The Directory of Haunted Inns

[Published in Scared To Death]


"Did you hear something?" Anthony whispered.
"No."
"You must have heard something."
"No, I didn't."
Anthony looked across at his wife Marilyn, who was lying in bed next to him. His eyesight had adjusted to the darkness hours ago, and so he could discern the soft shimmer of her flesh. Once again he strained his hearing. Nothing.
"Did you hear something?" asked Marilyn.
"Not a thing."
"Well there you are then."
"But I should be hearing something. All this waiting is driving me crackers. I'm going to ask for my money back in the morning."
He felt his wife stir beside him, shifting her body in order to sit up on her elbow and face him. He did not look, but imagined a scowl upon her face. He tensed up, expecting the inevitable verbal onslaught. It arrived, like enemy gunfire.
"Anthony! You can't demand your money back just because you didn't hear anything. Who says this room is haunted anyway? And even if it is, how do you know this ghost will appear at all? Or even make a noise? It all seems like a hoax to me."
He didn't answer. He had had it all before, so he knew when to keep quiet. Marilyn was like a madwoman once she got going, as vicious as lashing rain. He sensed her moving again, settling into the prone position she had adopted previously, her eyes to the ceiling. Anthony did likewise. All was quiet again, very still. Seconds ticked by in silence. Then...
"Did you hear something?" Anthony whispered.
"For God's sake, Anthony!"
It was all in the book. The Directory of Haunted Inns just couldn't be wrong. Anthony believed in it a hundred percent, taking in all the facts listed and the reports of ghosts and ghouls that were supposed to exist in certain inns across the country. He was both intrigued and fascinated, as ghosts and hauntings were his favourite subjects. Which explained his extended tour of all the inns listed in the North of England.
And now here they were, the first stop of the journey. The Bull's Head, Stockington. Anthony recalled the words he had read in the directory concerning this very room. Apparently, sometime in the 1890's, a jealous husband had entered and discovered his wife in bed with another man, the classic crime of passion scenario. This fellow was armed with an axe, and after the cavorting scoundrel had jumped from beneath the covers and leapt across the room, he had been met with an almighty blow to the neck. He had been decapitated immediately, in one diabolical action. There had been a loud cry, and then a violent thud as his head dropped to the floor. And this was the sound that was rumoured to exist in the room, repeating at various times during the day or night. But Anthony hadn't heard a thing.
"What was that?" he said suddenly, turning his head to greet some imaginary sound.
Marilyn didn't answer this time. He realised that there had been no sound at all, and that he was most likely hallucinating, inventing some noises of his own due to his apparent anxiety. He was desperate to hear the haunting sound, it would be a huge thrill for him, he was sure. He wished that he could open his ears wider so that he could listen more closely in order to capture the sound when it came, but sadly this wasn't possible. And so he bathed in his own anguish.
"I don't know why you have to drag me along anyway," said Marilyn suddenly, shattering the noiselessness.
Anthony was busy watching the gloomy shadows in the far corner of the room. He was certain that he saw a movement there, some kind of shape creeping close to the skirting board. He kept his eyes on the spot as he replied to his wife's remark.
"You know I like having you with me."
"Only because you're scared to death of these ghosts."
"That's not true! I like ghosts, and I'm not afraid of them one bit. I wouldn't be here if I was afraid, would I?"
"You're just bonkers."
"Wait... did you hear something?"
"No."
"Neither did I."
"Go to sleep, Anthony."
He lay there thinking, his eyes scanning the dark corner. The thing he had seen had gone, and he wondered whether it was his fertile imagination playing tricks on him. As his mind wandered, he tried to picture the scene in this room all those years ago. The couple in bed, the enraged husband bursting into the room brandishing the axe, the pure shock that must have been felt by the two lovers. And the delicious slice that had chopped off the man's head. Anthony's heart was beating swiftly as he imagined the noise. A loud cry, and then a thud. He couldn't wait.
But then a true sound arrived, and Anthony pricked up his ears. He jerked forwards, adopting a still position, as though he had been turned to stone. Alas, no cry and no thud, but a soft whimpering from the next room. The walls were so thin in these places. Anthony cocked his right ear, to be met by the sound of a man's voice from beyond the wall -- no actual words, just an eerie grunting chant. Anthony put two and two together immediately. It was the unmistakeable sound of sex taking place.
"They seem to be enjoying themselves," mumbled Marilyn, "which is more than can be said for us."
Anthony didn't wish to converse on that subject. He recalled the occasions when they used to indulge in such carnal activity. Making love with Marilyn was like wrestling with a gorilla, not a prospect to be relished. He was so pleased that they had abandoned that particular habit some time ago.
"I wish this sound would come," he said, ignoring the grunting and whimpering from next door, "it's driving me mad."
"Perhaps they put us in the wrong room."
"I hope not! I specifically asked for the haunted room. I don't think they would make a cock-up like that. Would they?"
"They might."
"Damn! How can we make sure?"
"Go down and see them."
"I'm not doing that, I might miss the noise. Why don't you go?"
"I'm not going."
"Damn!"
He settled back on to the pillow, filled with a further anxiety. Suddenly the man in the next room let out a startling, thunderous yell, which Anthony guessed was borne from orgasm. And then there was quiet again. He listened out once more, his ears eager and alert. Come on, come on, he urged. He'd wait all night if he had to, but even so this was causing him great distress. What if the rumours were untrue? What if the Directory of Haunted Inns had got it wrong? No, that couldn't be possible. He believed every word written in that book, it was like a gospel to him. The noise just had to happen. It had to.
"I'm definitely going to ask for my money back," muttered Anthony.
Marilyn stirred again, spelling out some trouble.
"Anthony!" she boomed. "Why don't you just go to sleep? We've got a long journey tomorrow, Finchhampton is miles away. We don't want you falling asleep at the wheel again, do we?"
Anthony dared to snort. "There's no need to bring that up again. And I'm not going to sleep. I want to hear the noise."
"You're like a big child."
"No, I'm not."
"Just go to sleep."
He started to think about next day's trip. Blizzard House in Finchhampton, a haunted inn out in the wilds, miles from nowhere. He was looking forward to it. According to the Directory, the spectre of a small boy exists in one of the rooms. He had been trapped in there during a fire at the place, and had perished before anyone could get to him. Now he appears next to the beds of the guests, and blows plumes of smoke over them, the smoke erupting from his riddled guts. Anthony hoped to have more succes than this dreadful fiasco.
"Did you hear something?"
"No."
"Me neither."
Morning seemed so close at this point.

"I'm in a foul mood," uttered Anthony. "A foul mood!"
"Don't be such a softie," said Marilyn. "You're like a child who didn't get the toy he wanted for his birthday."
"No, I'm not."
He gave the receptionist a scowl as she handed him his debit card. If looks could kill...
"Mornington will carry your cases out for you," she said, nodding to an elderly gentleman with outrageous whiskers. He didn't look as though he had the strength to even lift one of the cases.
"I demand to see the manager!" stormed Anthony.
The receptionist shrank back in fright.
"Take no notice of him," said Marilyn with a smile. "He didn't get much sleep, that's all. He's just a little ratty this morning."
She appeared to accept this, and forced a smile, as if to be friendly.
Anthony contained a raging fury inside him. All night they had spent in that room, and no sound. Not one! No loud cry, no thud. He considered it scandalous, and intended writing to the Directory of Haunted Inns to complain. If Marilyn would let him.
He watched as Mornington struggled with the cases. No way would he assist him, not after such an unfortunate night. He hoped to have more success at Blizzard House, longing for that young boy to send smoke into his face. Yes, he was looking forward to that.
"I'll fetch the car," he said to Marilyn, and toddled off to the rear of the building.
Upon his return he witnessed the sight of Mornington coughing and wheezing on his haunches, two battered cases standing in the gravel beside him. He got out of the car to face the man. Marilyn watched, the muscles of her face twitching in anticipation. She was like a tiger waiting to pounce. One wrong word from Anthony...
"So this is supposed to be the haunted inn, is it?" Anthony asked the old man.
Mornington replied with a wheezing sound before mumbling some words. "Oh yes. We're quite proud of it. We get lots of visitors, curious folk, you know?"
"Like us," said Anthony with a sarcastic smile.
"Exactly."
"Only we didn't hear a thing all night. Not a toot, not a dicky-bird. No horrid cries, no head crashing to the floor. You can't begin to imagine how disappointed I am."
"Anthony, leave it," said Marilyn, her words as icy as an igloo.
Anthony looked at her before adopting some silence. He knew when to be quiet and when not to. He glanced at Mornington, who seemed to be looking at Marilyn with a puzzled expression. Anthony feared the worst.
"You don't look well, madam," said the old man. "You look quite pale, if you don't mind me saying so."
"I mind you saying so," said Anthony, opening the car door to allow his wife to enter. "Now if you don't mind, we must be on our way. Goodbye."
They both got into the car, slamming the doors shut and leaving Mornington to drag the cases on to the back seat. Anthony revved up and left, almost trapping the old man's fingers in the door. The car seemed to be angry, mirroring Anthony's frustration and annoyance at not hearing the haunting sound. And as the car vanished into the distance, Mornington noticed the receptionist come dashing out of the inn in an obvious panic.
"Oh no, they've gone!" she cried, displaying her disappointment.
"What's the matter?" asked Mornington.
"The debit card they paid with," she explained breathlessly, "it's been cancelled."
"Stolen?"
"No. It's really weird. I've checked up, and I've been told that these two people were killed over a year ago. They should be dead!"

"You haven't slept all night," muttered Marilyn, "you're going to fall asleep at the wheel, I know it."
"No, I won't."
"You know what happened last time."
"So? If we crash, we crash."
"You'll fall asleep."
"I won't."
And as they turned out of the gravel driveway, there was a loud cry and a thud in the bedroom they had left.