The rain fell in sheets of grey iron, hammering the slate roof of the inn. It was a sound like grinding bones. Inside, the air smelled of wet wool and stale beer. Elara sat in the corner, her hands wrapped around a clay mug. She was a merchant. Not of silk or spice, but of secrets. She bought them, weighed them on a scale that had no pan, and sold them to those who needed to know. Her brother, Thomas, was her shadow. He was silent. He was the keeper of the keys.

They had traveled for three days. The road was a mud pit. The innkeeper, a man with eyes like dried mud, poured them ale. It was dark. It tasted of earth.

"Who are you?" Elara asked.

"Nobody," the innkeeper said.

"Everyone is somebody," Thomas said. His voice was low. A rumble in the chest.

The innkeeper smiled. It was a thin, broken thing. "In this place, names are heavy. They sink you."

Elara looked at the door. It was oak. It was thick. It was locked. There was no window above it. The room was a box. A box of stone and smoke.

"We need a room," Elara said.

"The best room is gone," the innkeeper said.

"The best room?" Thomas asked.

"The room with the view," the innkeeper said. He pointed to the wall. There was no window. Just stone. "It looks out on the truth."

Thomas stood up. He was tall. He was broad. He moved like a mountain. "We will have it."

The innkeeper sighed. He pulled a key from his belt. It was iron. It was cold. He handed it to Thomas. Thomas took it. His fingers closed around it.

They climbed the stairs. The wood creaked. The air grew colder. The door was at the end of the hall. It was black. It had no handle.

Thomas tried the key. It fit. It turned. The door opened.

The room was empty. There was a bed. It was stripped. There was a table. It was bare. There was a chair. It was splintered.

"It is not the best room," Elara said.

"Wait," Thomas said.

He walked to the center of the room. He stopped. He looked up. The ceiling was high. It was dark.

"What?" Elara asked.

"Listen," Thomas said.

They listened. The rain stopped. The silence was loud. It was a physical thing. It pressed against their ears.

Then, a sound. A knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

It came from the floor.

Elara looked down. The floorboards were old. They were worn.

"Who is there?" Thomas asked.

No answer.

Just the rain.

Just the silence.

Elara felt a chill. It was not from the air. It was from within. She looked at Thomas. His face was pale. His eyes were wide.

"Thomas?" she said.

He did not answer. He was listening. He was waiting.

The knock came again.

Knock.

Knock.

It was softer. It was closer.

Elara stepped back. Her heel hit the chair. It fell. It crashed against the wall.

Thomas flinched. He spun around. He looked at her. There was fear in his eyes. It was a new thing. A strange thing.

"It is not a person," Thomas said.

"Then what?" Elara asked.

"A thing," Thomas said.

"What kind of thing?"

"I do not know."

The air in the room grew thick. It was hard to breathe. It was like breathing water.

Elara looked at the door. It was still open. She could see the hallway. It was dark. It was empty.

"We should go," Elara said.

Thomas did not move. He was staring at the floor.

"Thomas."

He shook his head. Slowly.

"Thomas, we must go."

"I cannot," he said.

"Why?"

"Because it is here."

Elara looked at the floor. The wood was dark. It was wet. It was not from the rain.

A hand emerged.

It was small. It was pale. It was dry.

Elara screamed. She backed away. She hit the wall. Her head hurt.

The hand reached up. It gripped the edge of the floorboard. It pulled.

The board lifted.

Beneath it, there was a hole. It was black. It was deep.

A face emerged.

It was not a face. It was a mask. It was made of wood. It was painted. The eyes were hollow. The mouth was a slit.

It looked at Thomas.

Thomas did not scream. He did not run. He stood still. He stared at the mask.

"Who are you?" Thomas asked.

The mask did not move.

"Answer me."

The mask tilted its head.

"Who are you?" Elara whispered.

The mask opened its mouth.

It did not speak. It exhaled.

The air rushed out. It was cold. It was stale. It smelled of dust and time.

Elara fell to her knees. Her lungs burned. She coughed. She choked.

Thomas was still standing. He was watching the mask.

"Thomas!" Elara cried.

He did not hear her.

The mask began to rise. It lifted out of the hole. It stood on two feet. It was tall. It was thin. It wore a robe. The robe was tattered. It was grey.

It looked at Thomas.

Thomas reached into his pocket. He pulled out a knife. It was small. It was sharp.

He raised it.

He struck.

The blade hit the mask. It bounced off. It made a sound like stone on stone.

The mask did not move.

Thomas struck again.

Again.

Again.

The mask did not move.

Elara watched in horror. She wanted to scream. She could not. Her voice was gone.

The mask raised its hand.

It pointed at Thomas.

Thomas fell.

He fell to the floor. He did not get up.

Elara crawled to him. She touched his face. It was cold. It was still.

The mask walked over to her.

It stopped.

It looked at her.

Elara looked up.

The mask smiled.

It was not a smile. It was a crack.

It reached down.

It touched her forehead.

The world went white.

Elara was standing in the hallway.

She was alone.

The door was closed.

The rain was falling.

She walked down the stairs.

The innkeeper was at the bar.

He looked at her.

"Where is your brother?" he asked.

Elara looked at him.

"I do not know," she said.

The innkeeper shrugged.

"Perhaps he left," he said.

"Did he?" Elara asked.

"I do not know," he said.

Elara looked at the door.

It was locked.

She pushed it.

It did not move.

She pulled.

It did not move.

She kicked it.

It did not move.

She screamed.

The innkeeper poured himself a drink.

He drank.

He wiped his mouth.

"Leave," he said.

"I cannot," Elara said.

"Then stay," he said.

Elara sat at the table.

She sat in the corner.

She wrapped her hands around a mug.

It was empty.

She drank from it.

It tasted of ash.

She looked at the wall.

There was no window.

She looked at the floor.

The wood was old.

She listened.

There was a sound.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

It came from the floor.

Elara looked down.

A hand emerged.

It was small.

It was pale.

It was dry.

Elara did not scream.

She did not run.

She reached down.

She took the hand.

She pulled.

The board lifted.

The hole was black.

The hole was deep.

She looked into it.

She saw nothing.

She felt a pull.

It was gentle.

It was strong.

She let go of the mug.

She let go of the table.

She let go of herself.

She fell.

The floor swallowed her.

The wood closed.

The room was empty.

The rain fell.

The innkeeper poured another drink.

He drank.

He wiped his mouth.

He looked at the empty room.

He smiled.

It was a thin, broken thing.

The door opened.

A man entered.

He was tall.

He was broad.

He moved like a mountain.

He carried a bag.

He set it on the table.

He sat down.

He looked at the innkeeper.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Nobody," the innkeeper said.

"Everyone is somebody," the man said.

His voice was low.

A rumble in the chest.

The innkeeper smiled.

"In this place, names are heavy," he said.

They sank you.

The man stood up.

He walked to the stairs.

He climbed them.

The wood creaked.

The air grew colder.

The door was at the end of the hall.

It was black.

It had no handle.

The man reached for the key.

It was iron.

It was cold.

He turned it.

The door opened.

The room was empty.

There was a bed.

It was stripped.

There was a table.

It was bare.

There was a chair.

It was splintered.

The man walked to the center of the room.

He stopped.

He looked up.

The ceiling was high.

It was dark.

He listened.

The rain stopped.

The silence was loud.

It pressed against his ears.

Then, a sound.

A knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

It came from the floor.

The man looked down.

The floorboards were old.

They were worn.

"Who is there?" he asked.

No answer.

Just the rain.

Just the silence.

The man felt a chill.

It was not from the air.

It was from within.

He looked at the door.

It was still open.

He could see the hallway.

It was dark.

It was empty.

"I should go," he said.

He did not move.

He was listening.

He was waiting.

The knock came again.

Knock.

Knock.

It was softer.

It was closer.

The air in the room grew thick.

It was hard to breathe.

It was like breathing water.

A hand emerged.

It was small.

It was pale.

It was dry.

The man did not scream.

He did not run.

He looked at the hand.

"It is not a person," he said.

"Then what?" he asked himself.

"A thing," he said.

The hand reached up.

It gripped the edge of the floorboard.

It pulled.

The board lifted.

Beneath it, there was a hole.

It was black.

It was deep.

A face emerged.

It was not a face.

It was a mask.

It was made of wood.

It was painted.

The eyes were hollow.

The mouth was a slit.

It looked at the man.

The man did not scream.

He did not run.

He stood still.

He stared at the mask.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The mask did not move.

"Answer me."

The mask tilted its head.

The man reached into his pocket.

He pulled out a knife.

It was small.

It was sharp.

He raised it.

He struck.

The blade hit the mask.

It bounced off.

It made a sound like stone on stone.

The mask did not move.

The man struck again.

Again.

Again.

The mask did not move.

The man fell.

He fell to the floor.

He did not get up.

The mask walked over to him.

It stopped.

It looked at him.

The mask smiled.

It was not a smile.

It was a crack.

It reached down.

It touched his forehead.

The world went white.

The man was standing in the hallway.

He was alone.

The door was closed.

The rain was falling.

He walked down the stairs.

The innkeeper was at the bar.

He looked at him.

"Where is your sister?" he asked.

The man looked at him.

"I do not know," he said.

The innkeeper shrugged.

"Perhaps she left," he said.

"Did she?" the man asked.

"I do not know," he said.

The man looked at the door.

It was locked.

He pushed it.

It did not move.

He pulled.

It did not move.

He kicked it.

It did not move.

He screamed.

The innkeeper poured himself a drink.

He drank.

He wiped his mouth.

"Leave," he said.

"I cannot," the man said.

"Then stay," he said.

The man sat at the table.

He sat in the corner.

He wrapped his hands around a mug.

It was empty.

He drank from it.

It tasted of ash.

He looked at the wall.

There was no window.

He looked at the floor.

The wood was old.

He listened.

There was a sound.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

It came from the floor.

The man looked down.

A hand emerged.

It was small.

It was pale.

It was dry.

The man did not scream.

He did not run.

He reached down.

He took the hand.

He pulled.

The board lifted.

The hole was black.

The hole was deep.

He looked into it.

He saw nothing.

He felt a pull.

It was gentle.

It was strong.

He let go of the mug.

He let go of the table.

He let go of himself.

He fell.

The floor swallowed him.

The wood closed.

The room was empty.

The rain fell.

The innkeeper poured another drink.

He drank.

He wiped his mouth.

He looked at the empty room.

He smiled.

It was a thin, broken thing.