Night at the Antioch

A flash story. I don't know how to end flash stories, so what am I doing wrong?

It was this backwater Inn or another hour on the road and they’d already been driving for eight. The Antioch Inn --Jodi had visions of a brick farmhouse, big porch, friendly old innkeepers. She’d hardly heard the man at the Speedy Mart express his doubts about the place even being open.

“I’m cold,” Lisette complained. She’d been good, but the ride was wearing on her, too.

“Almost there.”

Jodi had rolled down both front windows, hoping the November chill would keep her awake. Her thoughts drifted to her husband. Scott on the porch. His arms crossed as she loaded the suitcases into her Toyota. The threats. No, don’t think about it. Then she saw the turn. The road was narrow and unpaved.

“Where are we going?” Lisette asked.

“The Inn that man told us about.”

“He said that place was closed and it was good.”

“Nope,” Jodi said. “He said it was a good place.”

She carefully followed the curving road, aware of the falling darkness—the trees seemed closer here, conspiring in tight groups, blocking out the setting sun. Then, they were there.

It was perfect. Warmly lit windows offset the gloom; stone construction, with a welcoming porch that stretched the house’s length. On either side, woods encroached—mature trees, mostly bare of leaves, commanded the side yards: pillars against the forest proper.

“We’re staying there?” Lisette asked.

“Yep,” Jodi said, smiling. Hidden away in the woods. She pulled up to the front and turned off the car.

“But it’s all dark!” Lisette protested.

Jodi twisted around to look at her daughter. “We’re in the woods!” Lisette stared, her little brows bunching up, her mouth half-open, her braid a tangled mess. “Any other place is far away; we’re tired.” Jodi opened her door, legs wavering. She looked up again. Wide stairs led to a massive door and a Welcome sign in antique script. Jodi opened Lisette’s door and helped her out.

“What’s that?” She was off and running up the walk. Jodi followed.

The stake was eight feet tall, rough and weathered. Jodi read the metal sign beside the odd monument.

In commemoration of Pennsylvania’s only witch trial: November 4, 1698. Abigail Rickett was convicted of witchcraft in the disappearance of three Antioch children. A mob set out to burn Rickett at this spot. Magistrates intervened, but Rickett was dragged back and beaten. She was buried behind the Antioch Inn, her former home.

“The anniversary,” Jodi remarked.

Lisette looked up. “What does it say?”

“Nothing,” Jodi said, her body suddenly sore with fatigue. “Let’s just check in. Mama’s tired.”

***

Jodi opened the door to the foyer. Two leather chairs sat, facing each other. A coffee table stood between them holding a fanned display of magazines. Stained glass lamps provided low lighting. Jodi looked down to point out the lamps to Lisette, but the little girl was gone.

Gasping, Jodi turned. Lisette was still standing at the threshold. “Lisette!”

The little girl looked up, eyes wide. “I don’t like this place.”

“It’s dark because it’s late, honey,” Jodi said. She hoisted the girl onto her hips. Lisette tucked her face under Jodi’s chin.

“It is quite late.”

Jodi turned. A woman was standing behind the ornate counter. She was old: grey hair knotted in back. Her face, perhaps once pleasantly rounded, was lined and sagging. Rough life.

“We just need a room for tonight,” Jodi said. A beat--the woman examined her. “I’m sorry to bother; we’re just really tired. You’re the only place around.”

The old woman pushed the guest register closer to Jodi.

“The girl is tired,” the woman said.

“We both are,” Jodi agreed, signing.

The woman took a key from a row of hooks hanging behind her. “Room twenty-five. Top of the stairs. You can pay tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Jodi said.

“Pretty?” the woman asked. “The child?” A weak smile appeared on the woman’s face. She pointed an arthritic finger to Lisette.

Jodi grinned. “Very.”

***

The room was small, but clean. A double bed was made up with a quilt that looked handmade. One nighttable, a lamp glowing brightly atop it, stood beside it. A dresser, a mirror above it, and an antique straight backed chair were the only other furnishings. Jodi put Lisette down, and the girl immediately clung to her leg.

“Listen,” Jodi said, feeling her fatigue. “Let’s just get to sleep. Just jump in bed and sleep.” She lifted Lisette again, and carried her to the bed.

“It’s horrible,” Lisette wailed.

“Shhhhh! You’ll hurt that old lady’s feelings. It’s not horrible—just old fashioned.” Jodi lay down on the bed and cuddled Lisette closely. “I’ll hold you. You’re fine.” And then, not even bothering with the light, she fell asleep.

***

Morning brought rain and thunder. Feeling the onset of a headache, Jodi opened her eyes, then brought up her hands to rub them. She was at the Inn. A crazy drive down some very dark roads. They’d left Scott and were going to Erie. She sat up. Lisette wasn’t on the bed. Thunder clapped again, sounding louder than it should. The storm darkened the room—Jodi reached to find the nightstand light, but it wasn’t there. There was wind coming in the room.

She got to her feet, knowing something was very wrong. There was no glass in the window; in fact, there was hardly a window.

She turned. The bed, last night warmed by a quilt, was covered with a dark and rotted blanket. The dresser drawers were pulled open; one of them was halfway across the room.

“Lisette,” Jodi shouted. She wasn’t here.

She pulled open the door, shouting as she ran down the hall, banging past peeling wallpaper, holes in the walls. Scrambling down the stairs and into the foyer, she stopped, her heart careening up her chest. There were no chairs, no lamps. Rotting floorboards, dark stains, an open door. The counter gouged with deep cuts to the wood. A blonde braid.

“Lisette!” she screamed. “Lisette!”