Читать книгу Dark Hollows - Steve Frech - Страница 7

I’m standing in the basement of a run-down, abandoned warehouse, staring at the padlock on a heavy steel door. The walls are coated in grime and there is the sound of dripping water from somewhere in the darkness.

The padlock begins to tremble. It’s subtle, at first, but then grows violent, as if some enraged, unseen force is trying to pull it open. The padlock rattles against the door.

“No … please … please, hold …” I whisper, my voice weak in pain and fear.

The shaking intensifies. It begins to infect the door and the walls, filling the basement with a low rumble.

“Don’t … I’m so sorry … Please …”

The rumble grows into a deafening roar. It feels like the entire building is going to come down on top of me. Bile rises in my throat.

“No … no …”

Everything stops.

I know what’s coming. I know what’s behind that door.

Oh my God, what have I done?

The lock snaps open.

I bolt upright in bed. Sweat pours down my face and my lungs pull in rapid gulps of air.

In the dawning light of morning, I can see Murphy, my black Lab mutt, lying in his bed in the corner of the room. He cocks his head at me.

I grip my side and hiss through clenched teeth. Sitting up so fast causes the old injury in my side to flare with pain, but it passes. I steady my breath and wipe the sweat from my eyes. I throw off the covers, hop out of bed, and head to the bathroom. The nightmare is nothing new. I’ve been having it for years, reliving the panic and shock of that night over and over, but I’ve learned to quickly put it out of my mind.

After throwing some cold water on my face, I pull on a pair of jeans and a shirt and head downstairs to start a pot of coffee. Murphy joins me in the kitchen, but instead of coming over to the counter, he sits next to his food bowl and gives me those big, dinner-plate eyes.

“What? Are you hungry?” I ask.

His tail thumps against the floor.

I feed him a little dry food from the bag in the pantry, and then go to the window over the sink and glance down the drive, past the pond, to the cottage sitting at the edge of the woods.

The Thelsons’ car is gone. No surprise there. They said they were getting an early start back to Manhattan.

Coffee in hand, I walk to the front door and pat my leg as I step out onto the porch.

“Let’s go, Murph.”

Murphy inhales the last of his breakfast and hustles after me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him chew, even when he was a puppy. He springs off the porch and down the steps. We walk past the pond, towards the cottage. As we pass the truck in the driveway, I make yet another mental note to fix that damn taillight. Somehow, all the mental notes I make about it go unremembered.

I walk around the fire pit and note the wineglasses sitting next to the chairs. I step over to the front door of the cottage, take out my key, and open the door. Before doing anything, I go to the kitchen table and open the guestbook. I flip through the pages until I find the latest entry. The ink is so dark and sharp, it had to have been written not more than an hour ago.

We were in town from Manhattan to do some leaf-peeping and had a wonderful time. The Hollows is a beautiful little town. We loved the shops on Main Street and strolling through the cemetery at the Old Stone Church. What can we say about Jacob’s cottage? So amazing! We began every morning with a walk through the woods to check out the hills and always stopped at “The Sanctuary”. Jacob is the perfect host. The wine and the s’mores were just the right touch. And then, there’s Murphy! Such a sweetie! Can’t wait to come back!

~ John & Margaret Thelson

I snap the guestbook closed and look around the cottage. It never fails; whenever someone from Manhattan signs the guestbook, they always have to mention that they’re from Manhattan. Hopefully, they’ll post the review on Be Our Guest this afternoon, once they get home.

The Thelsons were standard New York City types; taking their yearly fall pilgrimage up north to see some trees. They were a wealthy couple who would call this quaint, one-bedroom cottage “roughing it”, even though it had all the amenities, a couple of bottles of wine, and a fire pit outside. Still, they were pleasant, and they’ve left the cottage in good shape. The turnaround should be quick, and I’ve got it down to a science.

Murphy walks through the open front door. He’s done scouting the fire pit for any stray graham crackers or marshmallows left by the Thelsons, and goes right for the kitchen to see if there are any scraps lying about.

“Happy hunting, Murphy,” I say. He deserves it. He’s one of my best selling points.

I clap my hands and rub them together. “All right. Time to get to work.”

First thing I do is bring in the wineglasses and wash them in the kitchen sink. Then, I collect the bedsheets and towels, put them in a bag, and carry it to the house. Murphy follows close behind. I take the bag down to the basement and pop the contents into the washing machine. Even though we’ve done this process hundreds of times, Murphy bolts as soon as I open the lid because to him, the washing machine is still some sort of monster. Once I get that going, I head back upstairs. Murphy’s on the porch, waiting for me.

“Coward,” I say.

He responds by letting his tongue flop out of his mouth and starts panting.

As we begin walking back to the cottage, Murphy spots the ducks that have settled onto the glassy surface of the pond. He pins his ears back and sprints after them.

“Murphy!” I shout.

He stops at the water’s edge and looks at me.

“Nope. Come on.”

He stares at the pond and then back at me as if to ask, “But do you not see the ducks?”

“Come,” I say, with a forceful slap on my leg.

He runs to catch up, but instead of following me into the cottage, he lies down on the cottage porch to enjoy the cool New England morning.

I restock the complimentary toiletries and clean the bathroom. No disasters there. One time, I had a young couple from Los Angeles stay for a weekend and after drinking too much wine, they destroyed the bathroom. I almost left them a bad review, but they were in the “Elite Class” on Be Our Guest, so I held my fire. Thankfully, they left me a glowing review.

I finish scrubbing the tub and stand up a little too quickly. The pain in my side flares again, but it barely registers.

Time to tackle the kitchen. I clean the plates from the s’mores and refill the basket by the coffee maker with packs of Groundworks coffee. I wipe down the counter and sweep the floor. After that, I retrieve the vacuum cleaner from the hall closet. I have my routine down, working my way from the bedroom, then the bathroom, down the hall, and into the living room/kitchen area.

I push the vacuum around the bookcase, which is filled with some of my favorite books—a few thrillers, some Michael Crichtons, A Christmas Carol, et cetera. No one reads them while they’re here, but they make for good pictures on the Be Our Guest website. There’s also a row of DVDs no one watches: Casablanca, When Harry Met Sally, Vertigo, Roman Holiday, and Dead Again. As I glide the vacuum cleaner over the rug by the fireplace, my eyes catch the stick doll I made years ago, resting on the mantel. It’s a crude figure made of twigs tied together with twine. It adds a nice, rugged touch to the place. In Boy Scouts, they taught us to use pine needles instead of twine, but those don’t last long—

“For me?” she asked in mock flattery.

“Just something I learned in Boy Scouts.”

She saw right through my bullshit.

“Well, I shall treasure it always,” she said, clutching the doll to her chest, toying with me …

I’m pulled from my memory by Murphy whining.

He’s sitting in the doorway. His expression is a perfect balance of wanting to enter the cottage but respecting the vacuum cleaner.

I flip the switch, and the vacuum engine whirrs to a stop.

“Done,” I tell him, and put the vacuum back in the closet.

While in the closet, I rotate the stacks of towels, and accidentally knock over the small dish hidden on the top shelf, which contains a spare key to the house and the coffee shop. I keep a spare key for both out here because I learned the hard way that I should when I locked myself out of the house about a year ago. I put the keys back in the dish, tuck it all the way back on the shelf, and close the door. I pull out my phone and take a series of pictures of the cottage. It’s been a while, and I need to change the photos on the Be Our Guest website.

I head back to the house and transfer the sheets and towels to the dryer. Once again, Murphy stays by my side until I get to the basement stairs, because the dryer is the washer’s evil twin. That accomplished, I head back down to the cottage to do one last spot check to make sure everything is perfect.

I normally wouldn’t do an extra check, but tonight, I’m breaking a rule.

Here’s the deal—a few years ago, my parents died. We weren’t particularly close. In fact, we weren’t close at all, which is strange for an only child, but there was history. They were the successful, wealthy, married couple who had done everything right, while I was nothing but one dumb decision after another. I could never get my feet under me and it was my own fault. I squandered every chance they gave me.

It got so bad that they finally cut me off after I screwed around my sophomore year in college. I had to find another way to pay my tuition, which I did. I told them I got a job, but not the whole story about what the job was. They were pleased that I had finally taken responsibility for myself and tried to reconnect but for me, the damage had been done. I wanted nothing to do with them. There were obligatory phone calls on Christmas and birthdays, filled with awkward conversations. I was living in Portland, Maine, while they had moved to Hilton Head, South Carolina.

Their passing was quick. Mom became ill. I offered to come down and help out, because that’s what an only child does, right, even if we hadn’t really spoken in years? Dad declined my offer, claiming he could handle it. Well, he couldn’t. The stress got to him and he had a heart attack. It was over before he hit the floor. I got the call from the nurse Dad had hired to look after Mom. On my way down to the funeral, Mom passed away. The nurse said it was from a broken heart. I didn’t know how to feel. They hadn’t been a part of my life for so long, it felt like they were already gone, but I did wish that I had maybe tried to patch things up.

The dual funeral was surreal. There were a lot of people there, and I didn’t know any of them. When they found out who I was, they came up and commented on how painful and sad it must be for me, and what wonderful people my parents had been. I tried to be sympathetic, but I worried that they would be able to tell that I really didn’t know my parents. The worst was having to give a speech. I felt like a fraud. No, I was a fraud. Thankfully, any question of my sincerity could be chalked up to shock and grief. I felt guilty for not knowing them. All those people were moved by their passing, and I was ashamed of myself. I pictured what my funeral would look like, and it was not a well-attended affair.

Then came the will.

My parents left me everything. There was no personal declaration in it—no directions as to what I was supposed to do with their life’s savings. There was only the simple instruction that I was to receive everything. I assumed that it was their way of saying that I had shown myself worthy after making my own way. Maybe they were saying that they were sorry. Maybe they thought that some day, we really would be a family again. I don’t know, but that’s when I made the decision. I had made so many mistakes—the worst of which were only known to me. I decided then and there—no more messing around. It was time to straighten out my life.

I grew up in Vermont, and since I was looking at this as a reset, I decided to go back. I did my research, found The Hollows, and bought the property on the outskirts of town. The nearest neighbor was a half a mile away. The property was secluded, but not isolated. I loved the plot of land, which was nestled up against the woods. There was the main house, the pond, and the cottage. The cottage had been the main house when the land had been a farm, but around a hundred and fifty years ago, the land had been sold, the new house built, the pond dug, and the cottage was abandoned. The fact that the main house was old gave it a sense of maturity and responsibility that I now craved.

I also loved The Hollows. It had originally been settled by two French explorers in the early 1600s, who named it “Chavelle’s Hollow”. Then came the British, and after the French-Indian War, they decided to change the name to “Sommerton’s Hollow”, in honor of the British General, Edward Sommerton. The problem was that the town was so small and located right on the border between the French and British territories, people called it by both names. Then the American Revolution happened, and Sommerton served in the British Army. After the war, the citizens of the newly formed country didn’t want to have a town honoring their recently vanquished enemy, so they changed the name to “Putnam’s Hollow”, in honor of Rufus Putnam of the Continental Army.

This all happened so fast, relatively speaking, that people were calling the town by all three names at the same time, depending on if they were French, British, or American. When the town finally got a post office, which is what makes a place an official town in the eyes of the government, the surveyor was so fed up with trying to determine the correct name for such a small town, he simply wrote down “The Hollows”, and it stuck. The Hollows became one of those towns you see on travel websites—a charming New England town with a Main Street comprised of three-hundred-year-old, colonial-style buildings, a town green, an old stone church, and winding roads, hidden among the rolling hills and forests.

After purchasing the house, I moved on to the next phase of my plan—opening my own business.

I rented a storefront on Main Street and opened a coffee shop. Like the rest of the town, Main Street was a postcard. The centuries-old buildings that line the street each have a plaque identifying the year they were built and for whom. Instead of switching to electric lights, the town kept its old gas lamps. At night, it was a fairy tale.

My shop was a small, single-story structure just down and across from the church, which everyone called the Old Stone Church. My coffee shop’s large front window gave the perfect view with the town green across the street, and the old cemetery next to the church, to the south. I named the place “Groundworks” and began my little endeavor. I quickly realized that I had bitten off way more than I could chew, but since there was no Plan B, I had put nearly all of my inheritance into the house and the shop, so I had to stick it out.

Little by little, I got it under control. I started by giving out free samples of Groundworks’ signature coffee to the local hotels and B&Bs to put in their guestrooms. They jumped on it as a way to promote local business. That’s what the fall tourist season is all about. The Hollows is a cottage industry. It also paid off in that everyone staying at the hotels and B&Bs came to the shop during their exploration of the surrounding hills and countryside. I slowly fought my way out of the red, and while things were looking up financially, it was really hard work.

One downside of moving to a new town and putting in so many hours was that I was lonely. On an impulse, I took a trip to the local animal shelter. Behind the shelter was a pen where they allowed the dogs to run and play. I told myself I was going to adopt the first dog who came up to me. I stepped through the gate and this little black ball of fur with oversized paws broke from the pack and came flying at me, ears and jowls flapping wildly. He charged and didn’t stop. He simply plowed into my shins and careened across the ground. He instantly sprang up and repeated the process. After the third time of tumbling over my feet, he was going to try again but was so dizzy, he fell over.

I was laughing so hard, tears poured down my cheeks, and I had to sit down. The mutt leapt at me and attempted to lick my face off. That was that. I named him Murphy, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. I’m not exaggerating about that. In four years, we’ve rarely left each other’s side. With the long hours I was putting in at the shop, I couldn’t leave him at home, alone, so I brought him with me. Before long, Murphy was Groundworks’ unofficial mascot.

I remodeled Groundworks to give it an “old-timey” feel and it started to pick up steam. I was there almost fourteen hours a day, seven days a week. Business continued to grow.

One morning two years ago, Maggie Vaughn, who runs the Elmwood Hotel a block away, stopped by to pick up her supply of coffee, and remarked that her hotel was so full, she was turning people away.

That sparked an idea to give myself a side project and make a little extra coin.

By that time, I had hired some staff to lighten the load and had some time for myself.

I had been using the cottage as storage for Groundworks, but I took out some money, and renovated it as a place to stay. I fixed it up into a charming, one-bedroom affair with a remodeled kitchen and bathroom. I even added the fire pit out front. At the time, Airbnb was starting to take off. I thought they might be too crowded, so I went with a rival start-up called “Be Our Guest”. It marketed itself as a more selective and upscale version of Airbnb. They weren’t going after people looking to save a buck. They were after wealthy people wanting a different experience. These were exactly the tourists who were coming to The Hollows.

Since Be Our Guest was new, they wanted unique properties. I contacted them with photos of the cottage, and they went berserk. A representative from Be Our Guest came out to inspect the cottage and loved it. We went through the formalities. I had to sign a bunch of papers, promising to comply with their policies, one of which was that I wouldn’t become involved “physically or otherwise” with a guest during their stay at my property. I had to submit to a background check, which always makes me nervous. I was confident they wouldn’t find anything, but still, I worry.

Once that was done, I was cleared for takeoff, and take off, it did. Be Our Guest ran the cottage as a featured property and immediately, the reservations filled up. It was great. I was charging $200 a night in the off-season and $300 a night in the fall. If I wanted to, I could have booked the cottage every night. It’s the easiest money I’ve ever made. I usually only saw my guests once or twice. They were always polite—well, most of the time, and all it took was an hour or two, at most, to clean and reset the place after they left.

Some of the hotel owners in town were upset that I had gotten into the game, but not too upset. They were still operating at capacity. I think they were more worried that other residents with extra bedrooms might try to go the Airbnb route. Anyway, like I said—easiest money I ever made. I could set my own dates, and if I wanted to take a break from keeping up the cottage, I just blocked out a week or two here and there. People enjoyed their stay. I made sure to keep the cottage stocked with wine from local wineries and coffee—only Groundworks, of course. Once I put in the fire pit, I also made sure to have the stuff to make s’mores in the kitchen. Everyone took advantage of it.

And everyone loved Murphy.

I did have some rules, though. I didn’t allow anyone to stay at the cottage who hadn’t already written at least three reviews on Be Our Guest. That’s one of the beauties of the site. Hotels have to let anyone stay at their place, so long as they have a credit card. With Be Our Guest, I get to vet who stays at my place. I can see what they’ve said about other places, and you can tell who’s going to be a problem by their reviews. They’re the people who are determined to have a bad time, no matter what. That’s my rule—three reviews to prove that you are a reasonable person. It’s my most sacred rule.

And tonight, I’m breaking it.

Two months ago, I received a request from a woman named Rebecca Lowden to stay in the cottage for one night, only. I was going to reject the reservation request when I saw that she had no previous reviews, but I always check the reservation request to see where they heard about me to stay informed about where Be Our Guest is advertising. I clicked on her request, which took me to her profile page. She was undeniably beautiful, with brunette hair and blue eyes, but it was her bio that caught me.

In the bio sections, Be Our Guest encourages you to list things, like your hobbies, favorite books, and favorite movies. As one of her favorite books, she listed A Christmas Carol. And in the “favorite movies” section? Dead Again, which is in my top five. Also, she had grown up in a town not too far from where I grew up.

So, out of simple curiosity, I broke my rule and accepted the reservation.

*

I pull the sheets and towels from the dryer, and head back to the cottage. I make the bed, pulling the sheets tight and tucking the corners securely under the mattress. I never made my bed until the cottage. Now, I can’t sleep in a bed that’s not made. I hang fresh towels in the bathroom, and stack the rest on the top shelf in the hall closet.

And with that, I’m done. The cottage is ready to go. Check-in time is three o’clock and right now, it’s noon. She could be here in three hours, or she might not arrive until tonight, but it’s a safe guess that she’ll be here closer to three. Most people treat arrangements like this as though they’re arriving at someone’s house, rather than a hotel. So, like I said, she’ll probably be here closer to three. I kind of want to be here when she arrives.

Again, it’s only curiosity. Don’t look at me like that.

I put the key in the lockbox next to the front door, and reset the passcode for the four digits I sent Rebecca in the confirmation email.

I have to head to Groundworks in a few hours, but until then, I can kill time in the hopes of meeting her.

I head back to the main house, and walk into my office on the first floor. The floorboards in the hall squeak in a familiar sound that I’ve grown to relish. It reminds me of the sense of responsibility for the aged house. It’s seen the very end of a Civil War, a World War, a Great Depression, another World War, the Seventies, the turn of the millennium, and I’m the one to make sure it sees the next milestone. I spin into the swivel chair at the desk and fire up the computer.

I check my emails and see that Sandy Bellhurst, the manager I hired to help me at Groundworks, has sent me the receipts from yesterday. I enter them into my accounting software and take care of some more emails. When I’m done, I look over to the door and see Murphy’s half in and half out of the room.

“What? Are you hungry, again?”

Murphy’s tail starts wagging so furiously, it causes his butt to oscillate.

“All right. Fine.”

He turns and runs to the kitchen. I get up and follow.

I feed Murphy a little more food from the bag in the pantry. I heard somewhere that you should give dogs a little food at a time rather than full meals to keep them from getting overweight. It’s healthier and I want Murphy at my side for as long as I can keep him.

After I feed him, I set up on the porch. I think about taking Murphy on a walk to The Sanctuary, but decide to play it cool and drop into a chair with a paperback to enjoy the autumn afternoon in case Rebecca arrives early.

It’s really beautiful. The breeze carries the scent of dead leaves from the forest to the porch. The colors are at their peak. The cotton-ball clouds race through the sky overhead. It’s that perfect temperature where I need a jacket, but not a coat. There’s only a few more days until Halloween, which is The Hollows’ time to shine.

Murphy comes out, pushing open the unlatched screen door with his nose, and plops down with a contented sigh next to my chair.

Rebecca Lowden can take her time.

I’m perfectly fine.

*

Hours later, I’m still on the porch, but I need to get going.

I’m meeting at Groundworks with a rep from Alliance Capital. It’s a company that’s interested in turning Groundworks into a franchise.

Murphy’s still here on the porch with me, thrashing around on his back, trying to get an itch on his spine. He snorts as he writhes back and forth. I decide it’s a great pic, and take out my phone. I get out of my chair and crouch down near his head. Still on his back, he looks at me as if to ask, “What the hell are you doing?”

I get low, right by his nose, and snap a photo. I know right away I can’t use it for the Be Our Guest website because the cottage is framed between his open hind legs. It’s hysterical, but probably not appropriate. Also, as I hit the shutter button, a Ford Focus pulls into frame, and parks next to the cottage. I take another picture, for my own collection, and tuck the phone into my pocket. Murphy rolls over, taking note of the new arrival.

I stand up and move to the steps, ready to greet Rebecca Lowden, but stop. It’s not her. It can’t be. Someone has taken a wrong turn. The woman getting out of the Focus has red hair. Rebecca is a brunette.

Murphy takes off towards her. I follow. He pulls up a few yards short, and strikes a submissive pose. She crouches down, and pats her knees in encouragement.

Wait. I’m wrong. It is Rebecca Lowden. She’s dyed her hair a deep red.

Murphy gets closer and playfully rolls onto his back for a tummy rub. She obliges.

I keep walking forward. Yes, it is indeed Rebecca Lowden. She’s still a knockout, but that red hair isn’t working for her.

“Hi,” she says to me, while patting Murphy’s stomach. “Are you Jacob?”

“Yep. You Rebecca?”

“That’s me.”

“Sorry. I didn’t recognize you with the hair. It’s different from your profile pic.”

She stands. “Yeah. Just something I’m trying.”

Murphy gets up, and spins his hindquarters into her for a butt-scratch.

“And you must be Murphy!” she says in baby talk, running her nails across his hips. Murphy is in heaven. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No, no. You’re not late. You can check in whenever you want. The key is in the lockbox next to the door.”

“Great. Thank you.”

“I’d offer to show you around, but Murphy and I have to run into town for a little business meeting.”

She lightheartedly slaps Murphy’s butt. “No worries.”

“I don’t know what your plans are, but there’s coffee and wine in the cottage, and stuff to make s’mores. If you want to use the fire pit, there are some logs around the back.”

“Great.”

“If there’s anything else you need, you’ve got my number, right?”

“Yep.”

There’s this weird pause where I feel like she’s waiting for me to leave.

“Okay,” I say. “Come on, Murph.”

He hesitates, but then comes to my side, and follows me to the truck. I glance over my shoulder and watch as she goes to the lockbox and punches in the code.

By the time Murphy and I reach the truck, she’s already entering the cottage. She goes in and closes the door.

I open the truck, and Murphy leaps in. He loves car rides. I climb into the cabin and turn the key in the ignition. As the truck roars to life, the light goes on in the cottage.

“Murphy, is it just me or was that a little weird?” I ask.

I look over and see his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

“Oh, yeah. You’re a dog.”

I pop the truck into gear and roll down the driveway. I turn onto Normandy Lane, take one last look at the cottage in the rearview mirror, and head towards town.

*

Groundworks is busy, which is good. Aside from the revenue, I want it busy so the Alliance Capital rep can see that it’s a thriving business.

Heads turn at the sound of the jingling bells on the door when Murphy and I walk in. There are a few regulars I recognize, like Reverend Williams from the Old Stone Church. He usually drops by once a month, but most of the customers are tourists I’ve never seen before. They may not know who I am, but Murphy is the ultimate kryptonite, and everyone is instantly enamored.

I’ll share a little secret with you; at first, I hated this place. From the moment it opened, I regretted staking everything I had on it. I felt like I had thrown all my money away on something I could never get off the ground. Now, I love it. The smell of fresh coffee penetrates every surface. The constant hiss of the cappuccino maker. The perfect view of The Hollows’ main thoroughfare, capped by the Old Stone Church at the end of the street. The location had been expensive, but it paid off.

Sandy is manning the register, while Tom and Sheila, two local high school kids, race back and forth, concocting drinks. The line is sizable, but not unreasonable.

“Hey, Sandy,” I say, stepping behind the counter.

“Hey, boss,” she tosses over her shoulder, and redirects her attention to the man at the counter. “That’ll be $18.47.”

The man hands her a twenty. Sandy makes the change.

Sandy’s a bit younger than me, and has a single-mindedness in her pursuits. She wants to be successful in business, and she will be if I have any say in it. When Groundworks started to take off, it was too much for me. I didn’t know how to keep the momentum going. Sandy did.

“We’ll call your name when it’s ready.”

The man turns, and goes to wait by the creamer station.

“How’s it been today?” I ask.

She multi-tasks as she answers. “Good. I’ve placed the orders. The new napkins with the logos arrive next week. Colton’s Bakery is late with the brownies, again. Other than that, it’s a good day.”

“What would I do without you, Sandy?”

She turns to me with all seriousness. “Two stores when the franchise kicks in. That’s the deal.”

“Done. Is he here?”

She nods over to the corner of the restaurant.

“Yep. Over in the booth.”

I follow the gesture, and see a bald guy with glasses sitting in the corner booth, next to the window. He’s got a laptop and a latte in front of him. He’s thumbing through his phone, and occasionally glances out the window to the shops and the town green across the street.

“You didn’t charge him, did you?”

Sandy comically rolls her eyes.

“Good,” I reply, and head towards the booth.

“Two stores,” she calls after me.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Murphy gets up and follows me.

The man looks up as I slide into the opposite seat across the table.

“Hi. I’m Jacob Reese.”

“Gregory Tiller. Alliance Capital. Pleased to meet you,” he says and extends his hand.

We shake.

“Good to meet you. This is Murphy,” I say, with a flick of the wrist in Murphy’s direction.

Tiller nods at him. “Hi, Murphy.”

“So,” I begin. “What do you think of the place?”

“Well, as you know, this is just a preliminary scouting trip. I’m pretty low on the totem pole, and have to report back my initial findings, but I have to tell you, I love it—the décor, the themes, the menu. It’s really impressive and your associate … ummm …”

“Sandy.”

“Yes. Sandy. She and I went over a lot of the finances before you got here and, I don’t mean to sound rude, but you could be making so much more with this place.”

“Well, I hope that’s where you come in.”

He smiles. “Good answer.” He consults his laptop. “Now, I believe I have everything I need to set up a meeting with Helen Trifauni. She’s one of our brand developers. She’s tough, but fair, and I think she’ll really go for this place.”

“Perfect.”

“Great. How does next week sound?”

“Fine with me, but it’s getting really close to Halloween, and it might be a little chaotic here in The Hollows. We tend to go all out. There’s the parade and everyone dresses up. It’s kind of a madhouse.”

“That’s what we want. It will add to the charm of Groundworks.”

“Then next week is perfect.”

He looks out the window to the green, where preliminary decorations are starting to take shape for the celebration. “Everyone dresses up?”

“Yeah. There’s a costume contest that some of us business owners take pretty seriously.”

“How seriously?”

“That seriously,” I say, pointing to the trophy sitting on a shelf on the wall near the door.

He laughs. “There’s a trophy?”

I nod.

“And last year, you won?”

“And the year before that and the year before that and the year before that,” I answer.

“What’s your costume for this year?”

I good-naturedly shake my head. “Everyone keeps their costume a secret.”

It’s true. None of us who enter the competition want to tip our hand. My costume was delivered over a month ago. It’s sitting on a shelf in my hall closet. Tiller’s question reminds me to talk to the post office, because the box was partially open when it was delivered.

“Will you win?” Tiller asks.

“Yep.”

“Love it. Well then, we’re on.”

We shake hands, again.

“If this works out,” he says, sitting back and gazing out the window, “there could be a Groundworks Coffee in dozens of towns in two years, and in five years, who knows?” He takes a sideways glance at me. “And that could potentially mean a couple million for you.”

“I can live with that.”

Tiller and I trade some more polite conversation. He starts talking about working Murphy into the logo. I tell him it’s all great, and of course, acting as his agent, Murphy would love to do it.

By the time we wrap up, it’s dark, and it’s close to closing time. We shake hands one last time, and agree to set up a meeting next week, based on Mrs Trifauni’s schedule.

Once he’s gone, I check in with the staff, and Murphy and I head towards the door.

“Email me the day’s receipts,” I call over my shoulder to Sandy.

“Two stores!” she reminds me.

I stop and turn. “If this works out the way these people are planning, you can have more than that.”

She gets thoughtful, and nervously glances around. “Three stores?”

“Done.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.” I turn back to the door. “Email me the reports.”

“Could I have gotten more?”

“You said three!”

I push open the door, and am greeted by a blast of cold air.

“Good night, boss!” I hear her call out.

“Good night!”

*

I’m buzzing the entire ride through the woods and farmland back to the house. I pull into the driveway, and see that there’s a fire in the fire pit outside the cottage. Rebecca is sitting in one of the chairs next to it. I park and hop out, followed by Murphy.

As I start walking towards her, I’m suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. Something’s off, but I can’t put my finger on it. I’m not sure if Murphy’s reading my body language or what, but even he seems cautious.

Rebecca is watching me as I approach.

I stop next to the fire pit, which is directly between us. The flickering light plays across her darkened features and red hair.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.”

“You know the taillight on your truck is out?”

“Yeah. I’ve been meaning to fix it.”

“How did your business meeting go?”

“Good …”

Why am I so uncomfortable? I’ve come home to this scene many times. It’s always ended with pleasantries and, sometimes, inebriated conversation. Why does this feel so different?

“Is something wrong?” Rebecca asks.

I try to shake it off. “No. Sorry. The meeting gave me a lot to think about. That’s all.”

“Oh.”

“How do you like the cottage?”

“I love it. It’s perfect.”

“Good.”

That’s when I see it—the stick doll. She’s holding it in her hands. My mouth goes dry and my knees soften. The image in front of me is paralyzing—her smile, that red hair, her holding that doll.

For a split second, she’s someone she can’t possibly be.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“W—what?”

She notices that I’m looking at the doll. Her eyes drift down to it and back up to me. Maybe it’s just a trick of the dancing glow of the fire, but I catch something accusatory, something righteous in her gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I was just admiring it inside, and I had it in my hands when I came out here to start the fire.”

“No. No reason to be sorry.”

It has to be a coincidence. It has to be.

This afternoon, I had wanted to talk to her, to get to know her. Now, I want to get away from her. I need to get away from her.

I finally find my voice. “Well, I’m going to head inside. If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

She cocks her head. “Are you sure you don’t want to hang out?”

She’s being deliberate. That smile. The doll. The red hair. All she needs is the scar. This can’t be a coincidence, can it?

“I—I’d love to,” I stammer. “But that business thing I was just at …”

She nods, sympathetically. “A lot on your mind?”

“Yeah.”

I feel like a wounded mouse staring up at a grinning cat.

“So, if you need anything …” I weakly offer.

“I’ll call you.”

“… great.”

I turn and begin walking away.

“Good night,” she calls out.

“Good night,” I say over my shoulder.

Murphy follows me up the gently sloping lawn to the house. All the while, I’m fighting the urge to look back.

Once inside, I stand with my back to the door, trying to catch my breath. I go to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of water. I down it in one gulp, pour another one, and repeat the process. After standing there for I don’t know how long, I go to the cabinet over the fridge. I pull out a bottle of bourbon, pour myself a healthy dose, and down that as well. I wrangle my nerves and head into the living room, keeping the lights off. I go to the window, and peer through the curtains.

The fire pit glows but she’s no longer there. The light in the cottage is on. There are instructions as part of the rental agreement that you are not to leave a fire in the fire pit unattended, but I’m not going back down there. I want to stay in here, and convince myself that I’m being paranoid.

It was a coincidence. It has to be.

I pull the chair over to the window, sit down, and watch through the small space in the curtains.

There is no movement from the cottage. Only the single, solitary light.

*

I’ve been sitting here for hours, watching. Murphy’s curled up in his bed with his favorite red tennis ball. It’s midnight, and I’m slowly coming to my senses.

Of course, I’m being stupid. I’m seeing things that aren’t there. Yes, it was uncanny. All she needed was the scar above her eye, and that would have settled it, but she didn’t have one. It was a bunch of little coincidences that my mind assembled into an impossible conclusion.

Finally, the light in the cottage goes dark. The fire has long since burned out.

I’m an idiot.

I rise from the chair, joints aching, and head upstairs to my bedroom.

“Ridiculous,” I say aloud as I crawl into bed.

Murphy pads into the room. He comes around to the side of the bed, rests his snout on the mattress right in front of my face, and looks at me.

“Yeah. Fine. All right. Just for tonight. Up-up.”

He leaps onto the bed, and curls into a ball near my feet. He’s not supposed to do this. He’s got his own bed in the corner, but I’ve got too much on my mind to argue with him.

“You’re going to feel so stupid in the morning,” I tell myself and turn off the light.

The lock snaps open.

I continue to stare at it, immobilized with fear. I’m sweating. I can taste the bile in my throat. I know what’s coming. I know what’s behind that door.

“No … no …”

The handle turns with a groan that echoes through the basement.

I open my eyes.

The sun is coming up.

I go through the process of catching my breath and remembering where I am. That’s two nights in a row. That never happens. Not since they first started. It’s usually once every few weeks. The most troubling thing about this time is that the nightmare was slightly different. It always ends with the lock popping open. This time, the nightmare kept going, and the handle turned. That was new.

I roll over and glance at Murphy, who is taking up more than half of the bed. He’s lying on his back with his legs splayed out in what I callously call his “highway dog” pose.

I shake the image of the dream from my head and play the events of last night over in my mind.

I was right. I was seeing things that weren’t there. I’m also right about feeling stupid.

I take a shower and absent-mindedly run my finger over the two dime-sized scars in my side, while I think about Rebecca. I’m going to apologize to her for being so awkward last night. I want that positive review and the curiosity about who she is has come back.

I go down to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. I look out the window above the sink at the sun peeking over the hills. My gaze drifts down to the cottage.

I stop.

The car is gone.

That’s not unheard of. Some people head out early to catch the sunrise or to make good time to their next destination. What makes me stop is that the door to the cottage is open.

Coffee in hand and Murphy close behind, I head out the door, step off the porch, and start walking towards the cottage. The woods are playing their early chorus of birdsong. A morning mist hangs a few feet above the ground. As I get closer, I realize that no, my eyes are not playing tricks on me. The front door is wide open.

I stop outside the door, and peer into the cottage.

“Miss Lowden?”

The sound of my voice stops the nearby birds, leaving the air filled with an unnerving silence. There’s no hint of a reply from inside.

Murphy waits by my side, sensing my tension.

“Rebecca?”

Nothing.

I step through the door. The air inside the cottage is cold, meaning the door has been open for hours. Nothing’s been touched. The coffee packets wait in the basket by the coffee maker. There are no water droplets in the sink. The throw pillows on the couch are exactly where I left them yesterday.

“Hello?”

I start walking down the short hall to the bedroom. Halfway down, I turn my head to look into the bathroom. The towels and toiletries are undisturbed.

I continue to the end of the hall. The bedroom door is closed. I stop next to the door and stand motionless, listening for any sound from within. I glance back down the hall. Murphy is waiting anxiously in the living room, prepared to flee at any moment.

I tap the door.

“Rebecca?”

There’s no response, which means either she’s not in there, or she is in there, and there’s something really wrong. I gently grasp the knob, turn, and slowly open the door.

The stick doll is on the bed, propped up on the pillows. The guestbook is lying open before it. Angry red letters are carved across the pages. The coffee cup slips from my hand, and falls to the floor.

I step closer, and a name stares back at me from the pages of the guestbook.

LAURA AISLING

The dread of last night comes crashing back, tenfold. My mind was not playing tricks on me. It wasn’t a coincidence.

That wasn’t Laura Aisling. It can’t be, because Laura Aisling is dead, and I thought I was the only one who knew that.

So this means someone knows my secret.