Slightly More Happens - October Oracles

Kathryn Nicolai (0:01)

Welcome to a special, longer episode of bedtime stories for everyone, in which slightly more happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Kathryn Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Here is your monthly dose of extra Nothing Much, in which we give you a five-story episode arc, here on our premium feed. And we'll keep publishing our seasonal, much more happens episodes that contain 20 plus stories each. Enjoy. Just as with a regular episode, these stories are simply a soft place to rest your mind. All you need to do is listen. I'll still tell the stories twice, going a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to start them over again. Our stories tonight are some of my favorites. We'll spend time at the inn as the pumpkins are lit, and the ballroom fills up with costumed neighbors. There will be cats in windows, a rumbling dumb waiter, and a secret passageway that sat shut up for ages. And the extra large premium version will wander through the alleys at the night market and make friends with the bump in the night. So please make yourself as comfortable as you possibly can. Let your whole body relax and drop heavy into the mattress.

You are safe, and I'll be here watching over as you drift to sleep. Join me in a deep breath in through the nose and sigh from your mouth.

Again, breathe in, and breathe out.

Good. All hallows, Eve, at the inn. Sycamore was very excited. He sat on the check-in desk beside the giant book our guests sign when they arrive. His tail thumped and played on the desktop, and his black ears twitched back and forth. We'd met in this very room the year before. He'd been found by a friend of mine. She'd spotted him in the branches of the tall sycamore tree in the side yard, here at the inn. And when she'd nickered at him from the ground, he'd climbed down into her arms. She'd transferred him into mine, and since then, we'd been the best of friends. I didn't know how he would be as a hotel cat. Would he like the constant coming and going of guests, footsteps in the halls, chef and our maid and me all moving from floor to floor? Some cats run at the first sound of a human and hide under beds, and I worried he would be the same, but he seems to have been born to be an assistant innkeeper. He loves greeting folks as they arrive, herding them from the front door, past the great staircase in the hall, and into the front office. If you stretch out on the porch swing, he'll curl up in your lap. Need a bit of company while you read in the library? He's happy to sit beside you and purr. He knows every nook and cranny of this great old house, and is as good at welcoming an ambassador as I could hope for. And now, as the afternoon waned and it was nearly time for even more guests to arrive, he was eager to play his part. Many years ago, before I was innkeeper here, there was another innkeeper. She oversaw the house's first turn at hospitality. It had originally been a wealthy family's home, been a school, then had sat empty for a time, until she opened its doors to guests. When she was ready to pass the torch to someone else, no one stepped into her shoes. And again, the house was empty. Then, one fateful day, I came bicycling down the overgrown drive, with no intention of doing anything more than circling past the front door. And going back to the road. But I felt pulled to peer into the cobwebbed windows, to walk through the old gardens and down to the lake. This place was like a book I couldn't put down. Soon, I found myself with the keys in my hand, venturing into the dark halls with the flashlight, wanting to reclaim every cupboard, along with restoring the inn, bringing the ballroom back to life, and even rehabilitating the dumbwaiter in the hall. We were returning another tradition to this old place. For years, the original innkeeper had thrown a giant party every Halloween night, and invited the whole village to come. This year, in less than an hour, in fact, our guests would arrive for this new, old celebration. I came around the desk and leaned down to plant a kiss on Sigamore's head. Let's light the candles in the pumpkins. He leapt down beside me and meowed excitedly as we came out into the hall. We had gone all out for this. Giant spiderwebs stretched up the great staircase, all the way to the third floor, and on each step was a carved pumpkin. Ghostly gauze was draped over mirrors and chandeliers. The stairs were delightfully creaky as we climbed, and I smiled, thinking that the house was playing its part in the spectacle. I'd first thought of putting real candles in the pumpkins. I wanted them to flicker and smoke just a bit for the authenticity, but Chef, ever the more logical of us, pointed out that all it would take was a misplaced shoe on the stairs to send a flaming pumpkin down into the hall. And then the fire department would have to be called. While I liked the image of that flying, grinning gourd, very headless horsemen, I guessed they had a point. And now, as we turned the landing at the second floor, and made our way, puffing slightly, up the last flight, I realized hand-lighting all those candles would have taken the whole night. Chef had found some battery-operated lights, and kindly charged and situated each one, and gave me a remote. I took it from my pocket as we stood at the very top of the stairs, and looked down through the gloomy webbed flights, and into the dark hall. Sycamore poked his head through the railings, and I could feel his tail curl around my ankle. I pushed the button on the remote, and the whole space lit up with a flickering orange glow that was spooky yet beckoning. I hoped it would be irresistible to our party guests tonight, drawing them up to the ballroom, where chefs' punch cauldron would be bubbling and smoking, and the band playing, enticing them to reach for a partner and join the dance macabre. Now, into our costume, Sikki, not much time left. And we hustled down the hall to our room. Sycamore had considered several costume options. He'd considered going as a jaguar, slinking through the crowds as a big, powerful cat. But, you know, in his mind, that was already who he was. So he wouldn't have even needed a costume, which isn't that fun. I'd suggested he go as velcro, since he's black and sticks to stuff. I'd been picking some of his fur off my collar when I'd made the suggestion, but he just turned away from me and sighed. In the end, Chef found him a sort of onesie with glow-in-the-dark paint that made him look like a kiddie skeleton. And when we'd tried it on and flicked off the lights, he'd watched himself prowling in front of the mirror and purred. I helped him into it now, rubbing his ears as I snapped it up the back. I thought about all the silly fun we had together. How had I ever lived without him? And I turned to my closet and took out a vintage dress, an apron I'd found at the resale shop. I didn't know the name of the other innkeeper. Didn't know how old she was when she started or stopped, but I felt a kinship with her. And just like I dressed as my heroes when I'd gone out trick-or-treating when I was young, I was dressing as her for the party tonight. It was strange, actually. We'd found lots of pictures of the house at various times in its life. But we'd never found a single shot of her. Well, there was one we'd found in the back of a closet. But her face was a blur. She must have been moving too fast for the shutter to catch her. But I could relate. It seemed I was always needed somewhere in the inn. Still, I'd based this costume on that blurry image. A pale dress with full cuffs and a dark apron. Just like me, she'd worn sensible flat shoes. That would make going up and down the stairs possible and speedy. And though I couldn't tell in the photo, I'd guessed she'd tucked her hair up in a neat bun. So I twisted my own locks into place and secured them with bobby pins. Sycamore lay glowing in front of the full-size mirror in the dim light, and I stepped in front of it. I felt the air fade from my lungs. I don't know why. In some ways, I was dressing up as myself. But in the mirror, I saw a different version of me. A woman who had known even more of the secrets of this old house. And it felt like saying a word that had been on the tip of your tongue for years. A bell rang over my door, and I jumped, startling myself, out of whatever sort of daydream this was. I laughed and looked down at skeletal sycamore. That's Chef, letting us know that guests are arriving, Sy. Let's be good hosts. I peered at myself in the mirror one more time, and said as I turned to the door, or good ghosts.