The Guest House Hauntings Boxset

by Hazel Holmes

  The fourth floor had the same setup and structure as the others, but the furniture had been polished, the vases filled with fresh flowers, and the runner down the hall was new.

  Sarah walked along the runner in the hall and toward the third room on the left, which was cracked open. She knew it was Iris’s from the horrible coughing and hacking coming from inside.

  Gripping the tray with both hands, she shouldered the door open and poked her head inside. Iris lay in a white gown, tucked beneath a pile of blankets, with a stack of pillows keeping her upright.

  “What are you doing here?” Iris snarled, but the expression disappeared when she viciously hacked into a napkin.

  “Kegan had to leave.” Sarah set the tray down on the nightstand next to Iris’s bed. “He asked me to bring you some soup.”

  “What a chivalrous gesture.” Iris cleared her throat and shut her eyes.

  Sarah took a moment to examine the room, which was surprisingly small considering the old woman’s ego. There was a vanity, the bed, a nightstand, and then a side table which was lined with pictures.

  All of them were old, most in black and white, and Sarah suspected that it was Iris’s family. But in three of the family pictures, she noticed that one of the faces had been scratched out. And it looked to be the same face every time.

  “That’ll be all.”

  Sarah turned back to Iris, who was staring at her, twisting the wooden sphere of jewelry that still hung from her neck. And while Iris tried to maintain her intimidating glare, the intensity was lost in the frailty of the body beneath the covers. She was just an old woman, and from the stained red cloth that Sarah had seen in the trash can, she was also dying.

  Without another word, Sarah left the room, closing the door behind her and muffling Iris’s coughs as she returned to her work.

  The sponge had leaked a puddle of soapy water onto the floor where she’d left it, right beneath the phrase that had been carved into the room.

  A brief thought of heading to the police entered her mind, but she snuffed it out quickly. Talking to the cops would only expose her, and she didn’t need to cause any more trouble for herself.

  Sarah grabbed the sponge and returned to work, doing her best to ignore the words on the baseboard and the woman’s request for help. She was an adult. If she needed help that bad, then she could do it herself.

  63

  Sarah stashed the cleaning supplies back in the kitchen and then made herself a ham sandwich on wheat, complete with lettuce, tomato, muenster cheese, and a generous helping of mayonnaise. She grabbed a bottle of water and then returned to her room.

  Sarah opened the curtains, letting the evening light bathe the room in oranges and gold, and then sat cross-legged on the bed, where she ate her sandwich. She gazed out the window, finishing her meal, and wondered how far she’d have to run before she was finally safe.

  Eventually he’d give up, right? She thought maybe a year from now she’d be able to relax.

  With enough cash, she could buy a new identity. Time and distance were her best friends right now. She just had to ride it out.

  Once she finished her sandwich, Sarah got the itch for a smoke. She reached for her backpack on the floor and stuck her arm inside, then froze.

  Sarah’s hand groped something foreign, and she trembled when she removed her arm and found herself holding the stack of letters from her dream.

  She dropped them, the letters unfolding and spreading over the floor. She rolled off the bed in the opposite direction and kept her distance as she circled around the foot of the bed.

  It wasn’t possible. It was a dream. It wasn’t real. She’d woken up immediately after the woman had touched her throat.

  Sarah reached up and grazed her neck, remembering the icy chill. Her heart rate increased, and her breathing shortened into quick, hyperventilated gasps.

  Slowly, she crept around the foot of the bed, hoping to find the letters on the floor vanished as mysteriously as they appeared. But as she rounded the corner, she saw one of the folded pages.

  Sarah stared down at the pages, trying to rationalize what happened. Either it hadn’t been a dream, and she didn’t remember going to bed, or someone had placed the letters in her backpack while she was out of the room.

  The latter was possible. She didn’t have the ability to lock her own room when she was gone, so anyone could have come and gone as they pleased. But why had the woman left the pages in her pack? What was she trying to accomplish?

  Sarah carefully picked up one of the letters from the floor. She walked to the window and the dying light to help her read.

  The ink was faded so badly that it had practically disappeared. She set it down and then reached for another one, but it was just as bad.

  Sarah crouched down on the floor and spread the letters out and found a legible one near the middle of the stack. She leaned toward the light from the window and read.

  My dearest Iris,

  Our situation in Bell has deteriorated. I’m afraid that we won’t last much longer without any aid from the outside world.

  I know that you moved away because you no longer wanted to be a part of our family, but you should know that when I die here, it will be you who is held responsible, along with your family.

  With no heirs of my own, your descendants will become the last of the Bell name, and while you may not have had a decision in departing our town, I can tell you that your distance from our home will have no impact on the effects our ancestor will have in reaching you.

  There is nowhere else to hide, Iris. There is nowhere that you can run. If you choose that road, I sincerely wish you the best of luck. But if you want to give yourself and your family a fighting chance, then I beg you to come home. It is the only way.

  Jameson Bell

  Sarah lowered the letter, unsure of its meaning. The author of the note wanted Iris to come back, and it had obviously worked. But Sarah was under the impression that Iris had always lived here.

  But the talk of ancestry caused Sarah to remember her conversation with Pat. He had mentioned that the first Bell had made a pact with a witch, and after he died the town went to shit.

  “No.” Sarah pushed the thought out of her head and dropped the letter back into the pile with the others. It was foolish. All of it. Nothing but fairy tales and ghost stories meant to frighten tourists.

  Sarah crossed her arms, staring out the window until her eyes fell upon the shed on the outskirts of the property near the forest.

  In the shed.

  She eyed the worn-down structure curiously, returning to her ideas of where the groundskeeper would hide something valuable. If it was enough cash or jewels, then she’d bounce and head as far south and west as she could go on her remaining cash. Iris had never asked for her ID, and Sarah had never filled out any paperwork. They didn’t know who she was, and they wouldn’t have a clue on how to find her.

  Sarah scooped up the letters and then piled them back into her backpack, which she zipped up and slid under the bed. She changed out of her uniform and into her jeans and shirt, donned her jacket, and bolted from the room toward the house’s west-end staircase. Everything ready to go in case she needed to leave after a successful discovery.

  Outside, Sarah kept her head on a swivel, making sure she wasn’t being watched or followed. She spotted the shed past the green and kempt garden, nestled on the edge of the field just before the forest began.

  Like the house, it was run-down. The windows were foggy and dirty, the roof sagging, weeds crawling up the sides. It looked as if it hadn’t been touched or used in years.

  Sarah marched over and then lifted the rusted chain and lock over the door. “Shit.” She circled around the back of the shed and found a busted four-paned window covered with a tarp.

  Sarah turned around, making sure the coast was clear, and then started to peel the tape holding the tarp in place. The work was slow, but she managed to make a hole big enough for her to stick her head inside.r />
  It was dark inside, but she was able to see an old bench with some tools scattered on it.

  Feeling pressured to hurry, Sarah widened the hole and jumped through the open window, landing awkwardly on the floor inside.

  The wooden floorboards were dirty and warped. She stood and brushed herself off, noticing a tear in her shirt from the window, and then started her search.

  Three benches lining the walls of the shed were stacked with a variety of tools and machine parts.

  Sarah opened toolboxes, finding screws, bolts, washers, and nuts but nothing out of the ordinary.

  Sarah scanned the shed one last time, walking the interior perimeter. Just when she was about to give up, the ground shifted beneath her feet. She poked the spot again with her toe and saw a section of the floor move.

  Quickly, Sarah dropped to her knees, trying to wedge her fingers into the tight cracks of the cutout in the floor, but the space was too small. She snatched a flathead screwdriver from a nearby toolbox and used it to pry the wooden floorboard up.

  The piece of wood sent dust and dirt flying when Sarah removed it, and she dropped the screwdriver, staring into the dark space below. She reached her hand inside and removed a shoebox.

  The lid was dusty and weathered and so old that it no longer sat flush on the rectangular box. Her heart hammering with excitement, she lifted the lid, sending dust twirling through the air, and found rows of cards crammed inside.

  Sarah frowned, then plucked one of the cards from the middle and flipped it over in her hand. It was a driver’s license. An old one. The girl in the picture had been born in 1977 according to the birth date listed, and she didn’t look older than twenty in the photo. Sarah set it aside and then reached for another one.

  It was another driver’s license, this one more recent. She quickly scanned the cards and found that they were all some form of identification. There were hundreds of them all piled up in this little box.

  Sarah cycled through them quickly but then stopped when one picture caught her eye. It was a newer license, handed out no more than a few years ago. The girl in the picture was a little younger than herself, but there was something familiar about her.

  It was the woman’s hair. It was long, black, and straight, just like the girl who worked the night shift.

  Sarah didn’t understand. Why would they bury the IDs of the people who worked at the house? Why keep it a secret? Why—

  Movement caught Sarah’s attention outside, someone traipsing through the woods. Sarah pocketed the ID in her hand and then placed the box back in the shoebox, and then quickly scurried toward the window as someone fiddled with the lock on the door.

  Sarah quickly flattened the tarp and held it down by the edges as she heard the door open inside.

  Boots scuffed against the floor, and something heavy landed on one of the tables. Sarah held her breath, praying that they didn’t notice the tarp was loose.

  Grumblings echoed inside, and time slowed to a crawl. Sarah’s muscles trembled from the concentrated effort to keep the tarp up. Finally, the door slammed shut, and the click of the lock and the rattle of the chain signaled that Sarah could let go.

  She peered her head around from the back of the shed and saw Dennis marching back up toward the house. She turned toward the forest behind her, and squinted through the trees.

  In the fading evening light Sarah saw something amongst the foliage. She checked the field one last time to find Dennis gone, and then stepped into the forest.

  The thick brush and rocky terrain slowed her progress, but the deeper she penetrated the trees the more she realized that there was a clearing up ahead.

  The space was man-made, evident from the clear rectangular shape and level surface. But scattered around the clearing were piles of rocks, each of them the same size, and all of them spaced out in a grid.

  Something about the tidiness of the area made Sarah uneasy. She carefully walked between the spots, her eyes on a hole up ahead. She trembled on her approach, a part of her already knowing what this place was. But still, she was drawn to it, the rational part of her mind in need of the proof.

  And as Sarah approached the edge and looked down into the hole, she thought of all of those ID cards in that shoebox. She thought of the woman who worked at night that kept telling Sarah that they needed help. And when she saw the outline of a body wrapped in a tarp at the bottom of the hole, Sarah covered her mouth to stifle the scream.

  64

  No longer caring about whether someone saw her, Sarah sprinted back to the house, running to her room as quickly and as quietly as she could muster. She grabbed her bag from beneath the bed and quickly slid the straps over her shoulders. She did one last scan of the room, making sure that she had everything she needed, and then checked her pocket for the picture.

  But when she patted her pants, she also found the ID she’d taken with her. If there was a chance that she might be alive, then Sarah had to let someone know.

  She thought of Pat and decided the friendly bartender would be the best person to let someone know. She could give him the ID and let him contact the authorities. And then she’d get as far away from this place as she possibly could.

  Outside, the golden shimmer of evening had given way to the dark of night. A stiff wind blew down from the northeast. Sarah adjusted her beanie and flipped the collar of her jacket up then shoved her hands into her pockets.

  Sarah hurried toward the entrance to Pat’s Tavern and yanked at the handle, but it didn’t budge. “Shit.” She pressed her face against a nearby window and saw that the chairs were still up and the lights were off.

  “They don’t open for another hour.”

  Sarah turned toward the voice and found the deputy sitting behind the wheel of a sedan, a steaming mug in his hand as he chewed something. She must have been staring at him for longer than she realized, because he set the mug down and wiped his mouth, eyeing her curiously.

  “You were the girl I saw here the other night,” he said.

  “Yeah.” Sarah’s voice was breathless. A nervous sweat had broken out under her shirt, and she remained by the door.

  “I heard you were working up at the Bell house,” he said. “How are you liking it so far?”

  Nerves tied her tongue. Despite the deputy’s friendly demeanor, she knew that cops had a code.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  All she had to do was give him the ID, tell him that something was off, and then leave. “No, I mean, I’m fine, but…” She stepped closer, removing the driver’s license from her pocket. “I think there might be another girl up in that house, and she’s in trouble.” She extended the card to him, keeping an arm’s length between them, and forced Dell to step out of the car to grab it.

  When he took the ID, flashing a light on top of it to get a better look, Sarah saw the name on his uniform: Deputy Dell Parker. “Where did you find this?”

  “In a box buried in the shed on the back edge of the property. There were a lot of other cards in the box too.” She hesitated to tell him about the body, knowing that it would only prompt him to follow her, or even take her into the station. But if he found the box, then she figured that would be enough.

  Dell flipped the license over and then finally looked up at her. “What kind of cards?”

  “Driver’s licenses, like that one.” Sarah took a step back. “Some of them were pretty old.”

  “And did you see this girl up at the house?”

  Sarah hesitated. “I saw someone. Or something.” She frowned, the commitment in her statement waning.

  “What do you mean ‘something’?” Dell asked.

  “Listen, I just wanted to give you that.” Sarah retreated. “I have to go.”

  “If you just want to come over to the station in Redford and make a statement, I can—”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry. Good luck.”

  “Hey, wait!”

  Sarah broke out into a jog. She knew that she wouldn’t have
many options if the deputy decided to chase her. But she didn’t think he would. After all, she hadn’t done anything wrong, at least not that he knew of.

  Deputy Dell Parker retreated into the warmth of his car when the girl disappeared. He tapped the card against the steering wheel, wondering if she was just pulling his chain.

  The Bells had employed quite a few interesting characters over the years, and growing up in the small town had afforded Dell an up-close-and-personal look at the family itself.

  Personally, he had never liked them. They were cold people, distant and unforgiving in their disdain for the collapse of the town named after their ancestor who had founded it all those years ago.

  Using the laptop in his passenger seat, Dell accessed the Bangor Police Department database. Maine was filled with so many tiny little towns that local police used a lot of the capital’s resources.

  Bell was so small that Dell’s office wasn’t even in town. It was just part of his daily route, and he happened to enjoy Pat’s company at the bar. Pat was practically the only person in Bell who smiled, and he had been kind to Dell and his mother when he was growing up.

  Like most small towns, Bell thrived on gossip. And when Dell’s dad walked out on him and his mother when he was five, it was all people could talk about until Patsy Stevens found out her husband was having an affair with her sister.

  Waiting for the search field to populate on his computer, Dell saw Pat walk up, bundled in a coat with a scarf covering his neck and chin. He waved quickly at Dell, who reciprocated the gesture, then unlocked the bar and went inside to get ready for the evening rush.

  It was always the same people every night, and Dell was always surprised that Pat had been able to stay in business for all of these years when things in Bell got really bad. Even Dell’s mother had moved away once he’d saved up enough to find her a little spot outside of Bangor when he established himself on the force. She kept trying to get him to transfer, but as dead as this stretch of Maine seemed to be, he couldn’t work up the courage to leave.