Something.

Continued...

The pitch black interior of the hall brought Braeden to a quick stop. He stood on the threshhold staring into the nothingness. Anything could be hiding in there, waiting for him. The hair rose on the back of his neck at the memory of the scream. Returning to the barroom, Braeden fetched a tallow candle from behind the counter and lit it. Holding the flickering light before him like a knight with his sword, he edged into the hall.

The rain began as a whisper from the night and rose to a deafening barrage upon the roof and walls. Braeden crept along, thrusting the candle forward, eyes alert for any unusual sight, any unfamiliar shadow. As he neared the end of the hall and his warm, safe bed, something caught his eye. The door just before his stood wide open. How odd. Who occupied that room? Mentally he shuffled through his guests. Ah yes, the stranger. Braeden had caught but a glimpse of the face beneath the lowered hood as the stranger paid for a night's stay, a glimpse of two dark, dark eyes that glittered in the firelight and a nasty scar that ran from the left ear to the chin. But there'd been something else as well, something curious that the barkeep had seen only once before... his hair. That was it. It was a bright, orange red like the flames dancing in the fireplace. He'd seen that sort of hair once before, thirty years back. It had struck him as odd then too. Real people weren't supposed to have red hair, only people in tales...

The opened door called, taunted. Braeden hesitated, glanced over his shoulder, and slipped inside. No mystery met his eyes, merely an empty room. The stranger had gone, gone without anyone noticing. Well, at least he'd paid his rent. Cupping his hand about the waning light of his candle, Braeden strode farther in, pushing the shadows back as he moved. The bed sat untouched, the blankets wrinkleless, the hard lump of a pillow in the same place it'd been that morning. How odd. Had his guest found the room unfit? With a grunt, he turned to leave, and half tripped over something on the floor.

So the stranger hadn't left after all. For sure he slumped by the fire at that moment, lulled to sleep by drink. Braeden leaned down to get a better look at what he'd kicked, and gasped. The pale face of the groom stared up at him, eyes white as milk. The foul odor of death emanated in repulsing waves from beneath the bed. Braeden staggered back, head swimming, then turned and fled the room.

Outside, in the hall, he paused. His murdering guest could be nearby at that moment, waiting for him to pass by. Bed again sounded good. Braeden's eyes swung up, toward his door, and his heart stopped. It too stood opened. No. No! Without a second though he rushed to it, threw himself at the bed, and plunged his hand through a hole in the mattress. Naught but straw touched his questing hand. No, it wasn't gone, it couldn't be gone. Maybe he'd moved it that morning and forgotten. Yes, he must have moved it to the chest.

Scrambling to his feet, Braeden rushed to the chest and let out a strangled cry. The lid lay seperate form its counterpart, ripped off, and the contents scattered about its base. No, no! Desperate hands sifted through the papers, the coins, the strange objects, every moment expecting to feel the cold smooth surface against rough, calloused fingertips. Nothing. Gone.