The Battlefield Inn

A Civil War veteran wanders home after the surrender of the South. He decides to stop at an inn that has a dark secret. 1,218 words

The Battlefield Inn

Chaz Hemsworth

 

                The cold December wind blew harshly over the body of Frederick Rogerstone.  He clutched his grey coat closer to his body, fighting the wind.  The mountains of Tennessee closed around his back, he had no choice but to press forward.  The year was 1865.  Having finally surrendered, the Confederates now had to wander home often with little food or money.  The sun had set behind the mountains, blackening the immediate area, but  the sky still burned in blood shades.  Frederick looked at the sight, and hurried on.  The battle weary soldier crunched through the snow, which was rapidly getting thicker. The snow was broken by a line of trees.  They looked about a mile off.  Fredrick hugged his Confederate jacket closer.  After fifteen minutes of walking The door was in view.  the sign was faded, but read clearly enough:  Old Halesborough Inn.  Frederick paused, then opened the door.  A fire crackled with life, below a portrait of an unnamed Confederate private.   There were some people gathered around the bar, but most Frederick assumed were sleeping.  Still, the innkeeper was awake and greeted him friendlily.  The innkeeper was a Southerner and accepted the only money Fredrick had, Confederate dollars.  The hills seemed to naturally block the inn off from anywhere around.  Frederick decided to try to strike up a conversation with the man. "Cold outside, isn't it?" he started.  The innkeeper replied, "Colder than normal.  Supposed to snow quite a lot too".  Fredrick ordered a drink, and slowly pondered over the inn.  "Did anything happen here during the war?" he asked.  The innkeeper took one long look at Frederick and began, "Two years ago, 1863, the Federals were marching down through here trying to get to Chattanooga.  And Rebels fought a massive battle to keep them off.  They charged, they yelled, most of them fell over dead before one day was done".  Sufficiently unsettled, Frederick went up to his room.  He needed sleep.  Frederick walked into his room on the third floor, blew out the lantern, and went to sleep.

            Frederick woke up unusually tired.  He had slept in his clothes from the day before, but he seemed to notice a small stain on his clothes that wasn't there before. Fredrick also saw some cold water that appeared reddish.  He shrugged it off and went down stairs.  There he saw the innkeeper trembling behind the bar.  "S- S-Someone was mu-mu-murdered last night" he stuttered, "Bloody, very bloody.  Used a kitchen knife to do it.  But the blood, it was everywhere! At least some small amount must have gotten on the killer's clothes!"  Frederick turned pale and looked over toward the door. He looked down  at his grey uniform next.  It was spotless.  He said to the old man, "Well it was nice staying here, but I'm afraid I must resume my wandering".  The innkeeper looked at him oddly and finally said, "No one's going anywhere".  Fredrick was undiscouraged.  He opened the door, to see a solid wall of white.  He was snowed in with a murderer!  

Most of the day was spent by the fireplace, trying to keep warm.  Other guests panicked as well, but everyone knew leaving meant certain death from exposure.  Maybe the murderer would spare you, they guessed.  Finally one man walked up to Fredrick.  "The old man tell you about the battle of Halesborough?", he started.  Frederick nodded.  "Well I bet he didn't tell you that field is haunted". The stranger stopped, giving Fredrick time to react, "No, it isn't haunted". But Frederick suddenly had a cold shiver roll down his spine.  He had fought here.  In this valley he had killed people.  People he didn't know.  He was a monster, one of the Rebels possessed by the bloodlust of battle.  He felt waves of anger flood over his body, a crushing sadness, suffocating him, just like the snow would if he dared go back outside. Frederick angrily left the room to go be by himself.  He spent the rest of the day there, and then sunk into an uneasy sleep again, hearing the fire from the ground floor crackling, almost laughing, beneath him.

He awoke the next morning earlier than the rest. His dreams had ghosts of dead soldiers screaming in terrible agony.  Their spectral forms writhed with unimaginable torment, their screams like rifle fire. Frederick decided that these were dreams though and he had best not take too much stock in them.  He looked around and scratched his chin.  He saw note laying by his bed.  It was short and to the point:  "There is one person who knows all your secrets, Fredrick.  YOU".  The note was in what appeared to be vaguely his handwriting but he did a brief comparison and found them too different.  But how it got there disturbed him.  Fredrick realized it best to try to find out who it was, as they appeared to be coming after him next.  He cautiously stepped out of his room and a saw a door, five away, that was reddened with blood. The door had blood seeping through the wood.  It was a brutal sight.  But opening the door was a mistake for Fredrick.  The body of the stranger was splayed out across the floor in a way people don't naturally sprawl on the floor.  His face was locked in mortal agony.  His mouth though was the most brutally disfigured piece of his face.  It was mauled beyond recognition.  Frederick screamed in terror and ran downstairs.  The innkeeper stared at him.  "There's another murder!" Frederick shouted.  He  then passed out, never quite able to handle the sight of blood.  Until that is, he needed to see it to keep fighting.

            As Frederick convalesced,  he saw the world in a haze.  People gathered around him.  He noticed his grey jacket had blood all over it.  His vision blurred.  He got up and stumbled across the room without even thinking about it.  His mind raced with the sounds of screaming soldiers, tormented by musket balls.  He wandered into the kitchen and grabbed a paring knife and ran straight toward the innkeeper.  The knife went deep into the poor old man's rib cage.  It went in and out stabbing at the innkeeper's heart.  The blood spattered into the fire.  But instead of extinguishing the flames, the fire only grew stronger.  Frederick, still unconscious stabbed further.  The warm blood covered his face and clothes.  He grew more and more violent, until finally the innkeeper quit his fight and fell down to the ground, dead.  Fredrick took awkward steps, off balance.  In his sleepwalking state he stumbled toward the crowd of people and tried to grab another victim. He miscalculated his steps.  Frederick began falling forward, desperately grabbing at anything to stop him.  He stumbled into the fireplace, which laughed as it slowly devoured him.  Frederick regained his consciousness. He came to understand who was the murderer. He was. He had killed them in his sleep.  He realized he had unconsciously murdered the two people earlier in his own sleep and killed the innkeeper.  Then he knew he had also slain the innkeeper in the same unconscious state.  He had done so only from the wickedness inside of him.  The fire wholly consumed him, gave a sizzling laugh, and was extinguished. 

                

Author's Note

Point out any typos if possible. I've corrected as many as I can.

Reviews

[Argonaut1]

This is pretty fantastic. As a fellow Poe lover myself, I can really get into a story like this. It has all the trappings of a great horror story and you follow your inspiration so well (I seriously thought I was reading one of Poe's short stories, not something a sixteen year-old wrote!) But the truth of the matter is that this is an original story that you wrote, and that's something to really be proud of.

I noticed some minor surface errors. The sentence near the beginning: "The mountains of Tennessee closed around his back, he had no choice but to press forward." Instead of a comma between back and he, try a semicolon. There's a sentence near the end: "He grew more and more violent, until finally the innkeeper quit his fight and fell down to the ground, dead." Maybe try "until finally the innkeeper stopped fighting." Or "ceased his struggle." Something other than quit his fight, which sounds awkward. "Frederick looked at the sight, and hurried on" No comma is needed in the sentence. "After fifteen minutes of walking The door was in view." The doesn't need to be capitalized.
"The hills seemed to naturally block the inn off from anywhere around." Instead of "anywhere around" try all around. ""But the blood, it was everywhere! At least some small amount must have gotten on the killer's clothes!" Frederick turned pale and looked over toward the door. He looked down at his grey uniform next. It was spotless."" For this little piece here, it needs to be reordered. Since the bartender makes mention of the blood possibly showing up on the killer's clothing, the next logical sentences after the quotation should be "He looked down at his grey uniform next. It was spotless." Then you can say Frederick looked toward the door.

Those are a few little things I saw. This story has potential to be taken one step further because you touch on a vital subject that is a concern today just as it was back in 1865 as the Civil War was coming to an end: What happens to those that return from the realities of war? Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is a big concern today and I think that comes through in this story in a very gripping and real sense. I would love to see you take this concept further. I'm not saying to continue Frederick's story because obviously there is no future for him, and rightly so. But maybe flesh out a little more of Frederick's memories of the battlefield and how his need to kill has consumed him like the fire that takes his life in the end (great image use of the fire, by the way. I love it!)

This exceptional work so far. Keep up the good work. From one Poe fan to another, I salute you!

[Average person]

now i LOVE this! very good :)

[pianotm]

Fantastic work! I agree with Argonaut's comments about the similarity to Poe. I only regret that it wasn't longer. You could expand so much on Frederick's state of mind, give so many more chilling clues that point vaguely at him. Again, wonderful work, and worthy addition to any collection of short horror stories.