# **26. "The Empty Inn on Dartmoor" – The Story Nobody Wants to Hear After Dark**

Dartmoor, the vast peat bogs in Devon, are full of legends of ghosts, monsters, and lost souls.

Mists linger here like living creatures, and at night you can hear sounds no known animal makes.

But the most terrifying tale involves a building that… shouldn't exist.

It's called **The Empty Inn**—"The Empty Inn."

It's only seen by those who wander the moors alone.

Seen from a distance, it looks like an ordinary old tavern: wooden windows, half-open doors, warm candlelight.

But as you get closer, the light fades.

The doors creak.

And the interior is as cold as stone.

The inn isn't permanent—it **appears** and **disappears**, as if it had a life of its own.

This is the story of a man who dared to go inside.

--

## **I. The Traveler Who Didn't Believe in Tales**

In 1899, a young botanist, Edgar Wainwright, arrived on Dartmoor to study vegetation.

He was a rational, calm man, not a believer in ghosts or superstition.

When the locals warned him about a "phantom inn," he only laughed.

"An inn that appears and disappears?"

"Come on, Devon people have too much time on their hands."

Edgar had planned to spend the night in a remote research hut, but a storm that rolled in from the south was so sudden that he was forced to seek shelter.

The rain poured down like a bucket.

The wind howled like a wounded animal.

As the mist descended on the path, Edgar saw a warm, welcoming light—and a wooden sign.

Barely visible, but distinct:

> **THE EMPTY INN**

He thought he was lucky.

Little did he know that he had found **exactly what he was looking for**—though no one should be looking for it.

--

## **II. Inside—Where There Should Be No Life**

Edgar opened the door. It creaked with a long, drawn-out sound, as if it hadn't been used for a long time.

And yet… candles were burning inside.

A fireplace smoldered in the corner.

The air smelled of smoke, wet wood, and something else—something old, sour, almost… rotten.

Behind the counter stood a man in an old coat.

His face was tired, his eyes—sad.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Edgar began.

“I was seeking shelter.”

The innkeeper nodded.

“Night is not kind to travelers.” “Stay until the storm passes.”

His tone was polite, but strangely empty—as if he were repeating memorized lines.

Edgar took a seat by the fireplace.

Warmth enveloped him, but didn’t warm him.

As if the fire were just… an image of fire.

A moment later, other guests appeared in the inn.

Three.

All dressed in old, tattered cloaks.

Silent.

Their faces were pale, their eyes sunken.

They sat at separate tables, as if ignoring the new arrival.

Edgar wanted to speak, but when he looked into their faces, he felt an icy chill.

Their eyes were… vacant.

Glassy.

As if they were looking *through* him, not *at* him.

The innkeeper noticed his unease.

“Don’t worry.

” “Our guests rarely talk.”

He didn't know how true that was.

--

## **III. The Story of the Men Who Never Left**

The storm lasted a long time.

Edgar asked for a room to sleep in.

The innkeeper nodded and gestured up the stairs.

As Edgar entered the room, he felt something.

Heaviness.

A stuffy presence.

As if the air was thick with the breath of those who had been there before.

The bed looked uncomfortably old, the springs sticking out of the mattress.

And yet… he lay down.

He was tired.

His eyes closed.

And then the world changed.

--

### **A Dream—That Wasn't a Dream**

Edgar saw an inn.

But a different one: loud, full of laughter, music, people.

Travelers and Dartmoor residents sat at the tables.

The innkeeper handed out beer, waitresses carried plates.

Then the door burst open.

A hooded man entered.

No one could see his face.

But everyone fell silent.

The man threw a purse full of gold on the table.

"I want peace."

"And peace."

The innkeeper nodded.

He led him upstairs.

But in the night a scream rang out.

Loud, piercing.

So terrible that the guests ran up the stairs.

The room was empty.

But in the middle... lay a **shadow**.

Not a human.

Not an animal.

A shadow—as if burned into the floor.

Since that night, no one had left the inn.

The doors wouldn't open.

The windows closed by themselves.

The candles burned, though there were no wicks.

The inn had become a prison—and a guard.

--

## **IV. Edgar Awakens and Discovers the Truth**

He woke suddenly.

His heart was pounding.

The room was cold.

Too cold.

Colder than outside.

The candles by the bed were burning, though he hadn't lit them.

He heard voices from downstairs.

The same voices he'd seen in his dream.

Laughter.

Screaming.

And...something else.

A whisper:

"*Stay...stay with us...*"

Edgar quickly packed his things.

He ran down the stairs.

The innkeeper stood by the door.

"Why are you leaving, Mr. Wainwright?"

Edgar turned the knob.

To his surprise, the door opened easily.

"Because this inn isn't for you.""Alive," he replied.

The innkeeper smiled.

For the first time.

A cold and inhuman smile.

"Not for long."

"You'll return when you lose your way."

"*Everyone who sees this inn returns."

---

## **V. The end? No—the beginning of a legend**

Edgar ran out into the rain.

The fog lifted like a curtain.

When he looked back… the inn was gone.

It didn't slowly disappear.

It simply—**faded**, as if someone had extinguished it with a single breath.

When he reached the village, he recounted what he had seen.

The villagers looked at each other, then at him.

"You were lucky," the old woman said.

"The Empty Inn doesn't like its guests to leave."

Edgar never returned to Dartmoor.

But sometimes, as he described the plants of that region, his mind wandered to the light of candles that burned without a fire.

People say the inn is always wandering.

It appears when someone is lost, cold, desperate.

It gives a warmth you can't feel.

A fire that doesn't warm.

A companion that doesn't breathe.

And it waits.

Patiently.

For another traveler to enter the trap from which there is no return.

Because at the "Empty Inn" there is only one rule:

> **Once you cross the threshold, sooner or later you return—if only as a shadow.**

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