by Glenn Rolfe
Back at the front desk, Rhiannon sipped her coffee (no cream, one sugar) clicked through some Facebook messages from her friend Angela who had left for college in New York this week, and waited for Kurt to arrive. He was due in half an hour. They had started at the hotel together two months before right after the body was found in the brand new swimming pool. She thought for sure that Kurt was going to ask her out, but so far that hadn’t happened. She was independent and forward with most things, but something she’d never shaken was the idea that a guy should make the first move. It sounded stupid even in her head, but it’s one of those, maybe the only, old-fashion things that she chose to cling to.
Kurt was sweet and cute. He played in a band and was constantly talking music. He was really into the sugary, bubble-gummy power pop stuff, bands like the Pick-up Sticks and The Connection. She preferred her music with more teeth, edgier punk/ alterative stuff like L7, The Explosion, or the Sex Pistols. But Kurt’s love for all things rock ‘n’ roll was infectious. She could listen to him wax poetic on everyone from Elvis Costello to the Beatles to Green Day. He had an amazing smile and a cool fro-like hairdo that seemed to fit his personality perfectly. and with Angela gone, Kurt was the closest thing she had to a best friend here.
Her parents lived in Farmington, where they tried to convince her to go to school. Instead, she and Angela migrated toward Hollis Oakes, a slightly bigger city than Farmington, yet still smaller than Portland or Bangor. Their two bedroom apartment already seemed filled with shadows where Angela’s stuff had been. Mr. Mittens, Rhiannon’s black tabby, was the only comfort she had left. She planned on going to school at some point, but she wasn’t feeling it just yet. She really dug her job at the Bruton Inn and would have been lying if she said Kurt had nothing to do with her decision to hang around a while longer.
Right on cue, he came through the front lobby doors snapping his fingers.
“Heeey Rhiannon, what’s up?”
“Not much. Just a shit ton of arrivals tonight.”
“Oh hey, I have something for you.” She watched him reach inside his jean jacket pocket and pull out a cassette tape. “I thought I remembered you saying you still had a Walkman?”
“Yep.” She’d shared that nugget of nostalgic info in their very first conversation during a lunch break. He was going on about classic albums on vinyl; she confessed her own precious caveman device, a waterproof, yellow Sony Walkman. She’d started collecting cassette tapes, two for a dollar, at a local music store called, Bullmoose Music.
“Here.” Kurt’s cheeks reddened as he handed her a mixtape. Her heart fluttered. The tape was labeled on the spine, “Rhiannon’s Cool Kicks.” She ran down the track list and found tons of stuff she loved: Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, The Ramones, Fugazi, and even some Dylan and Beatles.
“Aw, thanks, Kurt.” She felt her face flush with warmth and tucked a long strand of dark hair behind her ear. “This is so cool. I can’t wait to check it out. First thing I’m gonna do when I get home.”
“Cool, I’ve been taking mental notes in our conversations. I hope I got most of your favorites on there.”
“Yeah, definitely. What’s that?” He held some magazines under one of his arms.
“Oh, I brought in the new Rolling Stone, new Q, and a cool KISS comic I found at Vintage Hannah’s for Jeff.”
“You boys and your comics.”
“Well, I picked it up more because it’s KISS, but they had two copies, so I snatched one for me, one for him.” He set them down beside the front desk computer. “I’m gonna go get changed.”
Rhiannon watched him bebop down the hallway. She looked at the cassette again. It’d been a while, maybe since sophomore year, since a boy had made her a mixtape. She was surprised to feel the same love-buzz course through her at the mere thought of it. The phone rang. She put the TDK-labeled plastic relic down next to her computer and answered it.
The rest of the night was full of check-ins and phone calls. She and Kurt were right out straight until 9 PM, then with all but two guests in, things died down. She confessed being tired and Kurt told her she could head out an hour early. As much as she wanted to hang with him, she really was worn out from the hectic night—plus, she wanted to listen to his tape.
She cranked a new CD as she drove the back roads into town. She wished her car had a tape deck, but she had no idea how to install one. It took her twenty minutes to get to her place. The apartment sat in darkness. She usually left the light over the kitchen sink on, but must have flicked it off when she did the dishes that afternoon before heading to work.
“The light wasn’t on, which weirded me out enough… it was cold, like winter cold.”
“Carla thought it was the ghost…”
Goose bumps broke over Rhiannon’s arms as Shannon and Jenna’s dumb ghost conversation replayed in her head.
She pushed past her irrational fear, pulled out her keys, and opened the door. A quick flip of the switch by the wall and light flooded the room. Mr. Mittens mewled at her and ran over to rub against her legs.
“Hello, Mr. Mittens.” She picked up the cat and closed the door. The apartment was far from cold. The heat from the day clung to each of the apartment’s small rooms. She walked down to her bedroom, turned the light on, and cranked the box fan by her bed. She set Mr. Mittens on her comforter and crossed the room to the yellow Walkman atop her burrow.
Slipping out of her work pants, she folded them and placed them back in the bottom drawer, grabbed some cotton pajama bottoms from the next drawer up and slipped into a large worn-in Patriots t-shirt she’d stolen from her dad. After dropping the mixtape and the Walkman on the bed next to Mr. Mittens, who was already curled up and sleeping, Rhiannon went out to the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water and shut the house down for the night.
Tucked in bed, headphones on, Mr. Mittens by her side and the fan blowing full steam at her, she hit play and let Kurt’s Rhiannon-ready playlist sing her to sleep.
She dreamt of the cold pool room and a girl with curly hair.
Chapter Three
“Thank you so very much for all that you’ve done for us.” Ms. Caroline Philips looked from Lee’s eyes to her three cohorts, Ester, Lizzy, and Linda who sat nodding from their regular perches on the porch to The East Wind House.
“Ah, Ms. Philips, it’s my pleasure. I’m just happy to help you ladies get some peace and quiet at this gorgeous property.” Lee gleamed his charm toward her and her flock and graciously accepted her check for three thousand dollars. Her “evil spirits” were cast back to the dark side. The inn was clear and ready for business again. The “spirits” that brought such stress and fright to the little old lady brigade had been nothing more than creaks and moans of an old place combined with a healthy dose of too much TV and Lee suspected a confusion of medications on the part of at least two of the four women. He’d seen it before and couldn’t wait to see it again. Easy money.
“Where are you off to next?” Ester asked from the little wicker couch next to the screen door.
“Heading inland to do a couple of book signings. I think a city called Hollis Oaks is next on the list.”
“Oh, that’s a nice little town. You have a safe journey, Mr. Buhl. And thank you from each and every one of us.”
“Thanks, Ester.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us for another evening? It’s a good little haul from here to Hollis Oaks?” Caroline said.
“Quite certain, Ms. Philips. It has been a pleasure, as I said, but I have a pretty tight schedule to keep and I always like to get settled into my next hotel the day before an event. Good to get in and do a nice spiritual cleansing before starting a new adventure.”
“Oh, of course, dear.”
Lee nodded to each of the ladies, kissed the back of Ms. Philips’s hand, and made his way down the porch steps and to his car. They bid him farewell from the breathtaking white, wrap-around porch. The check in his pocket was all the appreciation he needed.
<
br /> He climbed into his Mazda Shinari and waved as he drove away. He’d been taking on clients as an Urban Shaman for the last four-and-a-half years. The “cleansings” brought in a good chunk of change, but it was the series of books, Paranormal Experiences through the Eyes of the Urban Shaman, written about those jobs that really filled the bank. The East Wind House would fit lovely in his current book: Paranormal Experiences through the Eyes of the Urban Shaman: Ghosts by the Sea. He had already begun Ms. Philips’s entry last night, being sure to add a plethora of sinister voices and ghastly shadows trying to shoo him away. The piece could be finished tonight if he got into town early enough. Hollis Oakes was about an hour and twenty minutes inland. He could make it in half that. Lee turned up the classic rock station on the radio and pressed the pedal toward the floor.
Less than a minute down the road, blue lights shined in his rearview mirror.
He pulled the car over to the shoulder and waited for the State Trooper to come say hello. Lee grabbed a couple copies of the latest in his Urban Shaman series, Deep Woods, and set them on his lap.
“Evening, sir,” the officer said. “License and registration.”
“Hello, Officer. Let me grab the registration for you.” He picked up the books and placed them on the dash and watched the trooper eyeing them. “Here you go.” Lee handed him the requested credentials.
Officer Betts checked out the license and then motioned to the dash. “You write those books?”
“Yes, sir. I’m actually on my way inland to do a signing tonight. Running a bit behind. I got caught up at the East Wind House doing some research for the next one.”
The trooper handed him his information. “Be much obliged if you’d sign a copy of one of those for me. The wife loves a good ghost story. Stephen King’s her favorite.”
“I’m sure he is. I’d be more than happy to extend a free copy to you and…”
“Bethany.” The trooper said.
“Absolutely.” Lee pulled his pen from his shirt pocket and flipped inside the front cover: To Bethany, Happy Hauntings!–Lee
“Here you go.”
“Thank you, Mr. Buhl. Now you just try and keep it under seventy, okay? I’m sure you’ve got fans who’d like to see you arrive in one piece tonight.”
“I’m sure. Thank you, Officer.”
“You have a good day.” Officer Betts tipped his hat to Lee and patted the book in his hands. Worked every time. Lee nodded in return and pulled back onto the road. He’d make up the lost time once Officer Betts was long gone.
Forty minutes later, he passed the Welcome to Hollis Oakes sign. The big green billboard featured two wolves on a mountain top howling at a full, yellow moon. Wolves always made Lee think about his grandparents; wolves were their spirit animals. His grandparents had introduced him to Shamanism and were responsible for the path he’d chosen in life. Well, sort of. They probably wouldn’t be overly thrilled about the way he used his spiritual inheritance, but he figured they’d at least appreciate the success it granted him. The spoiled-milk feeling in his guts disagreed with that assessment, but he did his best to push past that and focus on the little city he was driving into.
The Motel 6 came up on his right. He pulled next to a dirty maroon minivan and killed the engine. A far cry from the East Wind, but they had indeed left the light on for him and he knew he’d be able to grab a smoking room. He got out, stretched his arms like a bird in flight and pulled out a cigarette. The zippo refused to spark. He’d filled it not more than two weeks ago. He gave it a shake. It lit up. He sparked the smoke to life. His last drag was accompanied by a shiver. He recognized it for what it was: a sign. There was something here for him. Too early to tell what exactly, but a real spirit had said hello.
Chapter Four
November, 1983.
“Christina, you get your ass back here right fucking now!”
“No,” she cried. Her mother had finally pushed her too far.
“I said get back here. Maria!”
Christina LaRoza, with tears streaming down her reddened cheeks, ran along Woodlawn Street as hard and fast as she could, refusing to look back as her mother screamed out for her at the end of their driveway. Her driveway. Not mine, not anymore. She rounded the corner and made for the tree line of Brenner's Woods. She didn't want to be on the road. She did not want to be seen. The last thing she needed was for the cops to see her hauling ass down the road looking like this. She could taste the blood from her split lip, and knew she had at least one black eye. Not to mention she thought she might have a broken knuckle.
Her mom had never been much of a parent. Her father died when she was three, and in her thirteen years of existence since, her mother had been with more men than she could count, and had staggered through more inebriated days than sober ones. Their relationship consisted of Christina doing pretty much all of the cooking, all of the household chores, which of course entailed cleaning up after her drunken mother’s shamble of a life: vomit from the carpets, tending to Mother’s cuts and bruises (as well as her own), from one scumbag boyfriend or another, and most of the driving even though she had neither a license or a driver’s permit.
Somewhere over the last couple of months, their relationship had managed to sour further. Most of the time, Christina no longer wanted to be at home. She believed her mother, sensing this, began trying to put her foot down. A missed dinner was met with a slap. Any and all back talk was met with a barrage of the scrawny woman’s bony fists. And if Christina dared stay out for the night, she would be ducking empty bottles and random, crappy ceramic trinkets purchased from her mother’s weekly pilgrimages to Packard’s Flea Market. This afternoon’s full-out brawl was the last straw.
Now, as she hurdled through the densest part of Brenner's Woods, pine tree branches whipped her sore face, stung, scratched, and clawed at her, but she wasn't about to let anything slow her down. She knew where the trails started out here, and understood that the path to her future waited on the far side of Berry’s field. She would run to the field, and then catch her breath. It was a plan, and so far, outside of leaving, it was the only one she had. It would have to do.
Present day
“Hey Jeff,” Kurt said, grinning from ear to ear.
Jeff Braun walked behind the front desk carrying his messenger bag filled with graphic novels, mostly The Walking Dead series, and the first few books of 30 Days of Night. He was short, with floppy brown hair, and was often mistaken for a high school student by guests, even though he was thirty-five. His eyes were a near-permanent bloodshot from lack of sleep, and his shoulders were constantly slumped forward–a look worn more often by awkward pre-teen girls and Wal-Mart employees.
“Hey, man. What the hell are you all smiles about?” Jeff asked, placing his bag upon the waist-high side counter.
“I did it, man. I finally did it,” Kurt said.
“Okay, I give. Did what?”
“Guess who’s taking Rhiannon to see the new Quentin Tarantino movie?”
Jeff cocked his head as he rubbed at his stubble-covered chin, feigning a look of deep consideration before answering, “Kenneth McGowan, in 219?”
“What? No, dude. Me. I’m taking Rhiannon to see Django Unchained. Can you believe it?”
“Good for you,” Jeff said, “’bout time you stop living this romance in your mind, and actually put yourself out there.”
“Yup, but I gotta run, man. I think I have a new tune brewing in my head.” Kurt grabbed his turquoise sunglasses off from the desk and threw them on.
“All right, Rock Star, go write your dream girl another song,” Jeff said as he set to logging in on the front desk computer. “And you might wanna use your high beams if you’re gonna be wearin’ those shades–it tends to be pretty dark after midnight.”
“Haven’t you ever heard that Cory Hart song?” Kurt said. Backing toward the lobby doors, he sang out, “I wear my sunglasses at night, so I can, so I can…”. Before Jeff could answer, Kurt was on his way out
the door and into the night.
Without averting his eyes from the log in screen before him, Jeff said, “Goodnight, Rock Star.”
He scanned the in-house list looking for any of the usual suspects. The Bruton Inn only had a few regulars, but he liked to check, regardless. It was an old habit developed from his years working the front desk at the Hampton Inn in Augusta. He’d worked there for five and a half years–three on the four-to-midnight shift, the last two and a half doing the overnight audit. He liked the audit, preferred it–more time to read. The apartment he rented with his old college buddy, lovingly referred to as Scotty Pluto for all the time he spent smoking pot, was in a constant state of chaos. Scotty’s gaming buddies and co-workers were constantly getting high and shouting at each other (or their online competitors) in the small living room next to his bedroom. It was too loud most of the time to concentrate. He now did most of his reading at work, or at the Barnes and Noble in Hollis Oaks.
Scanning the in-house list, Jeff found that the inn was almost full. It was late summer. August in Maine could be sweltering, especially with the humidity, and The Bruton Inn was within driving distance of Emerson Lake. Maybe there was something going on in town he hadn't heard about. Whatever the case, he only recognized two names from the list: the aforementioned Kenneth McGowan in 219, and Meghan Murphy.
Kenneth McGowan was the kid of some rich family in Avalon who appeared to be afraid of his own shadow. According to his license, he was twenty-four, but he looked and acted more like a twelve-year-old. He’d been staying at the inn since late July courtesy of his parents and called at least every other night with some crazy complaint, or another. Usually he griped in his meek, nasally voice about hearing people in the next room “making it,” or whispering obscenities that were directed at him from the hallway. The funny thing was that he rarely had anyone in the room next to him. The room next to his was a handicap accessible room, the only one on property. Only some old Vietnam vet, named Roger, or Roland, Jeff couldn’t quite remember which, had stayed there at the beginning of the month, and then again for a couple days last week. That guy had been in a wheel chair, so he was not “making it” with anyone in any room. Kenneth McGowan was a weirdo, and a nut-job. Meghan Murphy on the other hand was something else altogether.