The Maplebark Inn

By Anita Howitt

The inn had the pulsing, frenetic ambience of an auction house. Wall clocks and mantel clocks began crying like babies as they one by one struck 11:24.

Phezz groaned. Another excruciating morning. “I can’t hear myself think!”

“You could always leave,” the late Lord Pompington said. “Leave my inn!” His wispy form didn’t match the clarion voice he emitted. Resonant, even in a room full of bawling timepieces.

“I’m certainly sorry about your demise,” Phezz said, “but the barrister is coming at noon. Whatever his ruling, you’ll have to abide by it.”

“Or what?”

“Or my next letter is to a priest.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I would.” Phezz checked his jerkin and shirt collar in the mirror. He slicked back the frazzled fur on his ears and ruffled his sideburns until they stuck out. “If you want to stay, you can stay. But the otherworldly nonsense has to go.”

“Otherworldly nonsense!”

“No one is going to visit an inn that’s haunted and paradoxical.” The bell on the front counter chimed a full half hour before the barrister was supposed to arrive. “Oh, nuts! He’s here!”

“I paid good money to renowned wizards for that otherworldly nonsense!” Pompington called as Phezz scampered down the hall.

Standing in the foyer was a black-clad beanpole of a man with tiny spectacles and a huge bag of scrolls.

“Welcome, Your Honor,” Phezz said, extending a paw to the stranger. “Thank you for coming.”

“Ahem,” the fellow said, drawing a pen from somewhere in his woolen frockcoat. “Are you Phezznibbet Maplebark, proprietor of the Maplebark Inn, located at”—he looked around—“a giant tree? Hmm.” He examined his scroll again. “This can’t be right.”

“We’ve done some renovations,” Phezz said.

The fellow made hasty notes in a little book. “I’m First Clerk Grimbleshanks, Bureaucrat of Reality.” He stopped writing. “This inn has been flagged for an audit due to gross violations of the laws of reality.”

“Gross violations?” Phezz repeated. “But… but…”

“If found non-compliant, it will be forcibly stabilized in one hour.” Grimbleshanks took a scroll from his collection. He handed it and the pen to Phezz. “Sign here.”

Phezz scanned the scroll. “What do you mean forcibly stabilized?”

“The inn and everything in it will be removed from reality.”

As if on cue, the furniture in the foyer shifted a quarter turn around the room. Sofas followed end tables. The piano slid to where a pair of armchairs sat a moment earlier.

Grimbleshanks said, “Oh, my. Yes, we need to get this fixed straight away. That’s a violation of at least five Dimensional Integrity codes.”

Phezz swallowed hard. “It’s just a misunderstanding. I’ll get everything in order. No need for forcible stabilization.”

Pompington floated into the room in his usual flamboyant manner. “Don’t worry yourself, my squirrely friend. This inn is exactly as it’s meant to be. It has charm, something Grimbleshanks knows nothing about.”

Grimbleshanks’ voice was as dry as his parchment. “Pompington.”

The ghost grinned.

“The Council of Universal Regulation will love this!” Grimbleshanks took more scrolls from his bag. “Form 457 part one and five—unregulated haunting and keeping a ghost as a pet without proper licensure.”

“Wait,” Phezz interrupted, “how can I be cited for both? He isn’t a pet.”

Grimbleshanks dropped one of the scrolls back into the bag.

“And he isn’t exactly haunting the inn, either,” Phezz said. As unfond as he was of the previous owner’s constant presence, it wasn’t Pompington causing all the mayhem. It didn’t feel fair for him to take the blame. Or for Phezz to pay for it.

While Grimbleshanks went room to room making notes, Phezz waited for the barrister who was coming to officially rule on the dual claim of ownership.

“Did you know the inn was in violation of the laws of reality?” Phezz yelled in a hushed whisper.

“It’s a quirky legal gray area,” Pompington said.

“How so?” Phezz sat back and crossed his arms. A pair of brooms entered and started sweeping.

“I applied for an exemption some time ago. The Council of Universal Regulation issued the exemption, classifying the inn as ‘a protected site for interdimensional exchange,’ but they took so long to mail it…”

Phezz frowned. The brooms collided and one shoved the other into the wall.

Grimbleshanks entered the foyer again. “An exemption was issued, but not to the inn’s current owner, one Phezznibbet Maplebark.” He selected more scrolls while the brooms dropped to the floor, wrestling over the dustpan.

“Wait,” Phezz said, an idea coming to him. “When I bought the inn, it was under the assumption that the previous owner was gone. However, as you can see, he’s still here!” He indicated Pompington with a paw. “If we were to say… have a deed as joint partners in this business, that would grandfather in the exemption, right?”

Grimbleshanks paled.

Pompington floated back and forth, pacing. “That also means all my other petitions would stand.”

Grimbleshanks sputtered. “But the chandelier is singing! That breaks a number of laws!”

“Not according to the Magical Realities Department.” Pompington gestured, and a drawer on the rolltop desk opened. Phezz hopped up and gathered the papers within.

“If the building in question is classified as a legitimate tourist attraction,” Pompington continued, “it would be exempt from audit by the Council of Universal Regulation for a century, provided the owner, or owners, can produce a deed declaring it so.”

“That’s quite the loophole you found.” Grimbleshanks huffed.

“I know,” Pompington said with a wink to Phezz.

“I’ll have to report this to the Council of Universal Regulation!”

“Please do,” Phezz gloated, clapping his paws together. “See you in a century!”

Pompington waved like a toddler. “Bye-bye.”

Grimbleshanks vanished in a cloud of sparkles that sounded like paper crumpling.

Pompington sighed. “I’ll let you explain this to the barrister.”

“That would probably be wise.” Phezz sighed and turned to his ghostly friend. “Let’s make it official, I guess. We’re going to be co-owners of the weirdest inn in the realm.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Anita Howitt took riding lessons on an ornery thoroughbred that bucked and complained until he got tired and then just did the work. After several attempts to revise her novels she experiences similar tantrums when sitting down to her desk. Stickers, dry-erase markers, coloring books, and inspirational magnets are part of her ongoing therapy. She lives in the woods with a supportive husband, entitled children, and a five month old rescue puppy named Fenris.

---

More Stories | Facebook