The Reality of Our Inn

I poured my husband a cup of coffee, the milk still steaming on the stove.  I’d grated fresh cinnamon and sprinkled brown sugar in the pot.  A special drink for a gloomy day.  The clouds hung low, touching the mountain a bit higher up.  The road was iced over, no matter how much salt we poured.  There was salt on the windows too, and lined along all the doorways.  Many people who visited the area later said they left it superstitious; the mountains could be an eerie place.  I sipped some of the black coffee, and it was so hot it almost singed my tongue.  That’s the only way to drink it here, so hot it almost burns.  We decided to live in the inn year round because we used to love the snow.  I still love it sometimes.  I may need layers and layers of clothes, my hands may never get warm, but it really is beautiful.  Even holding the burning mug, the backs of my hands are icy.  He beckoned me softly from the lobby where he sat by the tall, frosted windows.

“One minute, love,”  I stirred the milk and put a drop of extract in. I hadn’t bought the artificial stuff in years.  Only pure vanilla gives it that special touch.

The milk covered the coffee like a blanket of snow on the hard, black earth.  We sat by the window, sipping it and tapping away at our laptops, until the sun moved above our heads.

We got a lot of traffic that time of year.  Adventurous types, looking for a thrill on the ski slopes nearby or a weekend hiking the area.  Some of them scared us.  They brought rock climbing gear and hunting bows and said they’d reach the top of our mountain if it killed them.  They didn’t come back for days, their rooms unattended.  Of course, most of them knew their limits and came back fine.  Some were unlucky.  Some pushed themselves too hard.  Having to call the police was terrifying, but there were good people working the area. The search team found every lost customer we sent them after, all alive.  Except for one, who I wish I could forget.  He was a man who looked like he’d just stepped out of an old western film.  Covered in grime and bearded to his belly.  His eyes were sunken and the deepest black I’d ever seen on a real person.  He arrived off the ski lodge bus with only a bag; he left to climb with nothing but whatever was in the pockets of his cargo jacket.

The day he arrived, I’d been making our morning coffee.  He asked for a cup the moment he stepped through the doors, bringing in a flurry of snow with him.  I poured him one and he downed it like a madman.  I almost thought I saw the steam coming out with his breath while he told me his name and asked for a room.  He’d be staying two weeks, hiking the mountain for most of it.  He wore only one coat; the shirt under it seemed thin.  I voiced my concern, but he only shook his head,

“The cold doesn’t scare me.  There’s nothing to be scared of at all on this mountain.”  I thought of the salt that lined my bedroom window and shook my head,

“If you respect it, it’ll treat you well.  But fear and respect go hand in hand sometimes,”  I refilled his cup as I spoke, “Many people have died up there.” 

He pulled his coffee to himself, almost huddled around it.  His eyes met mine,

“Have you ever met one?”

I shook my head, “Luckily, no one I know.  You hear all about it in the papers though.  Avalanches, people getting lost and sheltering in caves.”

“No, no,” He leaned closer, “Have you ever met one coming back down?”  I shook my head again, not knowing what to make of what he’d said.  My mind had gone to a cold night when we’d first moved in.  The blue sky had dimmed with dusk, and the moon was bright behind misty clouds.  Snow covered the sparsely forested land outside the window.  My husband was asleep when I saw it. 

He sipped at his coffee while I marked his name in the registry.  

“Ernest Drewitt”  

My husband got along well with him.  He seemed to be preparing for the journey over the next couple of days, but I never saw him go out to buy supplies.  The beat up canvas bag seemed to hold all his worldly possessions.  He’d sit with us by the fire in the evenings and tell us everywhere he’d been.  We had a flat screen TV and a console set up there, and we’d spent many hours in front of it when business was slow.  Ernest despised it.  They fought over playing a few games, but I could tell he’d never be interested.  He wouldn’t even pick up the controller.  We went out and bought a VR headset.  We’d been wanting to get one for ages.  When Ernest came down for his morning coffee and saw me waving the controllers at invisible enemies, he doubled over laughing.  Said that it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.  It stopped being funny when we tried to get him to put it on.  Ernest went outside while he fumed; I rubbed his shoulders and told him to remember the man’s age.  I was sure new technology would be daunting for someone so old.  The headset sat on the ottoman, its blue light blinking away.

I was worried about the day he’d head up the hill.  Maybe he’d be smart enough not to spend the night out there.  We got a lot of day-hikers that would take advantage of every night they paid for.  He seemed set on taking his chances, though.  I’d offered him a thicker coat, warmer gloves, and even, once, a new pair of shoes especially bought for him.  He refused them all.  During the day, while we helped customers coming and going in the lobby, he sat outside.  He seemed to be meditating, or maybe just watching the scenery.

I didn’t sleep well that night.  It was colder than it’d been all winter.  I kept waking up, clicking away on my phone, and staring out the window.  Thinking, again, of that strange night.  I called what I’d seen a fairy, a ghost, an apparition of some kind.  I stared hard, through a volley of snow, at the tree about ten yards away, a black hand clawing at the sky.  She had been behind it, at first.  A strange blue glow.  I had pressed my nose into the glass, squinted until I could see my eyelashes, trying to make out what it was.  Then she stepped into the open.  

She was there, and not there.  A shadow made of light and static.  It was almost like old TV static, moving through her veins.  She moved in clips and jumps, floating just above the ground.  When she moved too fast, it seemed like the sky behind her morphed to fit her shape that was no longer there.  She had been moving towards the house, and she fell to the ground in a series of snapshots.  I thought I could almost hear her wailing while she threw her arms against the ground.  Suddenly her head was too big, too small, completely flat.  It stabilized and I realized a scream was caught in my throat.  I later described it as grotesque.  She looked at the window.  She looked at me, and I looked at her. Her eyes didn’t look right.  Apparently calmed, she stood up less haltingly and floated back towards the trees.  I felt I could move again and immediately shook the bundle of blankets behind me awake.  He thought I’d had a nightmare at first, but I’d just sent a message to someone a minute before.  I’d been awake.  Eventually, he decided to believe me.  

I stood up abruptly, not wanting to think about it any more.  I dumped more salt on the windowsill and turned to the door.

In the kitchen, the ice clinked in my cup.  Someone tripped over something in the lobby and cursed quietly.  I stepped out behind the bar and clicked its soft lights on.  

“Ernest?”  He tipped his hat.  His pack was slung over one shoulder. 

“I’m heading out, little lady.”

“No you are not.  Look at that storm, are you insane?”  I set down my cup and stepped towards him, “Have you been drinking?”

He shook his head and slipped on his boots.  I looked around wildly for my phone, ready to call the rangers if I couldn’t stop him.  

“Oh, the rangers will come looking, I’m sure.  It’s my time though.”  I screamed for my husband, not wanting to leave a clearly unstable man alone.  

“Don’t you dare go out in weather like this.”  That was all I could say, “It’s dangerous!”

“Dangerous!  Didn’t I tell you, there’s nothing to be scared of here.  There’s nothing on this mountain.  The cold, the snow, the wind, it’s all nothing.”  I ran to the stairwell and screamed for my husband to wake up again.  An annoyed-looking customer peered over the railing on the second story.  

“Call the rangers, a man’s about to walk off into the storm!”  The customer stood up straighter and rushed off to their room.  

“What’s that?”  My husband finally stumbled down the stairs.

“It’s Ernest,” I turned to him, but there was only snow gathering in the open doorway.  I sprinted outside in nothing but my house slippers, screaming his name.  This was the type of weather you died in.

He was halfway to the tree.  He turned when he heard us running towards him.  We pleaded with him, and my husband shook his shoulder,  

“Listen to reason now, man.”  He shook his head.  Ernest grabbed my hand.  His fingers were like ice, 

“You’re a nice young couple.  You, though, I know you’ve seen them.  The fragments of a person, all left to rot.  It scared you, didn’t it?”

“I don’t understand.  I saw something, maybe, once.”  He leaned close,

“They’ve got static in their eyes.”  He whispered.  I’d always tried to forget her eyes.

I nodded.

He squeezed my hand, “Haven’t you two noticed?  Aren’t your hands always cold?”  He released me and adjusted his bag.

My husband was pacing by then, “Of course!  We’re in the mountains!”

“Well, usually, a person’s hands would warm up if you sat them in front of the fire.”  With that, he turned and walked off into the trees.  We tried to restrain him, he grabbed at his arms and I pulled his backpack.  All his traveling must’ve made him strong, or maybe it was his will.  He wrangled himself out of our grip and calmly kept walking.  We kept track of him as far as we could see, but we weren’t even wearing shoes.  We held hands on the way back to the open lobby door.  The rangers took less than fifteen minutes to arrive and less than five to start searching.  You could even still see the footprints, for a while.

The search lasted a week, but halfway through he was presumed dead.  We hadn’t taken his ID, and we couldn’t find anyone with his name matching his description.  No grieving relatives came forward.  His last words hung over my head.  I held my husband’s hand every time it was free.  It was always cold.

On slow days, I took to sitting outside the lobby like he had.  On the concrete bench under the window.  I watched the tree.  My husband would shuffle me back inside after less than five minutes.  One day, he started to sit beside me, his hand on top of mine.

“Tell me about what you saw by the tree again.”  I did.

 Spring brought a little green back to the mountain.  Our hands were still cold.  

“Did they feel any different when we lived in town?  How many years has it been?”

“I couldn’t remember something like that.”

The unnamable worries faded over time, but we’d still spend a few minutes in the evenings on the bench.  The inn made good money, and the years passed comfortably.  One night, he decided to make us some hot chocolate.  A special treat for a gloomy night.  He wanted to make it for us.

I stayed outside watching the stars blip in and out of view in the clear sky.  I didn’t notice the shadow walking towards me till I saw a strange light and looked down.  It made no sound on the snow.  It curled and lagged in the same way the woman had, but this time I wasn’t filled with revulsion.  Ernest tipped his hat.  I didn’t have time to call for my husband.  He reached out for a handshake, arm wavering.  I took his hand without thinking.  A blue spark arched between us in a brilliant flash and everything went black.  I don’t know how much time passed.

I woke up somewhere dark.  There was only a soft blue glow coming from under the door.  I could vaguely make out my husband’s features beside me, reclined in a plush chair.  Like the ones in a movie theater.  Wires hung from him like puppet strings, the two biggest ones trailing from his forehead.  I tried to sit up to reach for him, but I was caught in the same mess.  Blankets were curled around us.  Only our hands stuck out on the arm rests.  I freed my arm and tugged at the suction cups on my forehead.  The right one released painfully, but the wire suddenly lit up red.  There were immediate sounds of movement outside.  A gruff voice called,

 “Door five!”  Before I could try to pry more off, the door creaked open almost tentatively.  A young man slipped into the room,

“Hello, miss.  I know this all must be very confusing right now, but don’t worry.  I’m here to explain.”  He had the air of dealing with a feral kitten.  I tugged the other suction cup off.  The red light grew brighter.  He took a step back and put his hands up peacefully.

“That’s fine, those can come off now if you’d like.  If you want help with the rest, just let us know.”  I pulled one off my arm.  “Alright, my name is Justin Lawrence, I work at this company.  We’re basically an arcade.”

I laughed.  He laughed along nervously, “I know, I know, this is all very strange.  I’m sure it’ll come back to you quickly, but you signed up for this!  We call it the ultimate VR experience, Second Life.”  I glanced around the room; there was only one exit.  I pulled off three more wires in one go.  They fell to the floor loudly and I pushed the blanket off with them.

“Oh, be careful, that’s sensitive technology.  Take it slow.”  I tore away from the chair, across the room, and to my husband’s side.  

“Hey!”  His demeanor changed entirely, “Do not remove those wires.  We don’t know what’ll happen if you do.  Please,” He took half a step towards me, “Let’s go into the other room, the lab guys will explain more.  It could be dangerous.”

I white-knuckled the wires attached to his forehead apprehensively.

“He could die, miss.”  I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs, and tears burned at the corners of my eyes.  I released the wires and slumped against the chair.  My fingers ran over the familiar curve of his cheek.  His breath came evenly.  He looked so peaceful.

“Alright,” I slid to the floor by his side, sticking my face in my knees.  No memories came flooding back except of my life with him at the inn.  “I’m not leaving him.  Bring whoever wants to talk to me here.”  I rubbed my eyes and realized my hands were still cold.

I didn’t understand most of what they said, but memories floated to the surface while they talked.  It started as a video game company.  Drewitt Studios.  They wanted to create the most hyper-realistic virtual reality on the market.  We thought we were lucky to get into beta-testing, but the machines were flawed.  Out of the thousand-plus applicants, twenty were chosen.  None left the arcade once they were plugged in.  The stimulus was too real.  Well, all except temperature.  They had to simulate that in the real world.  The two they tried to remove by force died of heart attacks.  Those that died while in the program left something no one could explain.  Glitches left to wander the worlds made just for them.  It was theorized that a glitch might shock the victims out of the program.  Their spheres were combined in hopes they’d meet, but the world generation was too extensive.  

The head of the company plugged himself in without notifying anyone, to test his employees’ theory.  Some said he just wanted to experience the project before it got scrapped forever; some said he was overcome with guilt.  He knew that the longer someone was in the game, the less they would remember of their real life.  He searched the world while the victims' faces were still in his memories.  His sacrifice woke me up, but my husband will sleep until they can direct a glitch his way.  They’re working around the clock to create an artificial glitch with the same effect.

It’s been a week since I woke up.  I live on site, free of charge.  I’m sure I’ll be paid handsomely my whole life.  I don’t want their money.  I want them to plug me back in, with him.  I pour a cup from the office coffee maker.  I put a drop of vanilla on my spoon and stir it in.  I don’t know if its imitation or not.  They taste the same, anyway.