Читать книгу Dark Hollows - Steve Frech - Страница 8

“Yes, I know the account was deleted this morning. I’m trying to figure out who she was.”

“I don’t understand. Was there a problem with her payment?”

“No. That’s not—”

“Was there damage to your property?”

“No.”

“Then, I don’t see the—”

“You said the account was created two months ago. She made one reservation request. My place. Right?”

“Let me see … Yes. That appears to be correct.”

“And then, when she left my place this morning, she deleted the account?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m saying that I’m trying to figure out who the hell Rebecca Lowden really was. I’ve tried online searches, and I can’t find anything about her. Nothing on Facebook or LinkedIn, nothing on Google. It’s like she never existed.”

“Sir, at Be Our Guest, we strongly discourage any attempt to contact a guest outside of your transaction on our site. Besides, I’m still not seeing the problem. It is unusual, but I don’t see anything to be concerned about. I’m sorry that you might not get the review, but your property is one of our most popular spots. I can see that you’ve already had two reservation requests yesterday for December.”

“That’s not the point.”

This has been my entire morning. I immediately tried to find out who Rebecca Lowden was on my own so that I wouldn’t have to contact Be Our Guest and I could avoid these questions, but my search came up empty. So here I am, arguing on the phone with a rep from Be Our Guest.

“I’m still trying to understand this,” the representative continues. “You’re saying that there was no damage to your property?”

“No, dammit. I told you that already—”

“Did you try contacting her through her contact info?”

“Yes. The number is disconnected, and I’m not crossing my fingers on the email I sent.”

“Okay. Yes, I admit, that’s odd.”

“Do you?” I reply with maximum snark. “Do you admit that?”

“Sir—”

“Look, she deleted the account, but you guys still have her information, right? You have a copy of her driver’s license?” I know they do. Owners and renters alike have to submit to a background check when they sign up. I had to email a scanned copy of my license to set up my account. So did she.

“Yes.”

“Do you have it pulled up, right now?”

“Sir, I’m not going to give you any information from her—”

“I don’t want you to, but do me a favor and do a search for the address on her driver’s license. I want to know if the address is real.”

“Mr Reese, that would be highly irregular.”

“I’m not asking you to tell me where she lives. Just tell me if it’s a real address. If it is, I’ll hang up, and you and I can go about our day.”

He sighs. “One moment …”

I hear the clicking of his keyboard through the phone. It stops, as does his breath.

“You still with me?” I ask.

“Well … yes, there does seem to be an issue with the address.”

“Where did it put you; the middle of the ocean?”

“It might just be a problem with the—”

I shake my head. “It’s gotta be a fake ID.”

“Well, that is a possibility. I’ll be sure to make a note of it in the—”

“Let me ask you something: just how thorough are those background checks you do over there at Be Our Guest? I know they cost money. You guys cutting corners?”

“Mr Reese,” he answers with a new note of concern in his voice, “I’ll pass this along to my supervisor, and they’ll get back to you once we’ve resolved the issue.”

“Like you said, the account’s deleted, so there’s nothing you can really resolve, but sure, you let me know.”

I hang up the phone.

Whoever Rebecca Lowden is or was, she went to great lengths to mess with me, and I want to know why.

*

There’s another couple checking in this afternoon. I’ve got a few hours until they arrive, and since she didn’t touch anything, the cottage is ready to go. I rip the pages out of the guestbook, and burn them in the fire pit, destroying the only tangible evidence I have of her existence.

I need to think. I need a trip to The Sanctuary.

Behind the cottage is a path leading into the woods. About half a mile in, over some ridges and across a stream, is a dense area of pine trees. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why it’s there. When I first came across it while scouting the property, I thought it might be a man-made pine farm that had been forgotten, but the trees aren’t in rows. It’s just a fluke, I guess.

I reset the passcode on the key lockbox for the cottage, grab Murphy’s favorite red tennis ball, and we head off into the woods. Murphy knows the route, and darts back and forth across the path, going from smell to smell. We take this walk three or four times a week. Today, he strays a little further from the path than usual, but I don’t bother with his leash. My thoughts are too tangled.

Birds chirp from the trees as we make our way further and further into the forest. Normally, I would be drinking it in, but I can’t. I keep going over last night in my mind—the hair, the doll, the word nearly carved into the scrapbook. We arrive at the stream. There’s almost no water in it, but sure enough, Murphy finds a puddle to splash in.

We crest the final ridge and the path slopes down to the right, leading to the opening of The Sanctuary.

The thick, interwoven pine branches that form the opening look like the mouth of a cave. Murphy runs ahead and plunges through. I follow a few seconds behind.

Stepping through the opening, I’m wrapped in almost total silence. The soft breeze can’t penetrate the needles overhead. The sun’s light is scattered, casting the area into an even shade. Murphy barks at a fleeing squirrel and there’s not even an echo. About fifty yards in, amongst the massive trunks, is a clearing. There’s a downed tree off to the side, like it was purposefully placed there to serve as a bench. You can sit on it and look up at the sky through the hole in the trees, like you’re staring out of a well.

I love this place. The outside world doesn’t exist here. It was in this spot, sitting on this log, that I made the decision to buy the house and start the coffee shop. For a while, I didn’t tell my guests about it because I didn’t want to share it, but one day, a guy from Tulsa who was staying at the cottage found it, raved about it in his review, and I figured since the secret was out, I’d use it as a selling point.

I take a seat on the log. Murphy gives up on the squirrel and runs over to me. He sits and waits.

“What?” I ask, with an exaggerated shrug.

Murphy’s tail begins to thump on the ground.

“I don’t know what you want,” I say, shaking my head.

He yaps, and lowers his head.

“Okay, fine.”

I take the red tennis ball out of my pocket and begin throwing it for him. He darts after it, brings it back, and we repeat the process over and over. My mind begins to drift, and I start thinking of her.

She’s always there, in the back of my mind, the pangs of guilt, and the dreams. After so many years, I’ve buried it in the recesses of my mind, but after the events of this morning, I’m pulled back to the party where we first met—

—at a party at a frat house at Wilton University in Rutland. It was a Christian college, but even some Christian colleges have frat houses. Our introduction happened where a lot of college introductions happen—over a keg of Bud Lite.

The party had spilled into the yard. She was sticking close to a group of girlfriends while us guys circled like sharks, waiting for the opportunity to pick them off. The problem was that all the sharks wanted the same fish. She had light blue eyes, pale skin, high cheekbones, a strong chin, and gorgeous, flowing red hair that cascaded over her shoulders in waves. In all this perfection, there was the small scar over her right eye that added an air of mystery.

While other guys looked for an opening, I watched her beer. Once it got low, I made my way to the almost forgotten keg in the corner of the yard.

My strategy paid off when she came over for a refill.

“Let me get that for you,” I said, as only a smooth twenty-four-year-old would say.

“Thanks.” She smiled.

“I’m Jacob. Jacob Reese.”

“Laura Aisling.”

“Nice to meet you, Laura Aisling. Who are you here with?”

“Just some friends. You?”

“Just some friends.” That was my first of what would be many lies to her.

We made small talk and drifted over to a picnic table near the edge of the yard, away from the crowd. I tried to be clever and used pick-up lines that had been successful on countless other girls on countless other campuses. She was amused, but not taken by them. As we spoke, I began to fiddle with some sticks and long pine needles that I picked up off the ground.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“You’ll see.”

We continued talking. She was a political science major who had transferred from New Hampshire University her sophomore year.

“Why did you transfer? Couldn’t cut it at UNH?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but that scar?”

She touched the scar with her fingers. “Childhood injury. Fell out of a tree.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I wish there was a better story behind it.”

“Well, maybe this will make it better.” I handed her the stick doll I had been working on. The sticks formed the torso, arms, and legs, while the pine needles had been tied to hold it all together.

“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 it to her chest, toying with me.

She paused, contemplated the doll, and looked at me.

“How many girls has this little trick worked on?”

My confidence rushed out of me like a deflating balloon. She had called me out and made me feel like an idiot, which made her all the more enticing, but I took it that the chase was over.

“It works on most girls, but obviously, you are not most girls,” I said.

She started laughing, which drew the attention of some of the party attendees around the yard.

“All right, all right. I’ll take it back,” I said, holding out my hand.

She held it closer to her chest, and twisted her torso away from me. “No, no, no. I’m keeping it.” There was that playful smile, and those eyes shone as she held the doll against her perfect breasts. She was something and she knew it.

“Okay,” I said, my confidence returning. “What do I get?”

“For what?”

“For the stick doll.”

“That’s rude,” she said, feigning insult. “He has a name.”

“Oh, yeah? What is it?”

She looked down at the doll and then smiled at me. “Duh. His name is ‘Woody’.”

Man, she was good.

“Okay. What do I get for Woody?”

She shrugged. “What do you want?”

“I’ll settle for a phone number.”

She bit her bottom lip, reached into her pocket, and pulled out her phone. “Tell you what—how about you give me your number, and I’ll think about it?”

“Deal.”

I gave it to her, and she typed it into her phone. Once she was finished, she tucked the phone back into her pocket, and hopped off the picnic table.

“I’m gonna get back to my friends. We’ll see you around, Jacob Reese.” She began walking back to the group of girls at the other end of the yard.

“Just be careful with the doll. They’re pretty flimsy,” I called after her.

She turned to me while continuing to walk backwards towards her friends. “Don’t worry. I won’t play too hard with your Woody.”

Every conversation around the yard stopped. The only sound was the music playing from the open window of the frat house. My cheeks burned, but I wasn’t mad. I liked being recognized as the target of her flirtations.

Laura and her friends gathered and left. She gave me one final glance as they headed off down the street. I relaxed on the picnic table and sipped my beer, basking in the glow of our conversation, but after a few minutes, it was time to attend to business.

I hopped off the picnic table and headed inside the frat house.

Loud music thumped from the first floor as I climbed the stairs. The place stunk of beer.

At the landing to the second floor, I headed down the hall, past closed bedroom doors, and the occasional pair of people talking or drinking. The closer I got to the door at the end of the hall, the stronger the smell of weed became, along with incense that was trying mightily to mask it.

I stopped at the end of the hall and listened. I could hear voices, laughter, and music coming from inside. I rapped on the door and it opened a few inches. A face peered through the crack and gave me the once-over.

He turned to the interior of the room. “It’s Jacob.”

“Let him in,” a voice answered.

The door swung open. I stepped in, and it was quickly shut behind me.

I was greeted with a chorus of “Jacob!”

It was the fraternity’s recreational room. There was a pool table in one corner, a ping-pong table in the other. There were couches situated around a TV, where guys were playing video games. The room was thick with haze, and I was sure that I was already getting a contact buzz. These were all the seniors—the cool guys. There were some girls there too, taking hits from the water bong on the table in front of the TV. There were also copious beer bottles and a few handles of Jack Daniel’s and Jägermeister scattered around the room.

Jeremy Massi, the fraternity’s president, got up and gave me a bro hug.

“What’s up, Jacob? How you been?”

“Good.”

“You want a beer or something?”

“No, thanks. Just doing my regular pickup, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Got it.”

He went over to a shelf, took down a book, opened it, and pulled out an envelope. He walked over and handed it to me.

“There you go.”

I took out the wad of cash from inside and began counting the assortment of hundreds, twenties, tens, and fives.

“Sure you don’t want to hang out?” Jeremy asked. “It’s a party.”

“Nah. I’m good,” I said.

It took me a while to count the cash, given that it was a couple thousand dollars in small bills.

“It’s all there, man. Two grand from all the frats on campus.”

“Just covering my ass,” I reassured him.

He patiently waited as I finished counting.

“All right,” I said, tucking the envelope into my jacket. “Jimmy will be by later with the delivery.”

“Tell him to hurry. We’re running low and the party is just getting started.”

“Will do. Pleasure doing business with you.”

We bro hugged again. I had been doing the job for a little over a year and Jeremy and I had gotten to know each other—not well, but well enough.

I turned to leave when one of the guys on the couch, I think his name was Dustin, sat up.

“Hey, Jacob?” he asked, stoned out of his mind.

“Yeah?”

“So, like, do you carry a gun when you do these deals?”

Jeremy sighed. “Dustin, come on, man.”

“No, I don’t carry a gun. I just handle the cash,” I answered.

Dustin smiled and slowly blinked his eyes. “That’s cool, man. Your life is like Scarface, right?”

“Shut up, Dustin,” one of the other seniors said.

Dustin turned to him. “What? Scarface is cool.”

“See you later, Jacob,” Jeremy said, waving me out the door.

“Later.” I waved back.

I walked out the door, back into the relatively cleaner air of the hallway, and headed downstairs.

No, I didn’t carry a gun.

This was the job I had turned to after my parents cut me off.

I had worked odd jobs to try to pay my tuition but it wasn’t cutting it. I needed to finish school, or so I thought, and took on massive amounts of debt. I think my parents were waiting for me to ask for help, but I was an arrogant twenty-something who felt that he had been wronged. So, no. I was going to do it myself, no matter how it wrecked my financial future.

I did a little better in my classes, now that I was paying for them myself, but the stress was too much. I started slipping, again. I’d blow off class and hang with an acquaintance of mine named Mattie, who had transferred to Lyndon University.

We’d smoke at his place. He bought it from a guy named Reggie, who sold to all the frat houses and college campuses in a ninety-mile radius. It was a nice little operation Reggie had going, but he used idiots to do his deals. They were guys who stuck out like sore thumbs on campuses, and they carried the cash and the drugs at the same time, which was flat-out stupid.

I saw a chance to make a little money, and asked Mattie if I could talk to Reggie. Mattie said I was nuts, and he was right, but I got the meeting. I laid it out for him. I explained that I was someone who didn’t look out of place on a college campus, and if you separated the money from the weed he was selling, it made it harder for the police. If someone was caught with a ton of money and a ton of weed, that was the ball game. If someone only had weed, it was harder to prove intent to sell. I learned that years ago from another friend who had gone into criminal law. I told Reggie that I would be his bagman. I would collect the cash and take a small cut that we would both agree to.

Looking back on it, yeah, it was insane, but Reggie went for it. The money was good and the work was incredibly easy. I was dealing with frat boys. This was nothing like Scarface. I graduated and decided to keep going, just until I paid off my loans. I knew I couldn’t do it forever, but at the time, it was the perfect way to pay off my student debts, which at that rate, would only take two or three more years.

I had just stepped out the front door of the frat house when my phone pinged with a text message.

Thanks for the Woody. I’ve never had one before and they’re fun to play with. Oh shit! I just sent you my number, didn’t I? Dammit. I guess you’ll have to call me sometime.

My night was now complete. I went back to the yard, found the almost empty keg, downed another beer, and tossed the cup into the bushes. Time to—

“—go, Murphy,” I say aloud, and get up from the log.

Murphy, who’s been lying on the soft needles trying to chew his red tennis ball into oblivion, jumps up to join me.

We need to get back. I want to double check that there’s nothing suspicious at the cottage before the next guests arrive.

*

We arrive back at the cottage and everything is as it should be.

Since he’s already wet from our hike, I throw Murphy’s ball into the pond a couple of times. He gleefully plunges into the water after it. Soon, it’ll be too cold but for now, he doesn’t seem to mind. I throw it one more time. When he brings it back to the shore, he signals that he’s done with our game by ignoring my requests to bring the ball to me, and carries it up to the porch, where he goes back to work trying to destroy it.

*

The Shermans arrive at three on the dot.

They park their Buick in front of the cottage and get out. They’re an older, retired couple and present quite the picture. She’s tiny. I’m guessing not more than five feet tall, with unnaturally brown hair with gray roots, and bright red lipstick. Mr Sherman is six foot four, with tired eyes and a drooping neck. She’s full of energy. He’s decidedly not.

She starts walking towards me, all smiles and a slight limp.

“Are you Jacob?” she asks.

“That would be me. You must be Linda.”

“Yes, indeed, and this is my husband Franklin.” She gestures to him with a flash of her hand.

I nod. “Pleased to meet you both. Any problems finding the place?”

“Oh, no. I’m the navigator for our little trip, and I got us here without a hitch, didn’t I, Franklin?”

“Yes, you di—”

“Yep, without a hitch.”

I glance over at Franklin. He may have had more to say, but his expression lets me know that this is probably the way of their conversations.

Linda turns slowly, I assume on account of a bum hip, and takes a deep breath. “Well, this really is beautiful.”

Murphy awakes from his nap on the porch and comes down to join us.

“And there’s Murphy!” she exclaims.

Murphy approaches, and she gives his head a good scratch. I’m glad he’s tired. His standard energetic greeting would have been too much for her.

“So, I read in your reservation that you two were doing a little Haunted New England tour?” I ask.

“Oh, yes. We’re hitting all the haunted sites, aren’t we, Franklin?”

“Yep. We came fro—”

“We came from Salem,” she quickly interjects. “Spent a few days there, hoping to see some ghosts.”

“Any luck?”

“No. Beautiful town, but a little bit of a let-down. Too touristy, right, Franklin?”

“It was a little crowd—”

“So many people. Too many people, and they were dressed up in costumes. We may have seen a ghost. Who knows? But I don’t think we did. I have to confess, I’m psychic about such things.”

“Really?” I ask, playing along.

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, I also saw in your reservation request that you were heading over to Maine after this, so maybe you’ll have better luck there.”

“We’re hoping to find some ghosts here in The Hollows.” She gets a giddy smile. “Oh, I love that name. The Hollows.” She savors the words. I don’t have the heart to tell her that the name was the result of a frustrated surveyor. “We stopped in Tarrytown, too. That’s the real name of Sleepy Hollow. Nice place, but too modern. No luck with any ghosts there, either. But maybe here in The Hollows. I mean, there are ghosts everywhere you know, and I have to tell you, I’m getting a strong sensation from this place. So, you have to have some ghosts, here.”

I shrug. “Not that I know of. We had our own little witch trial way back in the sixteen hundreds, where three women were hung from a tree in the Old Stone Church cemetery, but nothing else.”

She waves me off. “We’ll find ’em. Won’t we, Franklin?”

“We’ll look for—”

“Yep. We’ll find ’em.”

“Well, I certainly wish you happy hunting, and even if you don’t, you’ll still love the cottage. Do you need help with your luggage?”

“No, thank you, dear. Franklin can handle the bags, can’t you, Franklin?”

This time, Franklin only grunts an affirmation.

“Great. Well, the key is in the lockbox. I have to head into town. If you’re out tonight, you can come see me at the coffee shop on Main Street. It’s called Groundworks, and you can tell me how your ghost hunt went.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“If you need anything, you have my number?”

“Sure do.”

“All right, then. Welcome to The Hollows.”

“Mmmmm, The Hollows,” she says once again, relishing in the words.

“Come on, Murphy,” I say, and start walking towards the truck. He follows, and a few moments later, we pull out of the drive and head towards town.

*

They’ve finally started bringing in the tents on the green for the Halloween celebration. Extra picnic tables have also started appearing for the face-painting, pumpkin-carving classes, and food stalls that will arrive soon. More decorations are going up along Main Street. Orange and black ribbons adorn the gas lamps, and jack-o’-lanterns are popping up in the shop windows. The Hollows does not mess around when it comes to Halloween. It prepares the same way New York might prepare for New Year’s, or Boston for St. Patrick’s Day.

Groundworks is already jumping by the time I get there. Todd and Sheila are in the weeds, trying to keep up with the ever-growing line that is almost to the door. I hop behind the counter and go into machine mode, cranking out drinks left and right. Murphy finds his bed by the register and sinks in. Just his presence soothes some of the nerves of the customers who have been waiting for their lattes, coffees, and cappuccinos.

For the next few hours, it’s turn and burn. I try to stay three steps ahead. Organize, prioritize, move, and above all, smile.

I need this.

The constant movement and concentration send the thoughts of last night and this morning further and further from my mind.

Eight o’clock rolls around.

Sheila flips the sign on the door to state that we’re closed, even though there are still people in the shop. We’ll let them finish their drinks, but no one else can come in. This leads to the nightly ritual of having to turn away some disappointed people. Most accept it and move on. Others plead. Some of them are belligerent. It’s the same every night.

When the last of the customers leave, I tell Shelia and Todd that they can head home. I’ll finish up on my own. I thank them for their hard work, and give them their paychecks. When the franchise deal works out, I’m giving them big, fat bonuses. They don’t know that, yet.

Finally, Murphy and I have the store to ourselves. I sweep and mop the floor, restock the stations, and wipe down the machines. I take the garbage to the dumpster in the parking lot out back. Once all the grunt work is done, Murphy and I go to the office. I slip into the swivel chair at the cluttered desk. I bring up the accounting software and get ready for the tedium of running the reports and processing all the credit card—

“—payments?”

“Yeah, Reggie. I got the payments,” I said, taking the envelope out of my jacket and handing it to him.

He painstakingly started to count it by the headlights of his Dodge Challenger, seemingly oblivious to the fact that if a cop drove by, he’d ask what we were doing parked on the side of the road in the woods, counting a stack of money.

“It’s all there, Reggie.”

He glared down the cigarette that was clamped in his lips at me. “Why the fuck would I trust you?”

I decided to keep my mouth shut.

As he hunched over the hood to count the cash, I caught a glimpse of the grip of the massive gun he had tucked into the waistband of his jeans, hidden under his jacket.

He finished counting.

“We happy?” I asked.

“Yeah, we happy.”

He shuffled the large stack of bills, and hit them on the hood of the car to line them up with a tap, tap—

—tap.

The tap on the shop window startles me.

Murphy barks.

I walk out of the office and into the restaurant to see a young couple standing at the door.

“Are you open?” the girl asks in exaggerated tones, as if the glass is soundproof. She also apparently can’t read the sign, or notice the fact that no one is in here.

Still, gotta keep that smile.

“Sorry. We’re closed,” I say.

They move on.

I hit the lights to make sure anyone else who can’t read knows that we’re closed.

*

When I arrive home, the lights are on in the cottage. From the porch, I can see into the living room. Linda Sherman is talking on her phone. Franklin is sitting on the couch, watching TV. I have a feeling this is reminiscent of a lot of their nights at home.

Maybe I should go down there, play the cheerful host, and see how their day went …

Nah. It’s been a long day. I’m going to bed.

*

I wake up early, shower, and brew some coffee. I look out the kitchen window and see the Shermans are packing up the car. I’ll go ask them about their stay and wish them safe travels.

I step onto the porch. Murphy’s right there beside me. I walk past the truck and make another mental note about fixing that stupid taillight.

Linda sees me, waves, and starts walking towards me. She’s excited. Even from this distance, I see Franklin roll his eyes and begin to follow. The walking takes a little bit of effort for her, so I go to meet her halfway. She must be really excited, because her limp is less pronounced than yesterday.

“Good morning!” she calls.

“Good morning, Mrs Sherman. How was your stay?”

“Wonderful! Such a perfect little town.”

“Did you do some exploring?”

“We sure did. We saw so many old houses, and we stopped by the ‘Hanging Tree’ in the church cemetery. So creepy.”

“Great,” I say because apparently “creepy” is good.

Why is she looking at me so strangely? Like we have some sort of inside joke?

I glance over to Franklin. He looks tired and, if I’m not mistaken, apologetic. She’s still waiting.

“Well, how does our little town compare to Salem?” I ask. “Did you see any ghosts?”

“Not in town,” she replies with a wink, and waits.

“I … I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“I said not in town.”

“So … you’re saying you did see a ghost?”

She nods, downright giddy, but says nothing.

“I’m still not— Well, where did you see one?”

“We saw one here!” she says with a clap of her hands. “I told you! This place is so old and the town has history and ghosts are everywhere! I said that, didn’t I, Franklin? Didn’t I say that ghosts were everywhere?”

“Yes, you d—”

“And I was right! I just knew it!”

“I’m sorry. I’m still confused. You’re saying you saw a ghost … here?”

She playfully slaps my wrist. “Oh, don’t sound so surprised. You knew. I could tell you knew there was a ghost here when we met, yesterday.”

I glance at Franklin. He shrugs, indicating that I should play along.

“Really? So, uh, what happened?” I ask.

“Well, in the middle of the night, I thought I heard something outside by the door. Franklin heard it, too. Didn’t you, Franklin?”

“Yes, but I—”

“He thought it was deer or something, so he didn’t get up, but I knew. I told you, I have a psychic feel for these things.” She taps her temple for emphasis. “So, I got up and went to the living room, and there she was, standing just off the porch by the front door! She was looking right at me!”

My mouth is dry. My lungs aren’t working properly, and I’m trying desperately to hide it from her.

“She?” I ask.

“Yes! It was a woman ghost!”

“That’s—that’s incredible.”

“I know! Incredible! She was right there!” she says, pointing to a spot near the fire pit.

“So, um, wh—what happened?”

“Well, we stared at one another for a few seconds, and then she smiled at me, and started walking towards the woods. I yelled at Franklin to get up. I yelled, ‘Franklin, get up! You need to see this!’ Didn’t I, Franklin? Didn’t I yell for you to get up?”

“Yes, you did—”

“But he didn’t get up, did you, Franklin?”

“No, I d—”

“He didn’t get up. So, I ran outside and, well, I don’t run so fast,” she says, patting her hip, “and by the time I got out onto the porch, I just caught a glimpse of her as she walked into the trees.” She points again, this time to the path behind the cottage, leading off into the woods to The Sanctuary.

“That’s amazing,” I croak. My throat feels like sandpaper. “What did she look like?”

“Oh, she was beautiful. She was tall, with long red hair, and these really blue eyes. She wore a cloak. And, I’m not sure, but it looked like she had a scar, here, just above her eye.”