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.
Chapter 2
“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.”
