We were sharing a meal at the old inn, the air thick with laughter. Our table by the hearth was cozy, the fire crackling warmly. Suddenly, a chill wrapped around me, and a low murmur brushed past my ear. The words were unclear, but they carried a sense of urgency, a silent command.
The strange feeling faded, but a few minutes later, a sharp, cold pain shot across my scalp, as if an unseen hand had pulled my hair. Faint, desperate cries filled the air around me, voices begging for help that would never come. Then, as quickly as it started, the cold and the noise vanished, and the room felt warm once more.
I was badly shaken and made my excuses to leave. The next morning, I looked into the inn’s history. I discovered that centuries ago, the original builder and his son had met a terrible end in that very room during a robbery. The son had been pulled from the spot where I sat, his life taken just steps away.
I still visit the inn, but I never sit in that corner again.