A tall striking young man walked into the pub area of the inn on the evening of Sunday 1st September. Outside gale-force winds blew, icy-cold hail shot down from the sky and dark clouds covered the sky, forming an oppressive blanket over the landscape. This was not the sort of night you'd expect someone to be walking around in. Everyone looked up from their drinks, pausing mid-conversation, to stare at the daring stranger, whose only possessions seemed to be a polished black cane and a cat.
The man strode up to the counter and said to the bartender "A single room for the night, please."
The bartender shivered. There was something about the man that unnerved him, produced a prickling sensation down the length of his spine.
"That'd be ten pounds, sir."
The man pulled a tenner out of his cloak pocket and handed it to the cowering old man, seemingly uninterested in or unaware of the effect he was having on him. The old man gave the young man a rusty key, with a tag tied by string to it on which was the number of the room.
A sudden meow broke the deathly silence. "Oh, and could we have a bowl of milk, please?" the young man asked.
The bartender frowned slightly at the use of the word 'we', but nodded and said "It'll be brought up to your room, sir."
The man nodded and walked towards the staircase. He climbed it, the cat following.
Everyone returned to what they had been doing and conversation was now about the strange man and his cat. Hadn't it been black? Weren't black cats unlucky? The atmosphere was filled with fear. Before midnight, everyone had left.