The Laws of Vertebra Hospitality

Everyone knows a simple rule: if you see someone else's campfire in the forest, avoid it, because you never know who started it. Taverns are a different matter: they promise warmth, hot food and a safe overnight stay. Unless it's a Vertebra tavern.
 
Demons whisper that he was once a man: the stubborn owner of an inn in the mountains that burned to the ground with his family. People swear that this is a demon who has taken the form of an old man. But all the legends agree on one thing: when it gets dark, the Vertebra stops in a remote place, removes its terrible burden from its shoulders, and it turns into a real tavern before our eyes.
 
The old walls, stretching out, creak, the shutters open with a bang, a dim lantern lights up above the door, beckoning lonely travelers. And the owner himself is waiting inside. Small, crooked, with unnaturally long fingers. He smiles with sparse yellow teeth, offering "the best ale in the neighborhood" and "a warmer bed." And if the guest agrees to stay, he will forever be stuck in a tavern from which there is no way out, and his soul will belong to the Vertebra.
 
In the morning, the owner will again turn his establishment into a compact burden and move on — in search of new guests. In place of the tavern, only trampled earth and, possibly, a forgotten travel bag will remain.
 
They say that sometimes at night in the forest you can hear the light knock of a mug on a tree, a strangled laugh, and a quiet moan. It's like someone is sitting down to their last meal.