Story Plan: The Forgotten Night

The Forgotten Night

In a small town nestled between thick woods, there was a peculiar inn known as the “Old Hollow.” The innkeeper, Mr. Whitlock, was a quiet man, always keeping to himself, but he ran the place with perfect precision. Travelers loved the cozy atmosphere, though few knew its dark secret.

One autumn evening, a young woman named Emily arrived. She had been driving for hours, lost on the back roads. The Old Hollow Inn seemed like a sanctuary, a beacon of warmth in the middle of nowhere. She checked in, exhausted, and Mr. Whitlock handed her an old brass key to room 7, the inn’s last vacant room.

As Emily made her way upstairs, the hallway seemed endless, though it only had a few rooms. The air felt heavier, and the creaking floorboards seemed to groan under her every step. When she opened the door to room 7, the temperature dropped sharply. The room was cold, far colder than the rest of the inn, but she was too tired to care. She crawled into the bed, hoping for a good night’s rest.

In the middle of the night, Emily awoke to a soft, steady dripping sound. At first, she thought it was the faucet. She turned on the bedside lamp and glanced toward the bathroom, but the faucet was dry. The sound continued, louder now, and it seemed to be coming from above.

Confused, she looked up—and froze. Directly above her bed was a small, circular stain on the ceiling, slowly spreading outward. Something thick and dark was dripping from it, forming a pool on the floor beside her. Her heart raced, but her body wouldn’t move.

Suddenly, she heard soft footsteps in the hallway. The floorboards creaked again, but slower this time, as if someone was creeping outside her door. She waited, paralyzed with fear. Then, there was a faint knock. Just once.

Emily managed to whisper, “Who’s there?”

There was silence. Then, a voice, barely above a whisper, “Don’t forget me…”

Her pulse quickened as the door slowly creaked open by itself. The hallway was pitch black, but she could make out a figure standing at the threshold—a shadowy silhouette, tall and thin, its eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.

The voice came again, clearer now, “Don’t forget me… You promised…”

Emily had never been here before. She didn’t know this place. But the voice sounded familiar, as if from a dream or a distant memory. Her mind raced. She reached for her phone, only to find the battery dead, though it had been fully charged earlier.

The shadow took a step closer, and with it came a sudden rush of memories—flashes of nights she had never lived, faces she didn’t recognize, a different life, a promise she had made long ago but couldn’t remember. She had been here before, many times. The room, the inn, even Mr. Whitlock… none of it was new. And each time she had stayed in room 7, each time she had forgotten the night.

The figure was now by her bed, staring down at her, its face featureless except for those dimly glowing eyes. “You can’t leave,” it whispered, “not again.”

Emily wanted to scream, to run, but her body wouldn’t respond. The last thing she saw before the world went black was the figure reaching out, its cold hand brushing her cheek.

The next morning, Mr. Whitlock stood at the front desk, smiling politely at a new guest. Room 7 was vacant again, as it had been every morning for as long as anyone could remember. Travelers came and went, never quite recalling their stay, and the townfolk avoided the inn, knowing only one thing for certain:

No one ever truly left the Old Hollow Inn.