Rain lashed against the car windows and a bitter wind howled through barren fields, Emma and James were stranded on a lonely country road. The relentless storm meant they could go no further.
Then they saw the Old Red Cow, a solitary inn nestled at the edge of a forgotten lane: sanctuary.
They pushed open the creaking door, stepping into a building that reeked of damp decay. In the dim foyer, an old landlady appeared as if conjured by the very winds outside.
Her voice, brittle yet strangely inviting, offered them the only room in the house – a cramped space that seemed frozen in neglect. With a heavy, tarnished key handed over without a word, she melted away into the deep shadows of the inn.
The room was dark and dirty. The nylon sheets were damp and dust danced in the faint light that struggled through grimy windows.
They went in search of the landlady to complain but she was nowhere to be found.
Reluctantly, they decided to endure a harrowing night, restless and anxious until dawn. At first light, they departed in silence, vowing never to return.
Emma thought little about it until that summer when on holiday in Ibiza she fell into a conversation about the worst hotel they’d ever stayed in. Giggling, she nominated the Old Red Cow. Her new companion’s face blanched. ‘I know that place,’ she said, voice like gravel, ‘It’s been closed for years, ever since the landlady was murdered by a drunken customer.’
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 