Chapter Text
The river just outside the village of Courlyn always gave off a cool, thick fog in the morning that obscured each and every building, road, and tree.
Many found the dark grey mornings to be a deterrent; a warning, perhaps. But there were the occasional few who took comfort in the foggy mornings, leaning into it like a quilt and enjoying the comforts it allowed them: drinking hot tea in the morning and the blissful silence that allowed for reflection; for a breath of air in their lungs.
The people in Courlyn seemed to be shaped by the weather it brought. The mornings were still and silent, giving their respects to the fog like a crowd parting for a monarch to pass through. Then, as the fog climbed up to form clouds, the people of the little village began to emerge: the store owners were the first to wake, making their way to their shops in the centre of the village and opening up for the few customers they would receive. There were only 6 shops (really just destinations, to be fair) in Courlyn: the grocer, general store, a library, a café, post office, and a small gift shop, only open in the summer when the village would receive a couple of passerby tourists.
The town was old–so old that dust had made a permanent residence in every house, every building, no matter how meticulous the cleaning. It became part of the floor plan, along with permanently creaking floorboards and the not-quite-tamed plants growing all around. So old that the living was confused with the dead, and in some cases (according to the more superstitious of the villagers), the two breathed in tandem.
The village was old enough that it made its trade in stories. Truthfully (to some) it was the only way to provide enough revenue to keep the town from running into the ground. Also truthfully (to some others) the stories were less for the tourists and more about protecting those brave few who dared to check their accuracy. Stories are a dangerous trade, especially those of the supernatural variety.
Courlyn had a ghost story, one which varied wildly from person to person depending on who asked and who was telling, but a few details always remained the same: there was a ghost who wore a ragged dress and resided in the abandoned Northun inn on the edge of town. It made whatever room it entered go cold–not a regular chill, but a bone-chilling cold–even if the thermometer recorded no change. Some said the ghost was a resident of the inn, but others say they were a villager, trapped there on the boundary of the town. Most agree that it was a murder (or a murderer?), that the ghost stayed on this plane of existence to finish some unfinished business (as ghosts tend to do).
To one villager, the whole idea of unfinished business was nonsense, and he was sure the poor ghost had other very good reasons to stick around (nostalgia, for instance! Had anyone thought of that? No!). This resident was none other than café owner and local collector of stories, Patton: a man who had the special skill to strike up a conversation with most everyone and sometimes to know a person better than they knew themselves. Being that there were only six establishments in Courlyn, it wasn’t difficult to learn about a person’s habits, what they loved, who they kept company with, and (possibly most important of all) their version of the ghost story. A few people, Patton discovered, had claimed to see the ghost themselves, while others claimed their parents or grandparents had seen it before the inn was closed down twenty years ago. But there was one incident in particular which had just begun to unearth every buried story in the village: some mystery man, of unknown origin and wealth, bought the closed-down inn with plans to remodel it and open it for use.
(Clearly not an informed decision, if the best storytellers among them had anything to say about it).
Naturally that meant that every villager piled into the local café on a dreary Friday morning, having all been informed of this stranger’s imminent arrival in some way or another, to discuss how to break the news of the haunting to him (perhaps it felt like an obligation–either way, Patton was happy about the business and the company).
“He’ll last two weeks at most–I’d put money down on it.”
“You’re on, Charles–I think he’d last a full month.”
“The ghost doesn’t exist,” one villager complained from the back of the room. “The only thing that will scare him away will be you guys encroaching on his property.”
“Poor man–he’ll never get any customers out here.” Patton raised his brows as he set a mug of hot tea in front of one of his patrons. The clamor of voices rose after that statement, making it difficult to listen to any one statement. He sighed and went back to his coffee orders.
He’d just started to get used to the din of voices when the sound of a bell rang out through the shop, and the front door opened. That moment was the first time in years that the café fell to a silence: when Roman entered.
He looked like a city man–shockingly golden-brown, curly hair that somehow looked both unruly and put together at the same time. He had a proud posture, even though his clothes were damp from the light rain and the single suitcase he brought with him was caked in mud. He somehow looked like he knew the place was…well, peculiar, and he was still confident in his decision. But he couldn’t be, could he? The villagers thought to themselves. He couldn’t possibly be confident and informed, making a decision like that. Doesn’t he know the stories?
“Hello! Come on in!” Patton called out, breaking the silence. Roman’s smile relaxed just slightly and he towed his suitcase through the mass of people huddled in the shop until he reached the bar. The villagers pretended (poorly) to resume their conversations as Patton struck up a conversation.
“Are you Roman, by any chance? The newest owner of the inn?” he said, deciding to get right to the point.
“I–yes, I am,” Roman said, frowning. “You know about me?”
“Small town. Word gets around fast here. Can I get anything for you?”
“A latte, please,” Roman said. Patton nodded and rang up the transaction.
“So, what made you decide to buy the place?” Patton asked after a beat, trying to avoid the not-so-subtle eyes of his other shop patrons.
The look Roman gave was indecipherable even to Patton’s eye. “I needed a change of pace from city life. It was wearing me down.”
“A fresh start sounds lovely!” Patton grinned. “Well, you are always welcome here if you need a change of pace from renovating.”
“You bought the inn, eh?” A voice piped up across the room—Jodi Thompson. Clearly the residents were no longer capable of keeping their curiosity in.
“Yes, I did,” Roman said pleasantly. Patton passed him his latte.
“Ay, I have stories I could tell about that place. Many stories.” Roman quirked a brow, and Patton urgently shook his head at Jodi. The second the newcomer looked away he started waving his arms, too, but Jodi didn’t seem to notice.
“Oh? Do tell,” Roman said, walking closer to her table. She pushed out a chair and let him sit down. The entire crowd at the café had quieted down to hear her, not particularly caring about social etiquette anymore. “I want to learn as much as I can about this place.”
Jodi grinned, and the villagers knew at once that she was going to give that man the fright of his life. She had her storytelling face ready.
“Well, you see…I’m sure you know that the inn closed about twenty years ago.”
“Yes,” Roman said, crossing one leg over the other. His hands didn’t shake when he took a sip of his latte.
“Hey, maybe this isn’t the best idea right now. I mean, he’s just bought the place?” Patton said, his brows knitted together with concern.
“No, it’s alright, I’d like to hear,” Roman smiled. Patton gulped.
Jodi nodded to Patton before continuing. “Well. About five years ago, the old owner started asking around, seeing if they could get someone to check in on the place. Wouldn’t go in there themselves. So I volunteered, mostly out of curiosity. I mean, why would they be so frightened that they couldn’t do it themselves? I went the next day, about ten o’clock in the morning, ‘cuz you’re just asking for trouble if you go at nighttime.”
“You’re asking for trouble if you go in, period,” one woman muttered from across the room. Jodi shot a warning look her way before continuing.
“Owner gave me a key to the place, so I had no trouble getting in. Some of the furniture was still in there, but luckily the owner had had the sense to take out anything that would rot. Covered the rest in dust cloths. It was pretty quiet in there. Dusty, for sure. As I went down one of the hallways, I realized it: it was almost too quiet. There was something muffling the sound. You could hardly breathe in the place, for fear of disturbing something,” Jodi drank the last of her coffee before continuing. “So there I was, end of the hallway. I just finished checking the rooms on the first floor. And suddenly the temperature drops—twenty degrees at least. Now, I’d heard some rumors that the temperature would drop in certain parts of the house, but I mostly pushed them aside before. Now, though…now I saw that there was something odd about the place. I mean, I felt it before, but just then, I really knew it. And then…well, then I heard the singing.”
“Singing,” Roman said, more a statement than a question.
“Yep. Sent shivers down my spine—and not from the cold. It was haunting. And it kept getting closer to me. I didn’t even realize there were lyrics ‘til the sound got real close–something like ‘Remember me to wondering fair’. It was strange–I wanted to stay almost as much as I wanted to leave. But then I saw a flicker of white cloth. Which wouldn’t be out of the ordinary on its own, but I knew there was no wind in the building. So I ran like any sensible person would. I ran and barely remembered to lock the door behind me. And when I looked back…when I looked back, I saw another flicker of movement in the window of the second story. Didn’t dare stay to see what it was, just kept running ’til I felt the sweat on my skin.”
There was a captivated silence as Jodi finished, only disturbed by the occasional creaking chair.
“Well,” Roman said finally, “I do admire your storytelling skills, for sure. I’d love to hear another one sometime.”
“You don’t believe me?”
Roman huffed. “Not yet. I want to check it out for myself, at least.” Jodi blinked in surprise.
“Well, you’re quite the brave soul, then,” She said, her voice sounding light. The rest of the villagers looked at each other in shock.
“Perhaps. Or maybe I’m just an eccentric fool,” he laughed, and Jodi joined in.
“Oh, I think you’ll fit in here just fine,” She said. “Welcome to Courlyn.”
“Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Roman said, finishing off the last of his latte, “I should be getting to my new residence.”
He stood then, returning his empty mug to Patton’s counter and towing his single suitcase back out through the door. The villagers were mystified by the encounter, but they were far beyond silence. In Roman’s wake, the coffee shop was an explosion of noise.