Vacancy available. Sanity not included.
Old Wobblewick’s leans like a drunkard in a thunderstorm, its crooked windows glowing jaundiced yellow above a porch that seems to breathe. The sign swings though there’s no wind, promising vacancy in flaking gold letters while the front door grins just a little too wide.
Old Wobblewick’s began as a boarding house for traveling tinkers, until its crooked halls started rearranging themselves after midnight and the mirrors learned to whisper back. The landlord still advertises vacancies to the desperate and the curious, though guests rarely leave with the same number of memories they brought in.
