A horror writer heads off to an isolated hotel to try and work on her creative block. The hotel has a grisly history and so it seems does the typewriter...
It had been raining heavily when I entered the shop; the sun was breaking through when I left a short time later, with my new find wrapped in waxed paper and clutched close to my body. It had been a chance find, I hadn’t even been thinking of looking for something like this, hadn’t even realised I needed it. When I had caught sight of it in the shop window; I knew I must have it.
The shopkeeper had looked up as though he was expecting me, in spite of the weather. My arrival was announced by the chiming of bells, an old-fashioned touch. Looking around the shop I realised it was in keeping with the rest of the shop’s décor; the antique till resting on the glass case of the display counter, the glass of which seemed unmarked by either time or dust. The whole place seemed to be a remnant of the past; restored to former glory by care and attention to detail, making the softly lit boutique the perfect display for the many treasures it housed.
Taking not centre-stage, but adorning one corner of the window display, the item, which had caught my eye as I had taken pause from my hurried trudge through the rain, rested on velvet.
With the parcel close to my body, I hurried home once more, barely noticing the puddles I splashed through, or the warmth of the sun that hastened to dry them.