The Haunting of Silver Creek Lodge
Alexandria Clarke
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
20. Two Years Later
About the Author
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1
My nose was on fire.
That was the risk of going for a jog when it was thirty-five degrees outside and the air felt as sharp as knives upon inhaling it. But I needed to move. When winter settled in Colorado, so did my seasonal depression, and exercise was one of the surefire ways to combat it.
I’d forgotten to smear petroleum jelly across my face like snowboarders did to protect their skin before they hit the slopes. Usually, I coated my nose, lips, and cheeks with the tacky stuff, but I was in such a rush to get out of the cramped condo and get my blood moving that I’d stupidly forgotten my protective goo. I pulled my scarf over my nose and mouth, but the thick fabric made it difficult to drag enough air into my lungs. I let the scarf fall back to my neck and slowed to a walk. The stinging around my nose lessened.
The suburbs of Denver varied greatly. In some parts of town, luxury mansions and custom estates sat high on the hills and lorded over the less fortunate locals. In other areas, red rocks and green forests surrounded cozy cabins. Where we lived was popular with the blue-collar crowd and empty nesters. Condos, patio homes, and apartment complexes lined the streets because no one could afford much else. It made for a boring jog—all the buildings blurred into a forgetful background after a while—but when it snowed, the neighborhood descended into a dreamier state.
As I walked at a quick pace to keep my heart rate up without ruining the skin on my face, a few fresh flakes floated from the sky. I’d slept through the first snowfall of the season a few days ago, so I took the time to enjoy the second one, tilting my head back to let the snow settle on my eyelashes before blinking them away. The remnants of the last snowstorm hadn’t faded completely. It sat atop chimneys and mailboxes, and a glistening white coat decorated the conjoined roofs of row houses. The streetlights’ yellow glow made the slush in the gutter look pleasing rather than dangerous.
I took a deep breath to inhale that fresh snow scent and promptly regretted it. The cold air stabbed me in the back of the throat and made me cough. I cupped my hands around my face, huffed into them, and found relief in the warmth of my breath. It was a brief respite. The cold was adamant tonight.
A twig snapped behind me. I thought nothing of it. This was a quiet neighborhood without much crime. It was probably someone walking their dog.
But there was no sound of a leash or collar jingling. I glanced over my shoulder. No one was there. My heart rate slowed. I kept walking.
Were those footsteps?
I whirled around. The prints of my shoes in the half-melted slush walked alone. I faced front and quickened my pace.
“Relax,” I told myself in a low tone. “Nothing is following you. You’re safe. You’ve jogged along this path a hundred times.”
Another dead branch crunched.
“Just an owl,” I muttered, “or a rabbit.”
I started jogging again. The wind picked up, cruelly lashing against my face. The skin beneath my nose stung. Moisture gathered at the corners of my eyes and traced erratic patterns down my cheeks.
A light pattern echoed the soft pad of my feet against the pavement. Intentionally, I performed an awkward step to interrupt the rhythm of my run. I listened hard. The other set of footprints went on smoothly. Someone was behind me.
My toes cracked as I picked up more speed. I feared they might freeze and splinter off, but I kept running. The cold was almost unbearable at this pace. I tasted salt as my nose ran into my mouth, but I didn’t dare slow to wipe it. My shins vibrated with each fall of my foot, absorbing the impact of my increasing gait. The footsteps kept pace with mine.
My breath felt ragged in my throat, tearing up and down my airway. The condo wasn’t far, a half-mile maybe. I could run a half-mile in four minutes…in the summertime.
The footsteps pounded against the sidewalk, loudly, as if my pursuer wanted me to know how close they were to catching up with me. With my last bit of effort, I lengthened my stride. My legs and lungs burned. I couldn’t keep this up for long.
As I turned onto my street, my shoes slipped over a patch of invisible ice. I stumbled and almost fell, but I managed to keep myself upright by grabbing hold of the stop sign. I broke into a run again, but the footsteps were closer now. Much closer.
My back rounded as I fatigued. My legs shook with every step. When I caught sight of the condo, I let out a gasp of relief—just a few hundred more yards.
But my pursuer had been holding out, saving their strength for this moment. The footsteps thundered upon the pavement. A shadow grew tall in the streetlights. Panting, I forced one foot after the other. It wasn’t enough. I got ready to scream as shadowy arms stretched out and encircled me.
“Boo!”
Instant alleviation flooded my body as my boyfriend, Simon, wrapped his lean arms around me and drew me against the warmth of his body. I spun around and smacked his chest, anger quickly replacing relief.
“Are you crazy?” I said. “Why would you do that? I thought someone was trying to kill me.”
His dark brown eyes twinkled with mischief when he opened his jacket and drew me inside the fake sherpa lining. A walking furnace, he warmed me up straight away.
“It’s our prank month,” he said lightly. “I thought you’d realize it was me.”
As per our annual tradition, we spent the month of October playing harmless tricks against each other. We had three strict rules in place: no inducing physical harm, no inconveniencing the other before work, and no fake break-ups. Technically, Simon hadn’t broken any guidelines by terrifying me on my jog.
“October is over,” I reminded him, my head bouncing against his chest as we walked the rest of the way home. “Halloween is done, and so is our prank month.”
He kissed the top of my head. “Sorry, Max. I didn’t mean to freak you out. Hot chocolate’s on me tonight.”
Inside the small condo, we hung our coats in the closet and lined our wet shoes up next to several pairs of different sizes on the rack. Simon shook the snow out of his dark, curly hair. As a teenager, he landed a gig as an Abercrombie model, and though he didn’t pursue the career, he hadn’t lost the features that made him so picturesque in the first place. Years of competitive swimming had given him broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His square jaw and strong chin caught gentle shadows from the overhead light, and a smattering of freckles decorated his cheeks and dotted his chest. Best of all, he reserved his signature smile for me.
His background was Greek and Irish; mine was Welsh and Italian. We were both a strange combination of contrasting physical traits. I often imagined what our kids might look like. I pictured a daughter with our dark hair, my olive skin, and Simon’s cute freckles or a son with Simon’s curls and my sea-green eyes. As always, sadness tinged the thought. Kids weren�
�t in our immediate future.
Simon gently stroked my cheek. “Everything all right? You look like you’re spiraling.”
Whenever I got sucked into deep thoughts, whether creative or depressive, it showed in the blankness of my eyes. Or, so Simon thought.
“I’m fine.”
I took his hand and led him upstairs to the conjoined living room and kitchen. Christian and Sienna, our friends who owned the condo, weren’t home yet. I turned on the fake fireplace while Simon heated a pot of cocoa for the four of us. I flipped on the fairy lights strung along the loft floor—above which was mine and Simon’s makeshift bedroom. We didn’t have a door, our own bathroom, or any privacy except for a curtain, but that was the sacrifice you made when you bummed off someone else’s rent.
“Are you excited about tomorrow?” Simon asked as I joined him in the kitchen and watched him drop chunks of dark chocolate into the boiling milk. “It’s the big day.”
“Thrilled,” I said wryly. “How I’ve wished to be legally bound to you from the day we met.”
“Our six-year relationship meant nothing,” he played along. “Only a piece of paper signed by a court representative will make our love official.”
Some other couple might be offended by our bleak outlook on marriage, but neither one of us was particularly traditional. By our definition, we were already married. Sometimes, I forgot we weren’t and referred to Simon as my husband. He almost always called me his wife. Were it not for the tax benefits and health insurance breaks, we wouldn’t bother at all, but our finances had reached a low enough point to consider marriage as a potential solution to our burdening debt.
“I can’t wait to see you in your dress,” Simon went on. The enticing smell of melted chocolate rose with the steam from the pot. “Who designed it again? Vera Wang?”
“Target.”
He feigned ignorance. “Were they featured at fashion week? I’ve never heard of that brand.”
“What about you?” I shot back. “Is your suit Armani?”
“No, it’s from a classic designer,” he replied. “Been around for ages. His name is Wal-Mart.”
I clapped my palm to my heart. “What luxury! We’re so lucky everything is lining up. Can you believe the Plaza Hotel had a spot open for us? Good thing our private jet is gassed up and ready to fly us to New York tomorrow for the ceremony.”
“And our honeymoon to Paris is booked, too!” Simon added. “What a dream these next few weeks will be, my darling.”
Christian appeared at the top of the steps, balancing two stacked pizzas in one hand and a six-pack of beer in the other. “What the hell are you guys talking about?”
We burst into laughter. I relieved Christian of the pizzas so he wouldn’t drop them.
“We were simply appreciating our lavish wedding details,” Simon said, unable to drop a schtick. “Say, did you happen to pick up the champagne for the fountain?”
Christian shot me a confused look. “What does he want?”
“Ignore him.” I set the pizzas on the small table squished between the kitchen counter and the living room sofa. “Where’s Sienna?”
“Outside. She stepped in dog shit.”
“Oh, boy.”
Christian clapped his hands together. “Help me with damage control?”
“I’m on it.”
I jogged downstairs and went outside without a coat. Sienna was busy scraping the bottom of her boot against the edge of the sidewalk, muttering murderously under her breath. The vicious wind whipped her long blond hair into her face, making the task more difficult than it had to be.
I shivered and hugged myself tightly. “Sienna, use a stick!”
The wind howled.
“What?” she hollered.
“A stick!” I picked up a skinny tree limb and hurried over to her. I held my breath and used the branch to dig the dog crap out of the treads when she presented her boot to me. “There, that’s good enough. We’ll hose the rest tomorrow when it’s warmer.”
“What a beautiful way to start your wedding day.” She used me as a crutch and hopped inside to keep her poo boot off the floor. When she took it off, she set it upside down and wrinkled her nose. “Why can’t people clean up after their dogs? It’s not that hard!”
Upstairs, Christian set the table with paper plates, and Simon set aside the hot chocolate to simmer. We all washed our hands and sat down to dinner together. Simon was the only one who didn’t take a beer.
“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” Sienna asked, daintily cutting her pizza with a knife and fork. “What time are we supposed to be at the courthouse?”
“Two o’clock,” I answered.
“What should I wear?”
I shrugged. “Whatever you want. Jeans, if that’s comfortable.”
She groaned dramatically. “Maxine Finch, we have been through this a hundred times. “As your maid of honor, I am not wearing jeans to your wedding! Don’t you have any ideas on coordinating colors?”
I piled extra bacon on top of my barbeque chicken pizza. “Nope.”
“What about rings?” she asked. “Or flowers? Somewhere to host the reception?”
“Yes!” Simon said. “We have a reception place.”
Sienna shifted excitedly. “Great! Where?”
“Hector’s.”
Sienna’s face fell. “You’re not serious. You can’t have your wedding reception at Hector’s Taco Hut!”
“And yet…”
Sienna slouched in her chair and crossed her arms like a five-year-old who was served raw broccoli and nothing else. “This is ridiculous. This is not how a wedding should be done. When Christian and I got married, we had a beautifully decorated hall and a big cake and a champagne fountain!”
“Christian is in charge of the champagne fountain,” Simon said.
Christian looked up. “Wait. What?”
“Rings,” Sienna said. “Please tell me you at least have rings. They don’t have to be gold.”
“We’re getting them tattooed on,” I answered.
She gasped. “No!”
“Can you relax?” I asked. “I’m joking. We’re not doing rings. It’s archaic.”
“It’s traditional.” She waved her massive engagement ring and matching gold band in front of my face. “Don’t you want this on your finger?”
I wrinkled my nose. “Five extra pounds and the weight of the guilt because we bought something from an industry that supports child labor? No, thanks.”
Her face dropped. She regarded her ring with a sad look.
“Yours is vintage,” Christian informed his wife hurriedly. “You’re not contributing to child labor by wearing it.”
“It’s beautiful,” I added. “I didn’t mean to devalue your view of weddings. Simon and I have different ideas. That’s all.”
She stole the biggest chunk of chicken off my pizza. “Excuse me for thinking a wedding should be about more than getting a joint bank account. You’re binding yourselves to each other. That has weight, and you’re taking it so lightly.”
Simon leaned forward and said gently, “Only because we already feel bound to each other. We don’t need the government to recognize it for us. We’re sure of ourselves and our relationship.”
“But the government likes married people better than ‘unmarried partners,’” I added. “That’s why we’re doing this. It’s still a celebration, even if it looks different than yours did.”
Christian held Sienna’s hand over the table and placed a kiss on her ring. “Do you remember how helpful Max and Simon were when we got married? It’s our job to be supportive of them for theirs.”
Sienna tossed her hands into the air, almost upsetting her carefully cut pizza squares. “Fine, have it your way, but I’m bringing a bottle of champagne to Hector’s! We are not toasting with margaritas.”
“What about tequila shots?” I asked.
The official ceremony was short and sweet. I wore my sparkly, off-white Target dress with f
loral accents on the sleeves while Simon showed up in a dark-green suit jacket, a white shirt, and black slacks. Sienna was best-dressed out of all us in a beautiful, wine-red, long-sleeved gown, and Christian looked great next to her in a tan suit and red tie.
The magistrate was a stern man with gray hair and a triangular patch of facial hair beneath his lower lip. “Hello, everyone,” he said in a slow monotone as he set our soon-to-be-signed marriage license on the desk. “We are gathered here today to witness the marriage of—” he checked our driver’s licenses—“Simon York and Maxine Finch. Witnesses, please state your names.”
“Christian Cooper.”
“Sienna Cooper.”
“Great,” said the magistrate. “Simon, Maxine, do you have any vows prepared?”
Warmth spread to the ends of my fingers and toes at the sight of Simon’s smile. “Love you.”
He grinned. “Love you, too.”
“That’s it?” Sienna said, unable to contain herself.
Christian shushed his wife.
The magistrate handed us a pen. “Go ahead and sign the license.”
Simon scribbled his name then passed the pen to me. I half-expected to feel different as I added my name to the license, but the magistrate grabbed the license before I had time to process the meaning of it.
“By the power vested in me,” he said, signing his name, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You can kiss or whatever, but don’t go on forever. This is a small room.”
Simon kissed me politely on the lips as Christian and Sienna cheered. We lifted our conjoined fists into the air.
“To Hector’s Taco Hut!” Simon proclaimed.
An hour later, we’d devoured twenty tacos between the four of us. Hector himself had decided to hook us up with free drinks when we told him we were here to celebrate our brand-new marriage. We powered through two pitchers of margaritas and were currently working on a third.
The Haunting of Silver Creek Lodge Page 1