The Last Call at Hollow Road Inn

Sometimes, life veers off onto roads that don't appear on any map. That's how Sam ended up at the Hollow Road Inn, somewhere between Lincoln and Des Moines. In the crisp isolation of nightfall, its flickering neon sign seemed more like a summons than the serendipitous stop he'd assumed. Dragging his duffel bag across the lobby's worn carpet, Sam met Philippa behind the reception desk. "One night?" she asked, extending a guest book whose pages had been turned by hands that might belong to bygone eras. He nodded, feeling the weight of exhaustion cut through his bones. The lobby's faded wallpaper bore witness to decades left untouched, but Sam couldn't shake the itch of eyes watching. Maybe it was the old rotary phone on the desk. Out of place in a world dominated by smartphones, it beckoned like an unfired antique pistol. Sam's room was the kind where every creak had a distinct personality. He was no stranger to the unique acoustics of ancient stays, but this was different. The walls seemed hollower as the wind whispered secrets beyond them. A resonant clattering drew Sam back to the lobby. The phone was off the hook, coiling its cord like a serpent in the throes of silent death. It shouldn't work—surely not in the inn where even the clocks seemed resigned to skipping syncopation. Curiosity compelled action. "Hello?" Sam asked, though he hadn’t dialed a soul. The line held its breath, static whispering, a shy anticipation in every crackle. "Stay for the Last Call," the voice said, familiar but from where? Or when? Chilled, Sam placed the receiver back, once more choosing sleep over curiosity. But when he turned, the shadows were not his alone. The following day, he ventured down Hollow Road, a serpentine path of dense foliage groaning under the ghosts of forgotten storms. The locals were as weathered as the inn—stories told in wrinkles of expression far more enduring than words. At the local diner, Sam sipped weak coffee while Millie, a waitress with a heart of motherly essence, sat beside him. "The Last Call?" she chuckled, well familiar the legends that shaped Hollow Road. "Folks round here always claim it warns off the meddlesome. No one can resist the draw—'cept they never manage to move on." Millie didn't notice, perhaps, when she mentioned 'warn,' that a presence hummed around them like a lurker in the shadows. Back at the inn, the rotary phone rang for him again. "Can't keep from it, can you?" They teased, now recognizable as his own reflection. Sam reflected on the fears that weighed deep, the failure to rescue his brother…. He understood. The Last Call didn’t signify an ending, more a haunting question: Will you continue down your path untethered or see the bones of forgotten roads revealed? Days warped unexpectedly at Hollow Road. The phone's taunts and confessions echoed—a timeline jumbled in its own right. It became clear the Inn didn’t want him gone; it offered a puzzle wrapped in twilight mystery. As his departure neared, a decision weighed heavily. To flee with echoes of acknowledgement or face what had been done and left undone. He pocketed the phone receiver. Shadows curled like affectionate cats, whispering, "Goodbye." Outside, the inn blinked from existence; an apparition allowed to breath its last. Sam didn't return, yet the road shifted within him. And somewhere, the inn's glimmering specter retold its tale to the next passerby caught by kinship's last call.