Benny the reporter had been driving for hours through the vast, empty countryside—just him, the road, and a radio station that only seemed to play banjo versions of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’ By the time he saw the crooked sign for “Sleepy Hollow Inn – Vacancy & Coffee,” he didn’t care if it had running water or just a bucket with ambition.
Dragging his suitcase inside, Benny was greeted by creaky wooden floors, dusty chandeliers, and the unmistakable smell of aged wallpaper. But what really caught his eye was an old Indian man sitting by the lobby fireplace, slowly whittling a stick with laser-like focus.
The man didn’t look up, just nodded slowly as Benny approached the counter.
Benny rang the bell. Ding!
No one came.
“Excuse me,” Benny said to the whittling man, “Is the receptionist around?”
Without glancing up, the man said in a raspy voice, “She’ll be down in exactly one minute and thirty-seven seconds.”
Benny blinked. “How do you know that?”
“Spirit of the wood tells me,” he said, pointing to the half-shaped stick in his hands.
Sure enough, one minute and thirty-seven seconds later, a sleepy woman appeared from the back room, chewing gum and muttering about squirrels in the ice machine.
Benny raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
After checking in and dropping his bags off, curiosity got the better of him. He returned to the lobby where the old man was still carving away, surrounded by a small pile of wood curls.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?” Benny said, notebook in hand. “I’m a reporter.”
The old man shrugged. “I’m a whittler. Ask what you like.”
“What are you carving?”
“Answers.”
“To what?”
“Questions not yet asked.”
Benny paused. “That sounds… mysterious.”
“Better than sounding like the plumbing here,” the man muttered.
Benny chuckled. “All right, let’s test this. What do your ‘sticks’ say about tomorrow’s weather?”
The man held the stick to his ear like it was a seashell. “Rain. At exactly 3:12 PM.”
Benny scribbled it down. “Okay, and what will I eat for breakfast?”
The man sniffed the wood. “You’ll try the continental breakfast. You’ll regret it by 9:05.”
More scribbling.
Then Benny leaned in, grinning. “All right, big question: When will I get my big break? You know, the story that gets me famous?”
The old man paused, his eyes narrowing. He tapped the stick on the arm of his chair. “Midnight. Tonight.”
Benny blinked. “That’s specific.”
“Spirit of the wood is never vague. Unlike politicians.”
That night, at precisely 12:00 AM, Benny was woken by a thunderous crash. He ran downstairs in his pajamas just in time to see a moose—a real, live moose—burst through the glass front doors of the inn, gallop through the lobby, knock over a vending machine, and vanish out the back.
Benny stood frozen, hair frazzled, jaw dropped.
The old man, still whittling, didn’t even flinch.
“The vending machine was one quarter too full,” he said.
Benny immediately grabbed his phone, snapped photos, called in the story, and by dawn, his headline was trending: “Moose on the Loose: Vandalizes Sleepy Hollow Inn Over Alleged Snack Dispute.”
He got interviews, a book offer, and a TV segment titled “The Man Who Met the Moose.”
Weeks later, Benny returned to the inn, fame behind him and a fresh notepad in hand.
He found the old man still there, still whittling.
Benny grinned. “You were right. Everything you said came true.”
“I know,” the old man said.
“So what are you carving now?” Benny asked.
The man held up the stick. “A warning.”
Benny frowned. “A warning?”
The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Yep. You’re going to spill coffee on yourself in… three, two—”
Splash.
Benny stared at his shirt in disbelief.
The old man smiled. “The wood never lies.”
