Your Room is Ready

By Kimberly Andreadis

Copyright June, 2025

The young couple arrived on Crete with no itinerary—just a map folded wrong, a tiny rented Fiat, and a vague plan to drive south into the mountains and on to the seaside in southern Crete. An adventure!

It was late morning and the sun was bright when they left Heraklion, the sea behind them just a shimmer of silver. As they climbed higher and higher, the villages became sparser and the roads narrower. The landscape grew wild and thick. Olive trees marched in crooked rows over the hills. From time to time, a stray goat or two blocked the road—completely unbothered.

There were no guardrails. No shoulders. Only rock and sky. And it was hot! The air conditioning in the fiat puttered along hardly cooling; sweat dripping from their brows, they ploughed on.

He kept both hands on the wheel. She cringed, watching the road nervously for oncoming cars, especially around the sharp turns. The altitude increased until she could no longer get reception on her phone. She begged him to blow the horn before every hairpin curve.

“Just to be safe,” she said.

“I thought this would feel different—freer,” she added later. And not so hot.!”

“It is free,” he replied. “That’s what makes this so special.” Hot, this is Greece. Of course it’s hot.”

She shrugged, her heart racing as she peered over the deep gullies and cliffs below.

They didn’t speak much after that, staying focused on the road, beeping the horn at every bend. Finally, after several hours, they came upon a small taverna nestled in a valley surrounded by olive trees.

With a sigh of relief, he suggested a break.

A smiling gentleman approached them as they got out of the car. “Come and taste our local wine. The moussaka is fresh today.”

They sat under a grape arbor and ordered both, surprised by how hungry they were. The sweet red wine was so delicious, they ordered a second bottle. Slowly, they began to relax. In contrast to the perilous mountain journey, this finally felt like a vacation.

As the sun dropped, they paid the cheerful owner and told him to keep the change. Their spirits lifted—assisted by the potent wine—they resumed their journey, hoping to reach the next village before dark.

“I’ve really mastered these hairpin turns,” he boasted confidently.

Just then, the car skidded dangerously close to the edge.

“Careful!” she warned. “It’s still as hard to navigate as before. Let’s just find a hotel before it gets dark.”

They hadn’t made reservations and began to feel nervous again. The roads twisted tighter, the mountains pressed closer. Dusk turned the sky from gray to black. The heat made them both sweat. A shower. A pillow. A door that locked. That’s all they wanted now.

“What if we don’t find a place?” she asked.

“We could sleep in the car under the olive trees,” he offered half-heartedly.

“Absolutely not,” she snapped. We barely fit in here sitting."

Just as she was conjuring visions of their king-size bed and soft, high-thread-count sheets back home, she saw a light on a distant ridge. Like the taverna earlier, this building seemed to appear out of nowhere—brightly lit on the crest of the mountain.

It felt like a beacon of hope.

But as they drew closer, disappointment hit. The building was decrepit, windowless, and badly in need of whitewash. Painted in crude black letters across the wall was: “Hol I Dae In.”

“Doesn’t look like a very good hotel,” she said dryly.

“I hear you,” he replied. “You’re tired and so am I. But this is Greece—everyone is hospitable. Let’s just ask where the nearest hotel is. I’m sure they’ll help.”

“Well,” she said, “there is no way I’m sleeping in this car. Let’s go.”

They entered the building. Inside, a group of men in dusty clothes and weathered hats sat drinking. The air was thick and warm. The space—though it looked like a restaurant—felt nothing like the cozy tavernas they had hoped for.

They hesitated, then slipped quickly into an empty table.

The men at the bar spoke in coarse, low Greek. Their eyes drifted toward the couple with guarded curiosity. Instantly, the couple felt out of place—like they’d stepped into someone else’s world.

An older woman approached. Her long dark hair was streaked with gray and tied back in sloppy bun. Jewelry clinked as she moved. She greeted them in Greek. Thankfully, the man spoke enough kitchen Greek to communicate. She was grateful for that.

After a strained exchange, the woman nodded and disappeared behind a curtain.

“I ordered omelettes,” he said. “She’s going to get her husband. Apparently, he speaks English.”

“Have you looked at the decor?” his partner whispered.

The walls were surreal: religious icons of saints alternated with faded Playboy centerfolds. Virgin Mary. Miss November. Saint George. A topless blonde.

“Oh my God,” she muttered. “This place is so strange.”

“Shhh,” he warned. “We’re about to get some help.”

The woman returned with two heavy plates—omelettes greasy and oversized. She set them down without a word.

“I’m not eating this,” she whispered to him.

Then the husband arrived—a broad-shouldered man with dark features and a full mustache.

“How can I help you, mates?” he said—in a thick Australian accent.

Everything felt more surreal.

“We’re looking for a hotel,” her partner explained. “How far to the next town?”

“Nothing for forty miles,” the man said, shaking his head. “And by then, everything’ll be shut down. You haven't a chance, mate."

They sat in silence, poking at the food. Minutes later, the woman passed by with cleaning supplies, her hair now tied up in a kerchief. Then she passed by again, with a broom. Then again with a mop.

Finally, the man returned holding a lantern.

“I’ve got a room for you here,” he said, quoting a price.

“Let us think about it,” her partner said.

“It’s cheap,” he added once the man left. “I think we should take it.”

“This place is creepy,” she whispered. “Is it really our only option?”

“It is,” he replied. “It’s just for one night.”

She nodded, reluctantly.

“Good choice, mates,” the man said, leading them out a side door.

They descended a crumbling stone staircase by lantern light. The scent of thyme and dry earth lingered. The silence grew heavier.

Halfway down, five men appeared climbing up beside them as they descended. They were Sun-darkened, thick-bodied, brooding. They muttered in guttural Greek, brushing past. One looked back at her—expressionless.

At the bottom of the stairs, they reached a rusted metal door.

“It’s in here,” the man said, flipping on a switch.

Inside: five narrow beds, holy icons alternating with centerfolds, just like upstairs. The air was stale. A single candle flickered on the table. It was warm and smelled of ammonia.

“W/C’s in there,” he said, then he vanished.

“It’ll be fine,” her partner said. “Just one night.”

Then came the whirring—a mechanical hum, like an engine. He spotted a lighted candle on a table. "What's this for he said out loud as he blew out the candle.

“What was that?” he asked. They strained dto listen as the humming noise slowed down gradually.

The sound stopped and at the same time the lights went out.

Then—total darkness.

She gasped. “Why did the lights go out?” She scrambled for the switch. Nothing.

He pulled a flashlight from his bag. Its weak beam offered little relief.

“We shouldn’t have stayed here,” she whispered. “What if they’re planning something? What if they come back? What if—”

“Here,” he said, handing her a can of bug spray. “Spray their eyes. I’ve got the beach mat. It’s tight—makes a good defense weapon.”

She chuckled nervously. “We should keep our shoes on. In case we have to run.”

Their shadows danced on the wall. A floorboard creaked above. The wind picked up. They spotted a door to another room; it was locked.

They agreed to sleep in shifts. He leaned on a corner bed, beach mat in hand.

“I still can’t believe we stayed,” she whispered.

He heard voices through the wall—low, angry, unintelligible. He understood some Greek. Shh, he told her. let me listen."

“OK, Ok, Listen,” she said, eyes wide. “It’s those men again. They’re yelling. We took their beds. They’re furious.”

He pressed his ear to the wall. After a long moment: “I don’t know what they’re saying, but they’re definitely not happy.”

She stood up abruptly. “We should go. Right now.”

He took her hands, steady but gentle. “There’s nowhere to go. It’s pitch dark. The cliffs are worse at night. We just have to make it to sunrise.”

“No,” she said firmly. “You don’t understand. I cannot sleep here tonight.”

Her voice broke a little—not from weakness, but from resolve.

“I won’t close my eyes. I won’t even sit down. You rest if you want. But I’m staying up. I’m not letting my guard down in this place.”

She grabbed the bug spray and grabbed the rolled-up mat from him. She had her weapons and she backed toward the far wall, eyes on the door.

“I Cannot. Sleep. Here. Tonight.”

He started to respond—but then came the sound.

A low creaking.

Not from upstairs. Not from outside.

It was coming from the other side of the locked metal door. The one that had been silent. Locked, they thought. There was a scraping sound, a key in the lock?

She held her breath.

Then—

Knock.

Once.

Twice.

Three slow, deliberate raps.

The flashlight flickered. Then died.

Darkness swallowed them whole.

She clutched the mat tighter. Her voice was barely a whisper, but clear:

“I told you. I cannot sleep!”

o https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/.