The Innkeeper's Magical Inheritance (eBook)

A Paranormal Women's Fantasy Romance Novel

Mercedes Bogomila Iljaž (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
319 Seiten
Lofty Dreams Publications (Verlag)
978-0-00-109853-4 (ISBN)

Infos

When Morgan Sullivan inherits her grandmother's Victorian inn, she discovers more than just a crumbling business and mounting debts. The Willow Creek Inn harbors generations of family secrets-and a dangerous gift she's spent a decade running from. Dreams at the inn aren't just visions; they're prophecies that blur the boundaries between sleep and reality, threatening to consume anyone who dares unlock their power.

Desperate skeptic Eliza Chen arrives to debunk the inn's supernatural reputation, armed with scientific equipment and ironclad logic. But as prophetic dreams intensify and impossible manifestations appear, even her unwavering rationalism begins to crack. The inn itself seems alive, its dream-woven magic growing stronger-and more unpredictable-with each passing night.

Caught between her family's mystical legacy and the skeptic determined to expose it, Morgan must master abilities she never wanted before the weakening dream boundary unleashes something far more sinister than bedtime visions. With the inn's ancient magic spiraling out of control and her heart pulled toward an impossible connection, Morgan faces an agonizing choice: embrace her inheritance and risk losing herself to the dream realm, or abandon her legacy and condemn the town to supernatural chaos.

 

Textauszug

Prologue

The October rain fell in gentle whispers against the cemetery's ancient oaks, droplets clinging to bare branches like forgotten tears. Morgan Sullivan stood apart from the small gathering, her black umbrella a flimsy barrier between herself and the oppressive weight of finality. Grandmother Evelyn's mahogany casket gleamed wetly under the gray sky, adorned with white lilies and sprigs of lavender—herbs for remembrance, for peaceful sleep.

How fitting, Morgan thought bitterly. The Sullivan women had always maintained a complicated relationship with sleep.

The pastor's words blurred into meaningless sound. Three days had passed since Morgan had received the call, three sleepless nights spent driving from her corporate apartment in Boston back to Willow Creek, the small mountain town she'd fled a decade ago. She'd arrived too late to say goodbye, finding only the empty shell of the woman who had raised her after her parents' accident.

Now, as the final prayers concluded, townsfolk approached one by one—some with genuine tears, others with the practiced solemnity of small-town obligation. They murmured condolences while studying Morgan with undisguised curiosity.

"She looks just like Evelyn at that age," she overheard someone whisper. "Do you think she'll stay and take over the inn?"

"Hard to say. Left as soon as she could, that one. Never seemed interested in the family business."

Morgan's jaw tightened. The family business. As if running a Victorian bed and breakfast was all Grandmother Evelyn had done. As if the expectations waiting for Morgan were simply about changing sheets and cooking breakfast.

Walter Blackwood, the town historian and her grandmother's oldest friend, approached last. His weathered face creased with genuine sorrow as he pressed a small leather-bound book into her hands.

"Evelyn wanted you to have this," he said quietly. "She always believed you would return when it was time."

Morgan glanced down at the worn journal, its cover embossed with a pattern of intertwined willow branches. "I never wanted this, Walter."

His rheumy eyes held hers. "We rarely want what we inherit, my dear. But that doesn't make it any less ours to bear."

As the mourners dispersed, Morgan remained, rain seeping through her clothes as she stared at the fresh mound of earth. The inn keys felt impossibly heavy in her coat pocket.

"You should have chosen someone else," she whispered to the grave. "Anyone but me."

No answer came but the soft patter of raindrops and the distant cry of a raven. Appropriate. Grandmother had always said the birds gathered when the veil between worlds thinned—when dreams pressed close against reality.

Morgan placed her hand against the cold, wet stone of the marker. "I'm not ready."

She never would be.

…

The Victorian inn loomed against the twilight sky, its gabled roof and ornate trim silhouetted like something from another century—which, in truth, it largely was. Built in 1887, rebuilt after the mysterious fire of 1923, Willow Creek Inn had been in the Sullivan family for five generations. Its stained-glass windows glinted with the last rays of sunset as Morgan climbed the porch steps, her footsteps echoing on the worn wooden boards.

Inside, the familiar scent of beeswax, old books, and lavender enveloped her. Morgan moved through the darkened foyer, not bothering with lights. She knew every creaking floorboard, every shadowed corner. The grandfather clock in the entrance hall ticked steadily, marking time as it had for over a century.

Exhaustion pressed down on her like a physical weight. After the funeral, she'd spent hours in her grandmother's office, discovering the precarious financial state of the inn—mortgage payments three months behind, utility bills piled on the antique desk, reservation calendar ominously empty as winter approached.

Morgan dragged herself up the curved staircase to the third floor, to the bedroom that had been hers throughout childhood. Untouched for years, it remained frozen in time—faded lavender walls, bookshelves lined with volumes on local history and dream interpretation, pressed flowers framed above the writing desk.

She didn't bother unpacking, simply kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the quilted coverlet. Grandmother Evelyn's journal remained clutched in her hand as she surrendered to the sleep she'd been fighting for days.

The transition was immediate—a falling sensation, followed by the peculiar awareness that came only in dreams. The bedroom around her shifted, colors intensifying, shadows deepening. The ceiling above seemed to lift and dissolve, revealing a night sky scattered with impossibly bright stars.

Morgan sat up, heart pounding. This wasn't an ordinary dream. The air felt charged with electricity, tingling against her skin. The bedroom door, which she'd closed upon entering, now stood ajar, golden light spilling through the gap.

"Hello, little dreamer."

The voice—so achingly familiar—came from the hallway. Morgan's breath caught in her throat.

"Grandma?"

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her movements fluid in the way only dream-bodies could be. The wooden floor beneath her bare feet felt paradoxically both solid and insubstantial, cool to the touch yet somehow warm.

Grandmother Evelyn stood in the doorway, not as she'd been in her final days—frail and diminished—but as Morgan remembered her from childhood: tall and straight-backed, silver hair coiled in an elegant knot, green eyes (so like Morgan's own) bright with that peculiar mixture of wisdom and mischief.

"I've been waiting for you to sleep," Evelyn said, her voice echoing slightly, as though coming from both everywhere and nowhere. "You always were stubborn about resting, even as a child."

Morgan took an uncertain step forward. "This isn't real. You're gone."

Evelyn smiled, the lines around her eyes crinkling. "Am I? The boundary between dreams and waking has always been permeable for Sullivan women. You know this, though you've spent years pretending otherwise."

She gestured for Morgan to follow, turning toward the hallway. Against her better judgment, Morgan did. The corridor outside stretched impossibly long, the familiar photographs on the walls subtly altered—faces looking in different directions, backgrounds shifting when not directly observed.

"Where are we going?" Morgan asked, hurrying to keep pace.

"To the heart," Evelyn answered cryptically. "It's time you remembered what you've tried so hard to forget."

They descended the main staircase, which spiraled down far more turns than it should have. The banister beneath Morgan's hand felt warm, almost alive, the carved willow patterns seeming to ripple beneath her fingertips.

At the bottom, instead of the entrance hall, they entered a room Morgan had never seen before—circular, lined with bookshelves, dominated by a massive table inlaid with an intricate pattern that matched the cover of Evelyn's journal. Candles burned in wall sconces, their flames unnaturally still.

"This isn't part of the inn," Morgan said, turning slowly to take in the impossible space.

"Isn't it?" Evelyn moved to the table's center, running her fingers along the inlaid pattern. "The physical architecture and the dream architecture have always been intertwined in this place. The Sullivans built it that way intentionally—channels and pathways for dream energy to flow, to be contained, to be directed."

Morgan shook her head, old frustration rising. "More riddles. You never could just explain things clearly."

"Some things can't be explained, only experienced." Evelyn's expression softened. "I tried to teach you, but you weren't ready. Perhaps you still aren't. But time has run out, and the inheritance passes to you regardless of readiness."

The air in the room thickened, pressure building as though before a storm. The candle flames flickered suddenly, casting wild shadows across the walls.

"What inheritance?" Morgan asked, though part of her already knew.

Evelyn placed both hands flat on the table. "The dream boundary is weakening, Morgan. It always does during transition from one keeper to the next. Already, things are slipping through—small manifestations at first, but they will grow stronger, more frequent."

"I don't want this," Morgan said, backing away. "I left for a reason."

"Because of what happened when you were twelve," Evelyn nodded. "I understand your fear. But denying your abilities doesn't eliminate them. It only leaves them untrained, unpredictable."

The room darkened, the walls seeming to breathe inward. A memory surfaced, unwanted...

…

"You can't tell anyone, Morgan. Promise me."

Twelve-year-old Morgan sat huddled on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, staring at the impossibility before her. The small bird—a goldfinch she'd dreamed about the night before—perched on her windowsill, its yellow feathers vibrant against the morning light. It tilted its head, studying her with curious eyes that held an intelligence no real bird possessed.

Grandmother Evelyn sat beside her, expression grave yet somehow excited.

"I don't understand," Morgan whispered. "How can it be here? It was just a dream."

"The dream boundary is thinner for Sullivan women," Evelyn explained, reaching out slowly toward the bird. It hopped onto her finger without hesitation. "What exists in dreams can sometimes cross over, if the emotion is strong enough, if the dreamer has the gift."

Morgan shook her head vigorously. "That's impossible."

"Yet here it is." Evelyn...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 8.11.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-00-109853-5 / 0001098535
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-109853-4 / 9780001098534