The Inn Beyond Time and Space

The realization that someone was hiding in the perpetually locked room sent a chill down Adrian Wells' spine. Almost immediately, his mind flooded with a torrent of uncontrollable questions and speculations.

Who could it be? When had the person entered the room? Was it while he was asleep, sneaking in unnoticed? Or had they been there all along, ever since he arrived two months ago?

If it was the latter, he could be sure of one thing: during the long days he spent confined to the house, the door to that room had never once been opened. Had they been hiding there the entire time? Was there a hidden passage in the room? Or worse…

Was the one who laughed softly behind the door even human?

Adrian's thoughts surged wildly, but his face grew increasingly calm. Perhaps his encounter with the "frog" had changed him, or maybe his brush with death had left a lasting mark. Either way, his mindset felt... different.

The voice behind the door carried no discernible malice or goodwill, only an undeniable eeriness. Yet, after the initial shock and shiver that raced down his spine, Adrian found all his fear and hesitation evaporating. What remained was a single, overwhelming emotion: curiosity.

He had to know what was in that room.

He had to uncover the secrets of the house he had come to call his refuge.

This was his sanctuary, his only "home" in this vast and alien city. There could not be anything unsafe in his safe house.

Adrian leaned closer, pressing his ear against the door. He thought he heard the faint trace of a laugh again, low and hollow. Or was it just the empty sound of the wind, swirling in his ears?

He raised his hand and knocked firmly on the door.

"Open up. I know you're in there."

The door, unsurprisingly, did not open. But the faint laughter did fall silent.

Adrian said nothing more. He turned away and headed to the adjacent storage room. There, buried among the clutter, he found an axe.

Returning to the locked door, he lifted the axe high and swung it down with all his strength.

The blade struck the thin wooden door, producing a piercing metallic screech. Sparks flew upon impact, but the door remained unscathed, not even showing a scratch.

The faint laughter from behind the door resumed, sharper and more distinct than before. Adrian paid it no mind. His expression remained calm as he raised the axe again, his movements precise and methodical, as if performing a task that required the utmost care and patience. Blow after blow, he kept swinging.

He knew the door wouldn't open. It had resisted drills and saws before. Yet, for the past two months, Adrian had tried almost daily to force the door open, using every tool he could think of. And now, with that eerie voice coming from within, he felt a renewed determination—no, an obligation—to succeed today.

Each futile strike only fueled his resolve. His swings became harder, smoother, more deliberate.

Somewhere in his increasingly vacant mind, absurd images began to surface: he felt like Wu Gang chopping endlessly at the moon's laurel tree. If he could just fell the damn thing, a crowd of onlookers—Chang'e, the Jade Rabbit, a bald-headed cartoon lumberjack, and even Sisyphus—might gather to applaud him.

Why was Sisyphus in his imagination? Adrian had no idea.

Meanwhile, the laughter behind the door grew louder and shriller, as if its owner was drawing closer, standing just behind the barrier. It sounded like they were fully aware of the door's impenetrability and delighted in mocking Adrian's futile efforts.

Then suddenly, another voice—a tense, irritated one—cut through the laughter.

"Could you stop laughing? If he breaks in, I'll be the first one he chops!"

The laughter stopped instantly.

Adrian froze mid-swing, the axe in his hands poised in the air. Then he heard a sharp crack—a sound coming from his waist.

His body stiffened, and the axe slipped from his grasp, striking a part of the door he hadn't aimed for.

Unlike the previous metallic screeches, the new sound was a light, clear crack. The axe clattered to the ground as Adrian winced, reaching back to clutch his waist.

Pain. A sharp, searing pain. He had thrown his back out.

Grimacing, Adrian shuffled closer to the door, supporting himself as he leaned in for a better look at the spot where his last swing had landed.

There, just a few centimeters from the door's surface, he saw something extraordinary—a spark, frozen mid-air.

It hovered in place, as if time itself had halted at the exact moment the blade had struck. By the light of the suspended spark, Adrian thought he glimpsed something faintly etched into the wood.

Reaching out, he ran his fingers over the surface.

A muffled yelp echoed from behind the door.

Adrian's eyes snapped open.

He found himself lying on the couch, the living room brightly lit. The wall clock ticked softly nearby, its hands showing he had been asleep for less than forty minutes.

For a moment, Adrian stared blankly at the ceiling, disoriented. Memories slowly crept back into focus.

He had fallen asleep. It was… just a dream?

But something felt wrong.

The dream had been far too vivid, every detail unnervingly clear. He could still recall the weight of the axe in his hands, the suspended spark on the door, and—

Suddenly, Adrian sat upright, a sharp pang shooting through his lower back.

Pain. The same stabbing pain from the dream.

"Damn it…" he muttered through clenched teeth, the combination of his strained back, the stiffness from sleeping on the couch, and his general exhaustion making him feel like he'd been hit by a truck. For a fleeting moment, he wished the frog had finished him off—at least that pain had only lasted two seconds.

Groaning, Adrian stood slowly, his movements stiff and deliberate. There was no way that had been an ordinary dream.

Something had invaded his "safe house."

Adjusting his posture, Adrian steeled himself. He grabbed his retractable baton, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and retrieved the axe from the storage room.

The grip felt exactly the same as it had in the dream, even retaining the faint warmth of his hand.

He stood before the locked door once more. The door was intact, showing no sign of the marks he had made in his dream.

Inside, all was silent.

But Adrian remembered the spark. He shifted the axe to his left hand, placed his right hand against the door, and began searching for the spot he had struck in his dream.

Then, his fingers found something—a handle. Invisible to the naked eye but undeniably there.

Adrian hesitated briefly, his mind racing with questions. Was this because he had seen it in the dream? Had his actions there broken some illusion? Had his recognition of the handle made it real?

Whatever the case, Adrian grasped the unseen handle and turned it gently.

The unyielding door swung open with ease.

Inside was an empty room.

As the door creaked open, Adrian peered cautiously inside. The faint light from the hallway spilled onto the wooden floor, illuminating the dim space bit by bit.

Even after carefully swinging the door fully open, Adrian found no sign of the mocking voice's owner.

One hand clutching the axe tightly, Adrian scanned the room for any movement. But it was entirely devoid of furniture—no bed, no chair, not even a speck of dust out of place.

The only thing within the room was the cold glow of moonlight. It filtered through the worn, dusty curtains and cast dappled patterns onto the floor.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, Adrian noticed something.

There was something in the room.

Hanging on the wall directly opposite the door was a painting.

It was encased in an ornate frame, its edges intricately decorated with classical patterns of intertwining vines. The painting itself depicted an empty chair covered with a soft red carpet.

Nothing else.

There was no cursed spirit sitting in the chair, no spectral figure lurking within the image to taunt him.

Adrian frowned, stepping cautiously into the room. His gaze remained fixed on the painting as he approached it. The frame was about half a meter tall, its craftsmanship exquisite.

Standing in front of it, he narrowed his eyes, examining it closely. Something caught his attention in the bottom corner of the painting—a faint hint of fabric.

The edge of a skirt.

Adrian hesitated, his brow furrowing. Then, after a moment of deliberation, he spoke aloud, his voice tinged with dry humor.

"Are you in there?"

"No, I'm not!"

The response came immediately, clear and distinct, but it was also filled with unmistakable guilt.