Another quiet night, the creeping chill of autumn looming over the western outskirts. The Lady's Resting Place, almost entirely empty bar three patrons and a waitress. Two conversing, drinking beer, the other a still scorch mark against the bar. The waitress stood halfway from the door and halfway from the bar, an ever vigilant eye scanning the room. Waiting to replace a beer, offer a meal or tell a customer to close the "damn door".
The man at the bar slumped slightly, staring into the bowl of hot reddish-brown chili in front of him. Lost in thought. He always ate at inns now, stayed there too. When was the last time he was forced to cook his own meal, or stay in an abandoned home or a filthy rat corpse maggot pulsing alley. His stomach grumbled distracting him from his thoughts. He stared hard into the bowl and could almost see a fragmented, distorted reflection of himself. The light of the reflection was blocked. He looked up quickly as the waitress sat next to him.
"Is everything alright?" She inquired.
"Yes, just lost in thought." He replied, a half-truth.
She stood and went back to her duties. In truth, what seemed like a bowl of chili to anyone else felt like sick decadence and guilt to him. Still, he ate it and was thankful he could.
Three days later.
One cooking pot. Check.
Three cloves of garlic. Check.
Bedroll. Check.
Candles. Check.
Beggar's Cup Mushrooms. Check.
A good chance to stave off some guilt by spending the night in an abandoned home, he thought. Paper thin walls, broken dreams and a clogged fireplace. Just the way he liked it. He approached the door of the abandoned home, jiggling the handle a few times and pushing with some force. Plump wet rotten wood. It opened and the stale scent hit him. Dust and still air. He had been here before, for other reasons, and intended to come back here again. For other reasons. He stepped inside and let his eyes adjust to the dark light. Boarded up windows, not uncommon in Barovia. Old childrens toys; broken tables and chairs, and a roof that could cave in any minute. He stepped in and looked around settling his gaze on the old bed, and more importantly the wooden furniture behind it. He approached slowly and recognized the shape of it, the symbol of it. He froze in fear.
A coffin.
It was still daylight outside. He creeped toward it as quietly as he could and tested the lid.
Shut tight.
He took in a deep breath and raised some courage, as well as some muscle - not that he had much at that. He began dragging the coffin toward and out the door. Down the street and into a spot of sunlight. A few passerbys glanced. At least here, he thought, the sun would kill whatever was inside assuming that the old wives tales are true. That, or at least he could let the Garda deal with it.
He ran to the general store and purchased a crowbar, trading in his heavy cooking pot. He ran back to the coffin, untouched in his absence. He pried and pried, sweat dripping down his head. More out of fear than strain. He didn't know why he was doing this but curiousity always did get the better of him. The coffin lid flung open to reveal the empty space within. He fell on his behind and dropped the crowbar. Dropping his face into his hands he laughed away his fright for a long time. An unused coffin. Good for a few fangs.
