A Grim Invitation

Ezra awoke to a loud knocking at his door. For a moment, he wasn't sure if it was the remnants of last night's whispers haunting him or just the morning routine of Deadly Delights Inn. Squinting at the faint light seeping through the curtains, he groaned.

"I'm not awake enough for horror," he muttered, stumbling toward the door.

The knocking came again, sharp and insistent. He cracked the door open to find Grimwald standing there, his sharp features as unreadable as ever.

"Breakfast is ready," Grimwald said, his tone making it sound more like a command than an invitation. "Afterward, Lady Marrow wishes to speak with you."

"Great," Ezra replied, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "Nothing says 'good morning' like a cryptic summons."

Grimwald didn't dignify that with a response. He turned and walked away, his footsteps eerily silent despite the creaky floorboards. Ezra sighed and shut the door, muttering, "You'd think he was the ghost around here."

---

The dining hall was livelier than usual, though "lively" in this inn still felt like attending a funeral. Lady Marrow sat at the head of the table, her emerald gown gleaming faintly in the weak sunlight. Mr. Pibb clattered dishes onto the table with the grace of a wrecking ball, and Barnaby was muttering to himself over the chessboard as usual.

Ezra grabbed a roll from the spread and plopped down into a chair, ignoring the greenish soup that shimmered suspiciously in its bowl. "Morning," he said, mostly to himself.

Lady Marrow's piercing gaze settled on him. "You look well-rested."

Ezra blinked. "Really? Because I feel like I got hit by a train made of bad dreams."

She raised an eyebrow, her faint smile returning. "You'll adjust. Or you won't."

"Comforting," he muttered under his breath, tearing into the roll like it owed him money.

After an awkward silence, Lady Marrow gestured toward the grand piano at the far end of the room. "When you're finished, meet me there. We have... matters to discuss."

Ezra hesitated. "Matters? Like, work-related? Or is this one of those ominous inn things?"

Her smile widened, but she said nothing more.

"Awesome," he said with a forced grin. "Love a good mystery."

---

After breakfast, Ezra found Lady Marrow waiting by the piano, her hands resting lightly on the polished wood. The instrument itself was a relic, its dark surface gleaming despite the thin layer of dust on everything else in the inn.

"You've been here long enough," she began without preamble. "It's time you understood more about this place."

Ezra raised an eyebrow. "Is this the part where you tell me I'm actually in a horror movie?"

Her lips curved into a faint smile, but there was no amusement in her eyes. "The inn is more than it appears. It provides sanctuary to those who have nowhere else to go."

He frowned. "Sanctuary? Like a halfway house for... people with bad luck?"

"Something like that," she replied cryptically. "But sanctuary comes with a price."

"Of course it does," Ezra muttered. "Nothing's ever free."

Lady Marrow's gaze sharpened. "You've already seen the portraits above the fireplace."

"Yeah, one of them disappeared," he said, crossing his arms. "Still waiting for someone to explain how that happens."

"Those portraits represent souls," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "Souls that sought refuge here. Some leave, but most..." She trailed off, letting the silence hang heavy in the air.

Ezra blinked, unsure if she was serious. "Okay, so you're saying the inn collects souls. That's... not creepy at all."

"It is not the inn that collects them," she corrected. "It simply... holds them. For safekeeping."

"Right," he said slowly. "And what happens when someone's portrait disappears?"

Lady Marrow's smile vanished. "That is not something you should concern yourself with."

"Great," Ezra replied, throwing up his hands. "Another thing I'm not supposed to ask about. Add it to the list."

Before she could respond, the faint sound of music filled the air. It wasn't coming from the piano—Ezra would've sworn it came from somewhere deep within the inn, muffled and eerie. He turned, scanning the room, but the others didn't seem to notice.

"Do you hear that?" he asked.

Lady Marrow tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "Perhaps you're finally beginning to see."

"See what?" Ezra pressed, but she simply walked away, her gown trailing behind her like a shadow.

---

Determined to get answers, Ezra headed to the library. If the inn was going to mess with him, he figured he might as well be proactive. The black leather journal caught his eye again, its untitled cover practically daring him to open it.

He hesitated, then shook his head. "Nope. Not falling for that. You stay there, cursed book."

Instead, he grabbed a random volume from another shelf and flipped it open, hoping for something—anything—that might explain what was going on. The text was dense and archaic, filled with phrases like "binding spirits" and "soul preservation."

"Cool, so we're officially in ghost territory," he muttered, scanning the pages. "Next thing you know, I'll find out the mop's possessed."

As he flipped to another page, a faint shadow passed across the room. He froze, glancing up, but saw nothing. His grip on the book tightened.

"Alright, inn," he said, his voice wavering. "If this is some kind of initiation ritual, I'd really appreciate a heads-up."

The fire in the hearth flickered, casting long, twisting shadows on the walls. Ezra's heart raced as the whispers returned, faint but unmistakable. They seemed to come from everywhere at once, surrounding him.

"Nope," he said, snapping the book shut. "I'm out."

He bolted from the library, the whispers chasing him down the hallway. By the time he reached his room, his chest was heaving. He slammed the door shut and locked it, pressing his back against the wood.

"This place is going to kill me," he muttered. "Or at least give me a heart attack."

---

That night, Ezra lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The whispers had subsided, but the unease lingered. His thoughts kept returning to Lady Marrow's words: sanctuary comes with a price.

"What price?" he whispered to the empty room. The shadows on the walls didn't answer, but they seemed to shift, almost imperceptibly.

As his eyes drifted shut, the faint sound of music returned, more distinct this time. It wasn't eerie or haunting—it was almost... inviting. Against his better judgment, he sat up, straining to listen.

The melody seemed to beckon him, pulling him toward the door. He stood, the floorboards creaking softly beneath his feet. Grabbing the lantern, he stepped into the hallway, following the sound.

It led him toward the west wing—the one Grimwald had warned him to avoid.

Ezra hesitated, gripping the lantern tightly. "This is a bad idea," he muttered. "Like, top-tier bad."

But the music was relentless, drawing him forward. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the forbidden corridor, the shadows swallowing him whole.