A Night Inn Hell Read online

  A Night Inn Hell

  A Novel By

  John R K Powell

  © John R K Powell 2013

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously

  First published in the UK by Maxpa Publishing

  The moral right of John R K Powell to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.jrkpowell.wix.com/johnrkpowell

  For my wife, Tanya

  To the future …

  A quick note about John R K Powell

  John was born in Dorset and has spent most of his life in the seaside town of Swanage. Just turned 20, he has recently married his teenage sweetheart and, to his great joy, has a beautiful month-old daughter. As much as he would love to spend all his time with his new wife and child, John is an extremely busy person. He has been working up to fifty hours a week in his local newsagent to fund his Open University studies, and is currently starting his third year of a psychology degree. In addition, whenever and wherever he can − from his desk at five-thirty in the morning, to the Durlston Cliffs at sunset − he writes his stories. With the little time left over, he plays football and golf and studies dinosaur books.

  Although his academic career is far from finished, he has, thus far, achieved 5A*'s, 5A's and a B at GCSE and 3A's and a C at A level. He has also gained a diploma in personal training, and is just over a year away from a degree in psychology.

  The story of A Night Inn Hell is set in a Dorset inn and is part of a series of books set around the Hang Inn. This book is set at the turn of the 20th century. Locked Inn is the second ‘Inn’ novel, and is set forty years later, at the start of the Second World War, with a different set of characters. The books can be read in any order.

  Chapter 1

  A Night Inn Hell

  The doorbell rang.

  It echoed around the vast building, before it sounded two more times, leaving the final ring to linger and slowly diminish until I became unsure whether its droning tone was real or imagined. I was in the highest room of the inn on the second floor, but it was quiet enough to hear the loud, even footsteps of a man on his way to answer the door. The formalities of a greeting were mumbled. There was the high, happy tone of hello, followed by the smiled introduction of names, before the lowered whispers of the talk of the night ahead.

  I often wonder in the relentlessly unending days I have to endure, what the attraction is for people to come to the inn. It definitely had its history. And I had certainly played a big part in it. Yet something about most of the folk that come here tells me they are not interested in the stories I have to tell. Indeed, my stories are not for the faint-hearted and barely convey a sense of the things I used to see and do. I do not suppose it would matter much if they did come to hear my tales, for I have never had a desire to, and never have, told them to a single soul. Unfortunately, in the times we live in, you do not have to tell someone about your past for it to have already been broadcast to the world.

  I guess, in a sense, you could say I am famous. I have never really been the one to seek fame. If I had the choice, I would exchange it all for a second chance to leave the Hell I have created for myself. I did not want the attention when I made my choice to stay, and I certainly did not expect it. I merely believed I did not deserve to move on to a better place after what I had done. People say God forgives everyone, yet to look upon his magnificence in light of what happened that night, countless years ago, would have left my spirit forever riddled with the guilt that I allowed myself such an honour.

  I made my way over to the door of my room and pressed my ear hard against its surface. They were ascending the first flight of stairs. The stairs would lead them to the first floor and a choice of four rooms, two of which were also occupied. Their inhabitants were genuine enough, each with their own infinitely weighted burden to bear. Neither has been here as long as I have.

  The lady in room 204 – one of the rooms below mine – is a remarkably beautiful lady. When we occasionally converse, I very much wish we had met before our lives took such devastating paths. However, if nothing else, at least dreaming of such a wish takes my mind temporarily away from reliving the events of the worst night of my life. Otherwise, I spend each day dwelling on every possible scenario where I could have changed such minor events and stopped myself acting so hastily.

  The footsteps were growing louder. I heard the unmistakable sound of the loud and long creek of the third step from the top of the second flight of stairs – the ones that led to an extensive, narrow hallway, with a large, black door at the end. Despite electricity having long been invented and being an essential part of life for the entire world, the inn was still not on the circuit. It survived only on its old oil lamps and lanterns. This created a somewhat frightening experience as the shadows are cast and flickered on the many walls of the inn in a way that made them come to life. That was nothing but a children’s puppet-shadow game, compared to the long, unlit, pitch-black walk along the passage that ended with the black door. The door that led to the top room of the inn. My room.

  “Take careful, slow steps, with your hands on the shoulder of the one in front of you,” I heard the owner of the inn inform his company.

  The inn had a few employees. Most were afraid to lead guests to my room, so it was always the same man who did the ‘dreaded’ task. Well, I say man − he was really just a boy. Fresh from education and already stuck in a dead-end job. To be the owner of the inn at such a tender age was a remarkable feat, but a brain like his needs to be more occupied. It needs to be distracted. The consequences if not, will be severe. I often hear him telling guests it is the best experience in life for what he eventually wanted to do, though I did my best to deter him away from a life path I detested so dearly.

  They were now so close to the door I could hear each of their individual quickened breaths. I ran across to the other side of the room to hide in the wardrobe, and kept the door ajar to give myself a view of what was happening. I was relieved when they knocked. It always angered me if they did not give me the courtesy of knocking before entering. It was, after all, my room. But the boy knew better now. He, unlike the other employees, had learnt his lesson the first time he came in and did not knock.

  The large door took some effort to open. The boy had to use his weight to force the rusting hinges to allow their entry.

  “Come on, don’t be scared now. You were all talk a moment ago downstairs, let’s see the walk,” the boy jeered, seeing the couple standing back from the threshold of my room.

  “Alright, I was just taking a breather from climbing the stairs,” the man replied.

  He had a woman standing behind him. Possibly his girlfriend. She followed as closely as possible to ensure, if anything did happen, she would not be the one it happened to. She gripped his hand intimately. Definitely the man’s girlfriend. It intrigued me. The girl was very pretty. Not long an adult and already a very mature looking woman. The man, on the other hand, seemed unable to properly dress himself. His t-shirt was two-sizes too big and his jeans were only pulled halfway up his backside. He looked ridiculous. I leant forward. They had my curiosity.

  “He can’t cause you any harm, miss. He might try his best to scare you, but he can’t hurt you.”

  “How do you know? If he does the things I read about in the brochure, what stops
him from killing us?” she asked.

  “For one, I know him. He doesn’t wish to kill anyone. Secondly, their kind might be able to move or throw things, and have even been known to cause terrible hallucinations, but never has there been a case where someone has been hurt. It must be some kind of law for them, I suppose. It’s the live ones you want to watch out for.”

  It was true. I have not tried to kill anyone since I chose to remain. I have tried to pick up objects that could cause serious harm – even if I did not want to hurt someone, just threaten – and I have been unsuccessful every time. I can use doors and pick up soft or blunt instruments. That is the extent of my ability. Although, it is usually enough to give me the satisfaction of scaring the whit’s out of intruders.

  The other long term inhabitant of the first floor bedrooms of the inn – another woman, in the second bedroom – is far from as nice as my lady in the room below mine. She was, thankfully, after my time as well. Such is her hatred for our guests, she has managed to pick up a knife. However, the energy was drained from her in an instant, forcing her to simply drop it to the floor.

  There are two others who dwell in the inn. They share the ‘Hanging Room’. I despise them. I guess you could say they do not like me all that much either. The reason being, I was the one responsible for ending their lives. During the day, we tend to ignore each other, but at night ... at night we change. They become the murderous, devious, evil people they once were, and I relive the last moments of my life. We cannot help it. It just happens every day. Sunset until sunrise.

  “Is there anything I can get you?” the boy asked.

  “No, I think we’re ok,” replied the male guest.

  “Wait. Where are you going?” asked the woman, seeing the boy turn to leave.

  “I don’t stay with you, I have other things to do. I won’t be returning till the morning, at the first hint of sunrise.”

  “But you can’t leave us,” she pleaded.

  “This was explained to you when you first called. The experience you’ll have here is like no other in the world. For it to be that way, we don’t hold your hands and make you cups of hot chocolate while you feel the full wrath of the coldness he brings.”

  “What if we don’t want to do it anymore?” she asked.

  “Then you can leave. But as stated before, there will be no refunds.”

  “I’m not paying all that money to leave now, Stella,” the man told her.

  Stella. I had not heard that name in over one hundred years. She was one of the most extraordinary woman I could ever have wished to meet. Beautiful as she was, it was her faith that compelled me. It was always impeccable, no matter how bad things became. It broke my heart that I did not say goodbye. I deeply wish I had done so before acting so impulsively.

  I left my lust for the past and returned to the present to focus on the current conversation.

  “Please decide now. I have other things to do,” the boy forced.

  The couple continued to stare each other in the eyes, before the man eventually announced, “We’re staying.”

  “Then let me leave you with this. They say his spirit can smell your fear, that he loathes its stench and stink. They say that it angers him, that it pushes him to the edge and to the brink. They say his soul longs to rectify the past, that he dwells in regret. They say he wants to repent for those sins, that he is forever in debt. This is the curse that the ghost of the Hang Inn is to suffer for eternity, to remember every face and tear of each victim’s family,” the boy recited, as enthusiastically as he could for at least the hundredth time.

  I suppose I agreed with the curse, though I only have one sin to repent for. And it is only one victim’s family of whom I am forced to think.

  “Welcome to …” The boy paused dramatically, slowly closing the door, keeping his head visible until the last second where, just before slamming the door shut, he added, “A Night Inn Hell.”

  Chapter 2

  Whitechapel Murderer

  The Hang Inn was, to begin with, a beautiful pub and inn that specialised in keeping their customers happy. It was somewhere which welcomed all walks of life, with the owners treating each customer as their best and encouraging them to return again. This was how the innkeeper managed. These repeat customers kept him and his wife earning a living.

  The inn was seven miles from any other form of civilisation in any direction. It was not easy having their business so far away from the busy life of a city, town or even just a village but, with the help of loyal customers and travellers, they coped. In fact, they both loved it there – the innkeeper and his wife – and lived in peace and harmony for six years before their lives were suddenly changed forever.

  It was 1897 and approaching the turn of the twentieth century when times for them seemed to become hard on the ground. Visitors to the inn were few and far between and regulars seemed to be tiring of the long and arduous journey. They were simply choosing closer to home. The innkeeper knew if they did not get some new, regular custom soon, the dream life would be over.

  To prevent this from being the case, the wife of the innkeeper prayed with her husband one night.

  “Dear Lord, we have been kind to those who come here and have never taken advantage of any of them. We love it here, but we fear we may soon have to give up this life for another. Please work a miracle for us, Lord, and we will be forever thankful.”

  “God doesn’t care about our wishes for an easy and happy life. We are just two mute ants in a colony of billions with voices,” the innkeeper dismissed.

  He undressed and slid under the covers and into bed. His wife stood up from kneeling beside the bed and looked down at him.

  “That’s not true,” she said. “God is everywhere and anywhere. I will not have you questioning his undying love for us.”

  “It’s not his undying love for us I question. It’s his existence I’m not sure of,” the innkeeper muttered, much louder than he had intended. As a result, he quickly rolled over to turn away from her.

  “How dare you!” she shouted, marching around to the other side of the bed to face him.

  He dared not to look up.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You know what. We have a life of luxury in a period of time that sees people dying daily at a quarter of the age they should live to. We’ve had six years of this life, and the one we lived before that wasn’t half bad either. So if it’s our time to leave it and let some other poor soul have a chance, then so be it.”

  She continued to glare at him. Peter knew she would continue to do so until he apologised.

  “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  “Look at me,” she demanded.

  He reluctantly did as he was told.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So you damn well should be,” she barked.

  After feeling satisfied at having the last word, she huffed as she made her way back around to her side of the bed. Peter and Stella did not often argue. When they did, Peter knew he was wrong. This was not because Stella always had to be right. She was simply always right. It was only in the case of faith when Peter had a hard time agreeing with her. All of that ‘eternal life’ stuff is a little too good to be true, he would think to himself. It would not be long before he saw for himself that, once again, Stella knew best.

  Two days later, late at night, they received an official sounding knock at the door. There were three sharp and evenly spaced rasps on the thick wood.

  “Hang on, hang on,” the innkeeper shouted, shuffling down the stairs to answer the door, wearily-eyed from the abrupt awakening.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “It’s an officer of the law, sir,” a booming voice replied.

  The innkeeper took a quick peak through a tiny gap he had made in the door six years ago. Four uniformed men were standing outside. They were drenched in the pouring rain.

  “Thank you, sir,” the officer said, after the innkeeper opened the door to let them in. “I’m very sorry t
o disturb you at such a late hour. That’s one hell on a storm going on out there.”

  He was a very tall man, perhaps six-feet-five and built like he could run a marathon, as well as compete in a sprint and hold his own in a boxing ring. To be an officer back then, he had to be like that − lean enough to catch the criminals, but strong enough to cope with them when he reached them. At least, that was the sure sign of a good officer and one not to argue with. He was also extremely handsome and young – maybe in his mid-twenties. Peter was a man and even he had to look twice to believe his eyes. He had long, wavy hair, slicked back and wet from the rain, bright and deep blue eyes, a charming smile, and an authoritative air about him.

  “No worries, officers,” Peter said. “No worries. The weather’s been like this five or six days a week for the past few months.” The innkeeper took his place behind the bar, embarrassed to be addressing police officers in his dressing gown. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Oh we couldn’t, sir,” replied the same officer.

  The other officers had taken their seats around the nearest table to the fire. The innkeeper immediately made his way over to light it.

  “It’s on the house, Officer. There’s no charge for the upholders of the law in this pub when they’re in need of refuge.”

  This was the innkeeper’s best trick of the trade. Kindness was the key to creating return customers. Simple yet effective.

  “Well, if you insist. Make it four brandies, please. The name’s Jason, by the way. Jason Buckland.”

  The innkeeper left the growing fire, satisfied it would not die-out.

  “Peter,” the innkeeper said, “Peter Stokes.”

  They shook hands and Peter rushed to the bar to pour a generous amount of brandy into four small tumblers.