The Haunting of Silver Creek Lodge

by Alexandria Clarke

  “To Max and Simon!” Sienna hiccupped as she lifted her glass into the air. “May your marriage be as weird as the two of you!”

  “To Sienna’s third toast of the evening,” I added, clinking my glass against hers. “You might want to lay off the tequila.”

  She sniffed her drink and wisely set it aside. “I do feel a bit woozy.”

  “Some fried ice cream should fix that,” Christian said, flagging down Hector. “So, what do you two plan on doing next, now that you’re officially hitched?”

  Simon, bottomless, ate another taco. “That remains to be seen. The handyman jobs are drying up around here. No one wants to hire someone who isn’t a certified plumber or whatever. If someone would finish her comic book” —he nudged me playfully— “we wouldn’t have to worry about money for a few months.”

  Though I knew Simon wasn’t putting any real pressure on me, I couldn’t help blushing with embarrassment. When I first started dealing with my fears and anxieties by drawing them, I never expected it to turn into a career. Four years later, IDW bought my material and published it. My series—Rebel Queen—was set in a futuristic fantasy world and featured a main character with a dark secret, much like myself. The first two volumes sold well, and the advances were enough for us to live off of, but the cash had long since dried up. I’d been in an artistic rut for a year and a half.

  “I won’t publish something with a story I’m not passionate about.” The excuse was stale and overused. Everyone here had heard it before. “When I come up with something good, I’ll let you know.”

  Sienna, sensing we had broached a touchy subject, asked Simon, “What about you? How’s your music going?”

  It was his turn to look sullen. “Not great.”

  “Have you got writer’s block, too?” Christian asked.

  “No, I have tons of songs,” Simon replied. “But I can’t make them sound as good as I want them to without the proper equipment. And since they don’t sound good, no one’s streaming my stuff on Spotify. I need a producer.”

  Like me, Simon had big artistic dreams. As a guitar and piano-playing singer-songwriter, he had a lot of competition. Unlike me, he hadn’t found a way to make those dreams a reality. So far, he hadn’t been able to stand out enough to gather followers or make his music profitable. At least he had content, though. He was ahead of me on that front.

  Sienna elbowed Christian, and I sensed a plot was afoot. Christian nervously cleared his throat. “So, no idea when the two of you might get your own place?”

  My heart sank. Simon and I had a savings account dedicated to our eventual honeymoon, but it was slowly turning into emergency funds as we continued to pull out of it.

  “Not that we don’t enjoy having you,” Christian added hurriedly. “But the condo’s really small, and we’re thinking about kids soon—”

  “We won’t kick you out if you have nowhere to go,” Sienna said further. “We just wondered if you might consider moving out now that you’re married.” She dumped her face in her hands. “Oh, I feel horrible about this.”

  Simon squeezed my hand under the table. “You have been too kind letting us stay for as long as we have. We’ll figure something out.”

  “I have a proposition for you if you’re interested,” Christian said. “A buddy of mine was passing through a little town called Silver Creek on his way to Breckenridge for vacation. He saw this old foreclosed ski lodge there. I looked it up. The bank’s selling it for dirt cheap. If you bought it, you could live there, fix the place up, and start taking guests. Boom. Instant housing and constant income. I could help you buy it.”

  Christian was a realtor in the Denver area. More than once, he’d offered to help us find an affordable place to live, but the places we liked were never within our budget.

  “I don’t know much about managing a ski lodge,” I said.

  “Learn while you make repairs,” Christian suggested. “Or fix it up and flip it. The location’s perfect. It’s right near a bunch of ski trails. Whoever owns the place would get a ton of business from skiers and snowboarders looking for a more intimate adventure.”

  “It’s not a terrible idea,” Simon said. “We could dip into our savings to buy it and do the repairs—”

  “That’s not what that money is for.”

  “We’d earn it back one way or another,” he assured me. “Either by booking guests at the lodge or selling the place for twice the price. We should at least take a look, don’t you think?”

  “How far is it?” I asked Christian. “This Silver Creek?”

  “About a two-hour drive.”

  “We’ll come to visit you,” Sienna assured me. “Especially during ski season. I’ve wanted to practice more, and we could stay at the lodge if you buy it! How cute would that be?”

  The thought bloomed in my mind. A beautiful ski lodge we had complete control over. Right by the slopes, so I could learn to snowboard like I’d always wanted. It’d be the perfect place to get away from everything and focus on my next comic book. Above all, it was an investment.

  “Okay,” I agreed. “We’ll have a look at it. Just a look.”

  2

  Silver Creek, Colorado, was south of Breckinridge, far enough away from any major cities to be labeled in the middle of nowhere. The snow thickened as we drove through the mountains, and it seemed doubtful we would find the little town at all, when all of a sudden, it appeared before us.

  Local shops, boutiques, and markets lined Main Street. A roundabout marked the center of town, in the middle of which stood a huge decorative cornucopia. Handmade garlands of red, orange, and yellow leaves hung from the streetlights. Kids and happy couples skated on a temporary ice rink. Locals bustled about, carrying coffee and shopping bags as they enjoyed their Saturday. In the distance, a chair lift took skiers and snowboarders up the nearby mountain.

  “Where’s the lodge?” I asked eagerly. I hadn’t planned on being excited, but the little town was so cute and picturesque, I couldn’t help but imagine Simon and me settling down here.

  We would walk along this street, buy apples at the market for homemade pie, wave to our neighbors, and chitchat about the ski conditions. Our kids would skate on the rink, happily shouting at Simon and me to join them—

  “Another twenty minutes away,” Simon answered, popping my happy bubble of the potential future. “It’s not technically in town.”

  We drove past the cheerful locals and into the woods once more. The trees thickened, and the road narrowed. Simon made a sharp right onto a one-lane street and started up a steep incline. I half-expected our ancient car to give up and roll backward, but it made it to the top of the slope. The land evened out, and the trees gave way to the old lodge.

  I peered through the windshield. “That’s it?”

  Simon grimaced. “That’s it.”

  The Silver Creek Lodge did not meet the standards set by the adorable town down the road. For one thing, it was buried deep in the trees. Nature had nearly reclaimed it for its own. Moss and vines grew over the stacked river stones and logs that formed the foundation of the building. Every window was shattered, no doubt due to bored teenagers armed with rocks, and the broken glass was frosted over. The wooden porch steps were busted, as were several of the railing supports. From the front, the Lodge looked no larger than a honeymoon cabin.

  “It goes deeper into the woods,” Simon said, answering my unasked question. “Twenty rooms total to rent out. Nineteen, if we decide to take one for ourselves.’

  “Simon, this place is not livable.”

  “We haven’t seen the inside yet.”

  “It doesn’t even have windows!”

  Another car pulled up next to us, and the man inside—a pudgy-faced fellow with round silver glasses and a button nose—waved at us through the window.

  “There’s Dwayne,” Simon said. “Bank representative. He sounded cool over the phone.”

  “I don’t care how cool he sounded,” I said. “We’re not buying
this piece of crap if it’s not worth it.”

  “Give it a chance, Max. Please?”

  Were it not for his adorable pout, I would have never gotten out of the car. As it was, he coaxed me from the warmth of heated seats and into the chilly clearing.

  “Hey, folks!” Dwayne called, struggling to free himself from the car. His gray suit jacket got stuck in the door. “You must be Simon and Maxine.”

  “Max,” I corrected. “People only call me Maxine if they’re mad at me.”

  “Well, I’m not mad at ya!” Dwayne joked, and I smiled politely. “Are you ready to see this place? It’s got great bones.”

  “Isn’t that what realtors say when they want to sell you a piece of crap property?” I asked.

  Simon nudged me in the ribs. “She’s kidding, Dwayne.”

  “No, no, I completely get it.” Dwayne fumbled with a set of keys as he led us to the front of the Lodge. “It doesn’t look like much, but this place is in decent shape for how low it’s priced. The last owner kept it well-managed.” He stepped awkwardly over the broken steps. “Be careful there.”

  Simon helped me onto the porch as Dwayne fit the key into the door. “Not much to lock up, is there? What with the broken windows?”

  “We have to do it, no matter what condition the property is in.” Dwayne shoved the door with his shoulder, and it creaked open. The space beyond was completely dark. “Shall we? I’ll go first.”

  We followed Dwayne inside. He flipped the closest switch on the wall. A massive iron chandelier with eight sconces flickered on. Four of the sconces were burned out, but the other two were bright enough to give us an idea of what the lobby looked like.

  Once upon a time, the Lodge was a beautiful place. Exposed beams supported an upside-down, V-shaped ceiling made of dark, rich wooden planks. The same silver rocks that formed the porch outside also framed the huge fireplace. Giant windows looked out on the snowy grounds, tall trees, and godlike mountains. The leather couches, handwoven rugs, and craftsman tables needed love but could be saved from the damage nature and vandals left behind.

  That damage, however, was not to be overlooked. The wood floors were warped. Someone had taken a sledgehammer to the check-in desk. The rocks were falling off the fireplace in some spots and needed to be re-cemented. The wiring had been ripped out of several sockets. The snow that had seeped in would be the biggest problem. Moisture meant mold, and sometimes mold meant tearing the whole damn place down.

  “I want an inspector in here,” I announced. “I want a list of everything that needs to be done before we can start booking guests. If we don’t have the cash to get this place fixed up, there’s no point in buying it.”

  “I can arrange that,” Dwayne said. “Would you like to see the rooms? There are eight on the first floor and twelve on the second. There’s also a kitchen on the first floor, a dining area, and a recreation room. Out back, some naturally heated pools are fed by nearby hot springs.”

  The Lodge was bigger on the inside than it looked from the outside. The guest rooms came with a couple of options. Large king suites with hot tubs and kitchenettes were on the first floor. On the second floor were the cheaper rooms with two queen beds and a regular bathroom. The exception was the last room at the very back of the Lodge, which Dwayne opened with a flourish.

  “This is the presidential suite,” he announced as we stepped in to have a look. “Actually, it’s where the owners have always lived, but you could rent it out for honeymoons or other such occasions if you liked. People would pay top dollar for that view.”

  The presidential suite was more like a loft apartment than a room at the local ski lodge. It spanned the width of the building, and windows made up the entire back wall. A glass door led outside to an equally large balcony with a private hot tub and wood-burning fire pit. From any angle, you could see the mountain tops soaring over the trees. As the sun shined in, it felt like the only room in the Lodge that wasn’t dark and depressing.

  “We’d definitely take this room,” I said to Simon. “I need the sunshine.”

  He ruffled my hair. “I know you do.”

  We toured the rest of the Lodge. Though it was in poor shape, it had a lot of potential. I wondered how it had fallen into such disrepair in the first place. Why hadn’t the last owner kept up with it?

  “What do you think?” Dwayne asked when we returned to the ruined lobby and sitting area. “It’s a fixer-upper, I know.”

  “Do we have to give you an answer right away?” I asked. “I wouldn’t mind some time to think about it.”

  Dwayne checked his watch. “I’m willing to give you until the end of the day to decide if you’d like to make a deal. A little tip, though. If you really want it, offer the auction price. I’ve got a few other people bidding on this place, but out of everyone, I think the two of you would make the most out of this location.”

  We followed Dwayne out, and he locked up the house.

  “Why don’t you look around Silver Creek? Get to know your potential hometown? It might help you make your decision. I’ll be waiting on your call. Let’s say around six?”

  We agreed, Dwayne waved goodbye and drove away. Simon spun me around to look at the Lodge once more.

  “It’s not so bad,” he said.

  “It’s pretty bad,” I countered. “Sure, it’s cheap, but the repairs are going to cost a fortune.”

  “Not necessarily,” he said. “I’ll do most of the work myself, or I can hire someone local to help.”

  “What about the materials for the job?”

  “I can check construction recycling centers,” he offered. “Look for sales. If worse comes to worst, we could start a GoFundMe.”

  I planted my foot. “No way. I won’t beg people for cash.”

  “It’s not begging. It’s asking for support.” He made a rectangle with his index fingers and thumbs, framed the Lodge in the center, and narrowed his eyes. “If you squint, it almost looks nice.”

  “Almost,” I grumbled.

  Simon wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “Come on, it would look great on a postcard. This could be a good adventure for the two of us.”

  I chewed on my lip. “You have that much faith in your handyman skills?”

  “Sure, I’ve worked construction jobs before.”

  I shielded my eyes from the sun and considered the Lodge again. “I’m not completely sold.”

  Simon kissed my temple. “Let’s see if the rest of Silver Creek can convince you.”

  On the way back into town, we took the long way around through the neighborhood. Cute, cozy cabins lined the streets. Old-fashioned lampposts stood stark against the snowy backdrop. Chimneys puffed wood smoke into the air. I cracked the window to get a good whiff of it. In a few front lawns, I spotted For Sale signs.

  “What about one of these houses?” I asked Simon. “They’re small. They can’t be so expensive.”

  “They’re not,” he replied, “but they are out of our budget. We couldn’t afford the down payment on one.”

  In comparison to the cabins, the Lodge was a nightmare. Pouting, I watched as a happy couple played with their young daughter in their front yard.

  “Besides,” Simon went on, “we don’t have a steady enough income to buy a house. That’s why we’re checking out the Lodge in the first place, remember?”

  “No one’s going to want to stay at that hellhole.”

  “They will when we fix it up.”

  A little farther on, we passed the schools. A combined elementary and middle school was separated from the high school by a deeply sloped, grassy knoll. The snow was hardly an inch deep—dead grass poked through the slush—but that didn’t stop the kids from trying to sled on it. Others scraped what they could off the ground, packed it into dirty snowballs, and threw them at opponents. Several teachers were supervising, mostly to keep the younger kids from eating the snow.

  Silver Creek was also home to a park with long hiking trails that snaked upward into the hil
ls, a community center with ball courts and a heated indoor pool, and a sweeping golf course that was closed for the season. The Lodge and the closest place to ski were a twenty-minute drive from the center of town.

  To get the full effect of Silver Creek’s quaint small-town vibes, we parked at the top of Main Street and walked along the main drag of shops and restaurants. Simon caught my gloved hand in his, swinging my arm as he led our stroll. His running commentary, an obvious attempt to convince me to move here, made me smile.

  “Oh, look at that soap store,” he would say as we passed a shop display. “You love soap! Handmade. All-natural ingredients. Essential oils. Wouldn’t it be a delight to have access to such great natural self-care products? They have facemasks, too!”

  A few steps later, we came across another gem Simon needed to announce. “An art shop!” He pointed to the massive, hand-painted sign as if I hadn’t already noticed it. Peering through the windows, he added, “They have those pens you like. Babe, it’s a sign!”

  When a familiar Christmas song played on the speakers lining the streets, Simon’s eyes went wide. “Do you hear that? They even know your favorite Christmas jingle! Even though it’s so weird.”

  “It’s Lou Monte,” I reminded him. “And ‘Dominick the Donkey’ isn’t weird. It’s a classic Italian-American Christmas song. My mom used to play it all the time at our house. She would swing me around by my arms until I got too dizzy.”

  He placed one hand around my waist and took me up in a classic dance posture before thoughts of the past swept me into the slushy gutter. As he spun me around the sidewalk, he sang along with the song. He knew every word.

  “Santa’s got a little friend. His name is Dominick, the cutest little donkey. You never see him kick. When Santa visits his paisans, with Dominick, he’ll be! Because the reindeer can’t-a climb the hills of Italy. Hey!”

  The next part of the song required imitating a donkey’s hee-haw! with great enthusiasm, which Simon happily performed. I couldn’t stop laughing as he pulled out all the stops and swung me to and fro along with the music. People dodged out of our way as we barreled down the sidewalk, giving us strange looks as we made the world our stage.