The Inn Beyond Time and Space

His mind felt muddled, as if wrapped in a dense veil, and the sound of traffic drifting from the main road seemed distant and unreal, like an echo from a dream.

In this disorienting haze, Adrian Wells wandered aimlessly for what felt like an eternity before his thoughts began to regain some clarity. He hesitated and stopped, turning to look back at the path he had taken.

The sky had already grown dark, and the streetlights along the way flickered on early. Adrian found himself walking along a narrow street near his home. On either side stood rows of old, low-rise residential buildings, their silhouettes crouching like slumbering beasts in the night. Yet the faint light spilling out from the ground-floor shops, hastily converted by tenants, added a touch of warmth that chased away a lingering chill in his heart.

A chill?

Suddenly, Adrian felt a sharp, bone-deep cold seep into his chest, as if blades of frozen rain were slicing against his skin. He could feel the icy, slimy gaze—the unmistakable stare of the frog.

His breath caught abruptly, leaving him gasping for air. It took several long moments before he remembered how to breathe again. Doubling over, he clutched at his chest and gasped for breath.

In that fleeting moment, he was seized by an illusion—a sense that his chest still bore a gaping hole, that his heart was gone, leaving a silent, extinguished furnace in its place. But then he felt it—a heartbeat, loud and clear, reverberating in his ears like a drumbeat. Yes, the living have heartbeats.

He was alive. The grotesque giant frog hadn't devoured his heart.

Yet the vivid fragments of memory surged like a tidal wave, battering his consciousness. No matter how he tried to push them away, they refused to leave. Adrian remembered the rain, the door painted on the wall, and the enormous frog. He tried to convince himself it had all been a hallucination, but as his memories grew sharper, the notion of illusion began to falter.

He had died, of that he was certain. Yet for reasons unknown, he was alive again—and walking home. He was almost there, just two intersections away.

This was the strangest thing that had ever happened to him in this already strange city.

The sensation of being watched tugged at his awareness. Adrian noticed that his erratic behavior had drawn the attention of passersby. Someone seemed hesitant to approach, perhaps wondering if he needed help. Adrian waved them off hastily, avoiding unnecessary interaction, and quickened his pace.

Whatever had happened to him, standing in the street lost in thought wouldn't provide any answers.

He hurried through the alleyways, leaving the old neighborhood behind, and made his way toward the place he called "home" in this city.

Though he'd only crossed two intersections, the surroundings grew noticeably more desolate, as if he had entered a forgotten corner of the city. Fewer pedestrians passed by, until Adrian found himself alone, accompanied only by the cold light of streetlamps. After a while, he saw it: a large, weathered house standing solitary in the night, as though estranged from the surrounding buildings.

The house was unremarkable, a three-story structure with peeling paint, slanted roofs, and old wooden doors and windows. Though dilapidated, it was intact and clean. It looked like one of those "self-built" homes hastily constructed decades ago in urban villages, a relic left behind by the city's evolution.

Adrian wasn't entirely familiar with the urban planning rules of this uncanny "Boundary City." After all, he had only been here for two months. Subtracting the days he had spent cautiously holed up indoors, he had only just begun to adjust to his new life and explore the area.

But one thing he was certain of: this old house was the only place in this dangerous and dissonant city where he felt somewhat safe. Inside these walls, he had never seen those eerie shadows.

Although, the house itself wasn't without its peculiarities.

Adrian took a deep breath, clutching the supermarket bag still in his hand, and stepped through the pale pool of streetlight toward the door. Fishing out his keys, he unlocked the old door, which creaked open with a groan.

Once inside, Adrian flicked on the lights. Despite how vastly different this house was from the "home" in his memories, the warm glow of the bulb brought him a palpable sense of relief.

He turned and closed the door, shutting the city night firmly outside.

Adrian dropped the groceries on a small shelf by the kitchen door to his right, then hurried through the somewhat empty living room to the bathroom mirror. Tugging open his shirt, he stared at his chest.

The memories were so vivid and haunting that he couldn't help but check.

There were no scars. No blood. Nothing to suggest that "death" had ever occurred.

Frowning, Adrian examined his intact clothing and pressed a hand over the spot where the frog had ripped into him. Only then did he feel sure—he was not, in fact, missing his heart.

"Something's seriously wrong," he muttered under his breath before leaving the bathroom and heading back to the living room.

Behind him, the surface of the mirror above the sink began to crack silently, only to repair itself just as quickly, leaving no trace behind.

Adrian slumped onto the couch in the living room, his thoughts a chaotic mess. He didn't know how long he sat there, but eventually, exhaustion overtook his racing mind, and he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

The drowsiness lingered for what felt like an eternity, until a sharp thud reverberated through his consciousness. The sound was abrupt and jarring, like the clang of a shovel striking stone directly above his head. It jolted Adrian awake instantly.

He opened his eyes to darkness and froze.

The living room light had gone out.

He distinctly remembered leaving the light on before falling asleep!

An ominous chill ran down his spine, his instincts screaming of danger. Adrian's hand shot out, gripping the retractable baton he kept close at all times. It was the first thing he had bought upon arriving in this strange and unnerving city—a tool for self-defense. While it had yet to see use, it offered him some psychological comfort.

Clutching the baton tightly, Adrian rose cautiously, his every sense attuned to the silence around him. In a desolate, forgotten corner of the city like this, the idea of a burglar wasn't entirely far-fetched. In fact, Adrian found himself hoping it was just a thief. At least a thief could be chased off with a baton. A frog over a meter tall? That was a different matter entirely.

The living room was deathly quiet. No signs of forced entry, no sounds of movement.

The good news? There was no frog.

Moving low and slow, Adrian crept toward the light switch, using the faint glow from the streetlamp outside as his guide. He reached the wall and flipped the switch.

The room flooded with light.

Adrian blinked, his eyes adjusting. Something felt… off, though he couldn't quite place it. Regardless, the illumination was reassuring. Now he could properly check the house.

With his baton in hand, Adrian began inspecting every corner of the ground floor. The living room, kitchen, dining room, and an unused spare room—all normal.

Standing at the base of the staircase, he hesitated briefly before heading up.

The second floor had three rooms: his bedroom, a storage room, and a locked room at the far end of the hallway.

When Adrian first moved into this house, the locked room had already been sealed. He had searched every inch of the place but never found a key.

He checked his bedroom and the storage room thoroughly, finding nothing unusual. Finally, he stood before the locked door.

As always, it was tightly shut.

Adrian had attempted numerous times to open it, employing various "technical methods" that included a power drill and a handheld saw. Yet every attempt failed. The seemingly fragile wooden door remained unscathed, its surface unmarred by the onslaught of sparks and dulled blades.

He had even tried enlisting professional locksmiths. The first two got lost trying to find the house; they wandered around the old neighborhood for hours, unable to locate 66 Sycamore Street. The third locksmith managed to make it past the intersection—only to be hit by a motorcycle. He had just been discharged from the hospital last week.

It was as if some unseen force was actively preventing Adrian from opening that door.

Yes, even though this old house was his only refuge in this bizarre and perilous city, it, too, had its share of peculiarities.

Adrian placed his hand on the doorknob and tried turning it. As expected, it didn't budge.

Nothing unusual happened—it was still locked.

But then, in the stillness, he thought he heard it. A faint, barely perceptible laugh.

The sound was soft, almost mocking, and it came from the other side of the door.

It sounded like a young woman's laughter, teasing him for his inability to overcome a simple lock.

Every hair on Adrian's body stood on end.

In this supposed sanctuary—the house he had lived in for two months, his only safe haven in this treacherous city—there was someone inside that locked room.

...How had she not starved to death?