A short drive brought us into a clearing that had been carved out of the surrounding edge of forest. A small house that was probably quaint and charming at one time sat to the east of the clearing, surrounded by the carcasses of wood paneled VW wagons. They formed a line towards a large ungainly shop that was sealed off with large wooden boards set slipshod over the doorway.
We backed into the driveway and I checked my phone. No signal. Twenty-two miles from any sign of civilization and we were on our own.
I hopped out of the car and headed toward the house. My traveling companion insisted on remaining in the car, engine running. Just in case.
The path toward the house was covered in moss, like the trees bending in around us, like the roof of the old house, like everything that stood still long enough. Approaching the crooked doorway, I raised my fist, took a deep breath and knocked. Everybody in the town had warned us about the crazy man and his hostel. At least if he killed me my friend would get away and be able to report my murder.
Before I lowered my hand from knocking, the door swung open wide and a disheveled head appeared behind a tattered screen. Startled, I took a step back.
“Whaddya want?” asked a husky voice.
“I saw your sign," I said. "We're passing through and wanted to check out the hostel.”
The old man nodded and tossed his head toward the innards of the house. Taking that as an invitation, I opened the screen door and stepped inside.
The living room smelled of musty old books, wet dogs and urine. Bookshelves lined the walls on all sides, vomiting up books and magazines, newspapers, clippings and stacks and stacks of mixed up, dingy papers. Dilapidated cardboard boxes were piled floor to ceiling so that only a small mangled pathway existed around the perimeter of the room.
“This is the living room,” said the man. He looked at his stacks of boxes for a while in silence, then turned and walked through a doorway. I followed, trying to keep my breathing shallow.
“You can cook here,” he said, giving the same blank look to the kitchen as he had to the living room. There was more room to move in here, but it wore the same cramped character as the rest of the house. The cabinets lacked doors and spilled their contents out carelessly onto the floor. Pots and pans were piled on the counters and in the sink. I looked carefully for a knife collection but failed to find a single pointed object, much to my relief.
“That's my room,” he said, pointing to a closed doorway just off the kitchen. “And that's the women's dorm.”
The dorm room was directly across the hall from his and consisted of three bunk beds set against the walls. There were no tables, lamps, dressers or closets that I could see. One window, caked in dirt, sat sadly in the middle of the farthest wall.
“Do you have a men's dorm as well?” I asked.
He walked further down the hall, turned a corner and pointed through another doorway. I peered inside and saw the same lack of furnishings, the same sad window. Instead of bunk beds, a single bed sat in the middle of the bare room.
“How much do you charge?” I asked cheerfully.
“Ten if you do a chore. Otherwise, twenty.”
“Wow, that's really low.”
He looked at me now, for the first time since I'd entered his house, and didn't say a word.
“Well, thanks,” I said finally, walking back toward the living room. “We can't stay this trip, but maybe next time.”
- - -
“Well?” my friend asked, as I hopped in the car.
“Oh yeah, he's crazy,” I said. “Not like he's going to murder you in your sleep crazy, but more like...” I thought for a moment. “I get the idea he hasn't been out of his house in a really long time.”
