter 03: Misty Hollow Inn

The bus rumbled to a stop at the gate of the hostel, the headlights cutting through the sheets of rain that pounded down from the heavens. The downpour was relentless, with flashes of lightning periodically illuminating the scene in brief, blinding bursts. Through the rain, the students could make out the weathered sign hanging above the gate: "Misty Hollow Inn." The letters, once bold, were now faded and chipped, giving the name an eerie, almost ghostly appearance. The rain cascaded off the sign, adding to the atmosphere of gloom and isolation that surrounded the hostel.

The gate itself was tall and imposing, made of heavy iron that had long since rusted in the damp, forest air. It was locked, the thick chains and padlock gleaming wetly in the intermittent flashes of lightning. The hostel beyond was shrouded in darkness, save for a few dim lights that flickered inside, barely piercing the inky blackness that seemed to envelop the building. The hostel’s silhouette was massive against the night sky, a hulking structure that seemed to loom over the bus and its passengers.

The bus driver leaned on the horn, the sound echoing through the stillness of the forest, but there was no immediate response. The students exchanged nervous glances, their earlier excitement dampened by the ominous scene before them. The driver honked again, longer this time, the blaring noise cutting through the heavy rain. But the hostel remained still and silent, as if it were a part of the forest itself, ancient and unmoving.

The bus’s windows fogged up from the warmth inside, and some of the students wiped them clear with their sleeves, peering out at the hostel with a mix of curiosity and unease. The building was large, with high walls that surrounded it, cutting it off from the forest that pressed in on all sides. The walls were made of thick stone and wood, both weathered by time and the relentless elements. The architecture was rustic, with a rugged charm that hinted at its history as a hunting lodge. Wooden beams crisscrossed the exterior, and the stone walls were overgrown with creeping ivy, which added to the feeling that the building was a living part of the forest.

The hostel had a long, storied history, one that the students had heard only in passing, but which now seemed to take on a more tangible weight as they stared at the darkened structure. It was said that Misty Hollow Inn had once been a haven for hunters, a place where they could rest after long days of tracking game through the dense forest. The lodge had been a gathering place for those who sought the thrill of the hunt, its walls echoing with tales of bravery and survival. But that was long ago, before the university had purchased the property and converted it into a hostel for students and researchers.

As the rain continued to fall, the students couldn’t help but feel the weight of the hostel’s past pressing down on them. The building had been renovated and expanded over the years, but the original structure remained intact, its foundation solid and enduring. The hostel was built to last, its walls thick and impenetrable, designed to withstand the harshest of conditions. The stones were large and heavy, each one carefully placed to form a barrier between the outside world and the safety within. The wood that adorned the exterior was dark and polished, the carvings intricate and detailed, depicting scenes from the forest—deer, bears, and wolves, all captured in mid-motion, as if they were alive and frozen in time.

The windows of the hostel were large and rectangular, their frames crafted from the same dark wood that lined the building. Some of the windows were covered by heavy wooden shutters, which were now closed against the storm. Others were unshuttered, allowing the faint light from within to spill out into the night, casting eerie shadows on the wet ground. The glass panes were old and thick, distorted in places, as if time itself had warped them. Through these windows, the students could see the faint outlines of furniture, dimly lit by the flickering lights inside.

Despite the imposing exterior, the hostel had a certain rustic charm. The carvings on the woodwork were exquisite, each one telling a story of the forest and its inhabitants. The craftsmanship was a testament to the skill of the artisans who had built the place, their handiwork still evident after all these years. The hostel was two stories high, its roof sloping steeply to shed the rain. The eaves were wide, providing some shelter from the elements, though the relentless storm showed no signs of letting up.

The open area in front of the hostel, just inside the gate, was a muddy courtyard, now flooded with rainwater. Puddles had formed in the depressions of the ground, and the dirt had turned to slush, making the area look more like a swamp than a welcoming entrance. The bus’s headlights reflected off the surface of the water, creating a mirror image of the hostel in the mud. The students could see the outline of the building reflected back at them, distorted and rippling with each drop of rain that fell.

The hostel had been designed to accommodate a large number of guests, with enough room for 30 to 50 people to stay comfortably. The students knew that the building was divided into various wings, with rooms on both floors that could house the boys, girls, and teachers separately. The interior, they had been told, was just as rustic as the exterior, with wooden floors, stone fireplaces, and furniture that had been carefully chosen to match the old-world aesthetic of the lodge.

As the bus sat idling at the gate, the students couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. The darkness pressed in on them, and the hostel, with its history and imposing presence, seemed more like a fortress than a place of refuge. The rain continued to fall, and the lightning cracked overhead, casting brief flashes of light across the courtyard. The gate remained locked, and the hostel silent, as if it were waiting for something—or someone—to finally arrive.

The bus sat idle at the gate of Misty Hollow Inn, its engine rumbling softly beneath the relentless pounding of the rain. The students peered anxiously through the fogged-up windows, straining to catch a glimpse of any movement beyond the rusted iron gate. Their anticipation was met with silence, save for the rhythmic drumming of the rain against the bus’s roof and the occasional crack of thunder echoing through the dense forest. The tension was palpable, a thick thread that connected each student to the next, holding them in a collective breath.

Finally, the creaking of the gate broke the silence. A figure emerged from the shadowy entrance, moving slowly and deliberately through the deluge. The students could make out the outline of an old man, his round cap pulled low over his forehead and a long, weather-beaten raincoat clinging to his frame. The rain poured off the brim of his cap in streams, obscuring his face as he approached. The professor, Gideon Darkhelm, quickly opened the door of the bus, the metallic clang echoing in the stillness, and waved the old man over.

As the old man stepped closer, the students could see him more clearly. He moved with a steady gait, unaffected by the storm, his presence commanding despite his age. The raincoat, though worn, did little to conceal the man’s solid build; he was tall and broad-shouldered, with an air of resilience that seemed almost as ancient as the forest itself. His face, when it came into view, was clean-shaven and sharp, marked by the deep lines of a life well-lived and eyes that seemed to glint with a hidden knowledge. His expression was unreadable, a mask of neutrality that betrayed nothing to the curious eyes watching him.

The professor greeted him with a nod, extending a hand in welcome. "Good evening," Professor Darkhelm said, his voice raised to be heard over the drumming rain. "We are from the university. We have a reservation at Misty Hollow Inn for the night."

The old man nodded in acknowledgment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the bus and its occupants. Without a word, the professor handed him a folded letter, its paper already beginning to dampen in the rain. The old man took the letter carefully, holding it under the edge of his raincoat to keep it dry as he unfolded it and began to read. His eyes moved slowly over the words, his face still impassive, though there was a subtle tension in his stance that hinted at an underlying unease.

After what felt like an eternity to the waiting students, the old man finally looked up. His gaze locked onto the professor’s, and he nodded once, crisply. “I am Wraithwood,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, as though it hadn’t been used in a long time. The name seemed to carry a weight of its own, echoing through the air like a distant rumble of thunder. He extended his hand, and the professor shook it firmly.

Wraithwood then turned his attention to the bus driver, who had been watching the exchange with a detached curiosity. “Will you be staying here for the night?” Wraithwood asked, his tone now more direct, almost insistent.

The bus driver, a man of few words, shook his head. “No, I’m heading back to the university,” he replied, his voice calm and steady despite the storm raging outside.

Wraithwood frowned, a deep crease forming between his brows. “You should stay here,” he advised, his voice carrying a hint of warning. “The night is dark, and the road is treacherous in this weather. It’s too dangerous to travel alone.”

The bus driver, though clearly accustomed to such warnings, remained unfazed. He glanced at the students in the rearview mirror before turning back to Wraithwood. “I appreciate your concern,” he said, “but I have a responsibility to return the bus to the university. I’ve driven these roads for years. I’ll be fine.”

Wraithwood’s frown deepened, and he took a step closer to the driver. “The jungle is risky in heavy rain,” he insisted, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, as if sharing a secret meant only for the driver’s ears. “There are things in this forest that don’t take kindly to trespassers, especially on nights like this.”

The bus driver chuckled, a low, confident sound that cut through the tension. “I’ve dealt with worse,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “I can handle both animals and ghosts, if it comes to that.”

A flicker of something—fear, or perhaps a deep-rooted respect for the unknown—crossed Wraithwood’s face before it was quickly masked. He leaned in closer to the driver, his voice barely audible over the rain. “The ghosts of Tatawood Forest are not like those you’ve heard about in tales,” he whispered, his words carrying a chill that seemed to seep into the very air around them.

The bus driver paused, his smile faltering slightly as Wraithwood’s words hung between them, heavy with the weight of old secrets and forgotten lore. But after a moment, the driver shrugged it off, forcing a grin. “Well, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” he said, his tone light, though the edge of uncertainty in his voice was impossible to miss.

Wraithwood straightened, his expression once again inscrutable. “Suit yourself,” he said, his voice returning to its usual gruffness. He turned back to the professor, giving him a nod. “The gate will be opened shortly. Welcome to Misty Hollow Inn.”

With that, he moved back towards the gate, his figure soon swallowed by the darkness and rain. The students, who had been silent during the exchange, felt a collective shiver run through them, though whether it was from the cold or from Wraithwood’s words, none could say.

The bus driver wasted no time after the students disembarked, turning the bus around swiftly and driving off into the stormy night, leaving the group standing in the pouring rain. The roar of the bus engine faded into the distance, swallowed by the relentless downpour and the thick, looming forest. As the taillights disappeared, the students, feeling the cold seep into their bones, dashed toward the hostel building. The rain fell in torrents, soaking them through in seconds despite their best efforts to shield themselves with their hands and bags. The gravel path beneath their feet turned slick with mud, making their dash to the shelter of the hostel even more treacherous.

Once inside, the group gathered in the open hall, dripping wet and shivering from the cold. The interior of the hostel was a stark contrast to the storm outside. The hall was spacious, with high ceilings and walls adorned with old, framed paintings depicting serene forest scenes. A large, ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a soft, warm glow that did little to chase away the chill in the air. The floor was made of polished dark wood, its surface slick from the puddles forming around the students’ feet. The sound of the rain pounding against the windows and roof created a steady, almost oppressive rhythm that filled the silence in the hall.

As they waited, the students exchanged uneasy glances. The hostel, though grand in its design, had an eerie stillness to it. The flickering lights and the echoing creaks of the old building only heightened the sense of isolation. The paintings on the walls seemed to watch them, the eyes of the forest animals in the artwork following their every movement. Some of the students, particularly those who had been spooked by Draven’s stories on the bus, began to feel a growing sense of unease. The grandeur of the hostel couldn’t hide the fact that they were miles away from any town, deep in the heart of Tatawood Forest, with only a handful of strangers for company.

Their thoughts were interrupted when Mr. Wraithwood finally emerged from the shadows. The old man moved with the same deliberate pace as before, his presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room. He was no longer wearing his raincoat, revealing a dark, weathered suit beneath that seemed almost too formal for a mere hostel manager. His eyes, still sharp and calculating, swept over the group before he addressed them.

“I am the hostel manager,” he began, his voice steady and authoritative. “My name is Wraithwood.” There was a pause as his words echoed slightly in the hall, adding to the tension. “This,” he gestured to a tall, thin man who had silently appeared beside him, “is Shadowbrook Retreat, our groundskeeper.” Shadowbrook nodded curtly, his face expressionless, his eyes shadowed beneath the brim of a wide-brimmed hat. His skin was weathered, and he had the look of someone who had spent many years outdoors, tending to the land. His hands, rough and calloused, were clasped behind his back as if he was always ready for duty.

Wraithwood then pointed to another figure, a shorter man with a stockier build, who stood slightly behind Shadowbrook. “This is Twilight Grove, the watchman,” Wraithwood introduced. Twilight Grove’s face was partially obscured by a hood, his eyes dark and unreadable. He gave a small, stiff bow to the students, his movements slow and deliberate. There was an air of vigilance about him, a sense that he missed nothing that occurred in or around the hostel. His silence was unsettling, making the students wonder what thoughts lay behind his inscrutable gaze.

Finally, Wraithwood motioned toward a woman who had just entered the hall, carrying a lantern that cast long shadows across the walls. “And this is Silent Glade, the cook.” Silent Glade was a tall, slender woman with a quiet, graceful presence. Her hair, streaked with gray, was pulled back into a neat bun, and her face, though lined with age, held a certain warmth that was absent in the others. She gave a slight smile to the group, but it didn’t reach her eyes. There was a sadness in her expression, as if the weight of the hostel’s history rested heavily on her shoulders.

With the introductions complete, Wraithwood handed over a set of old-fashioned keys to the professor, who then distributed them among the students and teachers. “These are the keys to your rooms,” Wraithwood explained. “The hostel is large, with many rooms, so each of you will have your own space. The boys’ rooms are on the ground floor, and the girls’ rooms are on the first floor. The teachers’ rooms are on the second floor.”

As the students took their keys, Wraithwood continued, “Please be respectful of the hostel and its history. This place has stood for many years, long before it was acquired by the university. It was once a hunting lodge, where men from distant lands would come to seek game in these very woods.” His voice took on a somber tone as he added, “Many have passed through these halls, and their presence lingers still. Treat this place with care, and it will do the same for you.”

The students, though eager to settle into their rooms and escape the cold, couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that Wraithwood’s words stirred within them. As they made their way to their respective floors, they took in the details of the hostel. The walls were lined with more paintings and tapestries, each depicting scenes from the forest or ancient hunting expeditions. The decor was rustic yet refined, with wooden furniture that bore the marks of age but was polished to a deep sheen. The floors creaked underfoot, and the air was filled with the faint scent of woodsmoke and something else, something faintly metallic and unfamiliar.

The boys, who had chosen the ground floor, found their rooms to be cozy, if a bit austere. Each room was furnished with a single bed, a small desk, and a wardrobe, all made from the same dark wood that dominated the rest of the hostel. The girls, meanwhile, ascended the grand staircase to the first floor, where their rooms awaited. The layout was similar, though the girls’ rooms had the added charm of small, shuttered windows that looked out over the courtyard and the forest beyond.

As they settled into their rooms, the students couldn’t help but feel that they were not entirely alone in the hostel. The building seemed to breathe with them, the old wood groaning and creaking as if adjusting to their presence. The paintings on the walls, though still, seemed to watch them as they passed, their eyes following the students’ every move. And the staff, though courteous, remained distant, their expressions guarded as if keeping secrets of their own.

With the storm still raging outside and the hostel’s ancient halls wrapping around them, the students could only wonder what the night ahead would bring.

Elara was exhausted by the time she reached her room on the first floor of Misty Hollow Inn. The long bus journey, the drenching rain, and the eerie atmosphere had all taken their toll on her. She clutched the room key tightly in her hand as she approached the door, the old wooden floors creaking beneath her feet with each step. The hallway was dimly lit, and the shadows cast by the flickering wall sconces seemed to dance around her, adding to her growing sense of unease. She paused for a moment before the door, taking a deep breath to steady herself, and then inserted the key into the lock. The door opened with a soft creak, revealing the room inside.

The room was small but comfortably furnished, a welcome refuge from the storm outside. Elara quickly switched on the light, which cast a warm, yellow glow that helped to chase away the darkness. She took a moment to survey her surroundings. A neatly made bed with crisp white sheets occupied the center of the room, flanked by a small wooden nightstand on one side and a dresser on the other. A TV set was perched on a low stand across from the bed, and a small sofa set was arranged near the wall, offering a cozy spot to sit. In one corner of the room stood a large, sturdy cupboard, its dark wood polished to a high sheen, and a door leading to an attached bathroom. The air inside the room was slightly musty, a testament to the building's age, but it was otherwise clean and well-kept.

Elara felt a shiver run down her spine as the dampness of her clothes clung to her skin. The rain had soaked through her shirt during the dash from the bus, leaving her uncomfortably cold. She quickly removed her wet white shirt, shivering as the cool air of the room touched her skin, and replaced it with a dry, black T-shirt she had packed in her bag. The soft fabric was a welcome relief against her chilled skin, but it did little to ease the tension that had settled in her chest.

She walked over to the window and hesitated for a moment before drawing back the heavy curtains. The glass was cool to the touch as she unlatched the window and pushed it open. The storm had finally subsided, leaving behind a deep, inky darkness that seemed to swallow everything beyond the walls of the hostel. The only sounds were the distant rustling of leaves in the wind and the occasional call of a night bird. Elara hung her wet shirt on the window ledge, hoping the night air would dry it by morning.

The wind picked up suddenly, whipping through the open window with surprising force. Elara instinctively stepped back, feeling the chill of the night air wrap around her. She leaned forward again, peering out into the darkness, but there was nothing to see. The blackness outside was impenetrable, as if the forest itself had closed in around the inn, hiding its secrets from prying eyes. The fast-moving wind howled through the trees, carrying with it the faint, eerie sounds of animals stirring in the night. Elara shivered again, but this time it wasn’t just from the cold.

The darkness outside seemed alive, filled with unseen creatures and the lingering echoes of the tales Draven had shared on the bus. She could almost feel the weight of the forest pressing in on her, its ancient presence both ominous and suffocating. The stories she had heard of Tatawood Forest, of its mysterious disappearances and monstrous inhabitants, resurfaced in her mind, each one more terrifying than the last. She had tried to dismiss them as mere legends, exaggerated tales meant to thrill and frighten, but now, standing alone in the middle of this isolated inn, those stories seemed all too real.

A sudden sense of dread washed over her, and she felt as though she were being watched. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and a cold sweat broke out on her forehead. She turned away from the window and looked around the room, her eyes darting from corner to corner, searching for the source of her fear. The room was empty, the door still securely closed, but the feeling of being watched persisted. It was as if the very walls of the inn were alive, hiding something just out of sight, something that waited in the shadows.

Elara’s heart raced, and she forced herself to take a deep breath. "It’s just my imagination," she whispered to herself, though the words did little to calm her nerves. She walked slowly to the bed, trying to shake off the eerie sensation. But as she passed by the cupboard, she couldn’t help but glance at it, half-expecting the door to creak open on its own. The wooden doors remained firmly shut, but the thought of what might be lurking inside made her quicken her pace.

Finally, she reached the bed and sat down heavily on the edge. The mattress dipped under her weight, and she sank into its softness, but the unease in her chest refused to dissipate. Elara lay back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to focus on the normalcy of the room—the ordinary bed, the familiar feel of the blanket she pulled over herself. But no matter how hard she tried, her mind kept drifting back to the forest, to the darkness outside, and to the feeling that something was not right.

The stories of the jungle came rushing back, vivid and terrifying. She recalled the tale of the school students who had ventured into the forest and never returned, their fate sealed by the malevolent forces that lurked within Tatawood's depths. What if those stories were true? What if the forest really was cursed, a place where the boundaries between the living and the dead blurred, and where those who entered were never seen again?

Elara hugged the blanket closer, her body trembling not just from the cold but from the fear that gripped her. She wondered if coming here had been a mistake, if she should have stayed behind at the university where the walls were thick, the lights bright, and the presence of others a constant reassurance. Here, in the middle of the forest, surrounded by darkness and the unknown, she felt utterly alone.

Her thoughts spiraled deeper into fear, and she began to regret her decision to join this expedition. What had seemed like an exciting adventure now felt like a perilous journey into the heart of danger. Elara’s mind raced with the possibilities of what could happen in this mysterious place—accidents, encounters with wild animals, or worse, the strange and unexplainable events that the forest was rumored to hold.

A creak from somewhere in the room made her jump, her heart pounding in her chest. She sat up abruptly, her eyes wide with fear, but there was nothing there. Just the old building settling, she told herself, trying to push away the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She lay back down, but sleep eluded her, and the uneasy thoughts continued to swirl in her mind. Eventually, she reached over to the nightstand and pulled out her MP3 player, slipping the earbuds into her ears. She pressed play, hoping the music would drown out her thoughts and lull her to sleep.

But even as the soothing melodies filled her ears, the fear remained, a dark shadow at the edge of her consciousness, whispering that something was very, very wrong.

The next morning dawned bright and clear, with no trace of the previous night’s heavy rain. The sky was a brilliant blue, and the sunlight streamed through the windows of Misty Hollow Inn, casting a warm, golden glow over everything it touched. The storm seemed like a distant memory now, its thunderous roars and flashing lightning replaced by the gentle chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. As the students made their way to the dining hall for breakfast, there was a noticeable shift in the atmosphere. The fear and tension that had gripped them the night before had faded, replaced by a sense of curiosity and excitement about the day ahead.

The dining hall was spacious, with large wooden tables and benches that could easily accommodate the entire group. The walls were adorned with rustic decor, including antlers, old hunting rifles, and faded photographs of past expeditions, giving the room a cozy, lodge-like feel. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon filled the air, making everyone’s stomachs rumble in anticipation. The students and teachers took their seats, chatting quietly amongst themselves as they waited for breakfast to be served.

Mr. Wraithwood, the inn’s manager, stood at the head of the table, ready to address the group. He was dressed in the same round cap and long raincoat as the night before, but in the daylight, he appeared less mysterious and more grandfatherly, his eyes crinkling with warmth as he looked over the students. He cleared his throat, and the room fell silent, all eyes turning to him.

“Good morning, everyone,” Mr. Wraithwood began, his voice deep and steady. “I’d like to start by welcoming you all to Misty Hollow Inn and thanking you for making the journey here. This place has a long history, and it’s an honor to share it with you.”

The students listened intently, their earlier apprehensions now replaced with a keen interest in the man’s words. Mr. Wraithwood continued, “I’ve worked here for many years, longer than most would care to remember. During that time, I’ve come to know the Tatawood Forest better than I know the back of my own hand. It’s a place unlike any other—unique and, yes, a bit odd. The jungle is home to a variety of animals, some of which you might never have seen before. But there’s more to Tatawood than just its wildlife. There are also things in that forest that defy explanation—ghosts, spirits, and other creatures that walk the line between myth and reality. I’ve seen them myself on more than one occasion.”

A murmur ran through the students, a mix of fascination and unease. The tales of ghosts and monsters that had seemed like nothing more than campfire stories the night before now took on a new weight. Mr. Wraithwood raised a hand, signaling for silence as he continued, “But despite all that, I’ve never been lost in the jungle. I’ve always found my way back, and that’s because I follow the rules of the forest. That’s my advice to you—stick to the path, obey the rules, and respect the jungle. Do that, and you’ll be safe.”

There was a brief pause as Mr. Wraithwood’s words sank in. Then, Ms. Silent Glade, the inn’s cook, began to serve breakfast. The meal was a feast of local flavors—exotic fruits from the jungle, freshly baked bread, and a variety of dishes made from wild game. The students, who had been somewhat wary of the forest the night before, now seemed to forget their fears as they dug into the hearty meal. Laughter and conversation filled the room once more, the dark tales of the jungle temporarily pushed aside in favor of the more immediate pleasures of good food and company.

Professor Gideon Darkhelm stood and walked over to Mr. Wraithwood, extending a hand in gratitude. “Thank you, Mr. Wraithwood,” the professor said sincerely. “You’ve done so much for us already, and your guidance will be invaluable as we begin our work here.”

Mr. Wraithwood shook the professor’s hand firmly. “It’s the least I could do,” he replied with a modest smile. “Consider this a small party from me and my staff, a way to welcome you all properly to our little corner of the world.”

The students and teachers expressed their thanks to Mr. Wraithwood and his staff, the atmosphere in the dining hall warm and convivial. After breakfast, as the plates were cleared away, Professor Gideon Darkhelm stood before the group with a large map of Tatawood Forest spread out on the table. The map was detailed, marked with numbers and symbols indicating various locations within the jungle.

“Today, we’re going to familiarize ourselves with this map,” Professor Darkhelm announced, drawing the students’ attention. “This map will be our guide during our time in Tatawood. It’s crucial that we understand the layout of the jungle before we begin our expedition.”

The students gathered around, eager to learn, their fear of the jungle now mingled with a sense of adventure as they prepared to embark on the next stage of their journey.