The Guest House Hauntings Boxset

by Hazel Holmes

  Brent remained silent, gun still aimed at the couple, then pressed the barrel of his pistol against the man’s temple. The woman started to cry.

  “Where did she go?” Brent asked.

  The man was young, mid-twenties at the oldest, and had long blonde hair that had been crimped in what Brent assumed was an effort to detract attention from the large mole that clung to the side of his nose and his harelip. He wore a jacket, but Brent knew that underneath the clothes was nothing more than a skeleton covered in skin, and the bag of bones couldn’t stop shaking.

  “I-I don’t know.” He shut his eyes, hands still in the air. “She just said she was leaving, man! I didn’t get a forward fucking address!”

  The woman next to the skeleton had curled up into the fetal position. She was small like Sarah, though not as pretty.

  Brent removed the gun from the skeleton’s head and then aimed it at the woman, which transformed her moaning sobs into a full-blown hysteria.

  “NO! PLEASE!” She thrust her arms out as if she could block bullets with her hands. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she pushed herself backward until she hit the couch’s armrest. “I don’t know what happened to her. Please, she didn’t tell us. She just wanted to be left alone.”

  Brent tilted his head to the side. “Alone?” He stepped around the skeleton, the little shit too much of a pussy to protect the woman, as he cowered in his seat.

  Brent’s shadow engulfed the tiny woman, her tremors of fear shaking the pistol in his hand as he pressed it against her temple. “Why would she want to be alone?” He arched his eyebrows in surprise. “Because of me?”

  The woman shook her head.

  Brent lingered for a moment but then removed the pistol. He circled the coffee table and examined the drugs and needles, holding the weapon casually at his side. Large multicolored stains hardened the carpet that crunched beneath his boots.

  The place was a dump. Hell, the whole neighborhood was a dump. And despite all his resources and all the eyes and ears he had working the streets, he still hadn’t been able to find her. One fucking woman had eluded him. He had tracked down every lead, spoken to all of her friends, and none of them knew where she’d gone. He was positive they were telling the truth. He needed to make sure that the bums in front of him were telling the truth too.

  “So you don’t know where she went, huh?” Brent asked. “And you’re sure you don’t have anything else to tell me? Nothing you want to share before I leave?”

  Skeleton shook his head, and the woman only trembled. “N-no. W-we don’t know. I-I promise.”

  Brent smiled, revealing white but crooked teeth. “Well, then. I guess I don’t have anything left to worry about.” He paused for a minute and then raised the pistol, aimed it at the woman, and squeezed the trigger.

  The bullet went straight through her head, spraying her skull and brains onto the back of the sofa, and sending a few bits onto the skeleton, who’d frozen in shock.

  Brent aimed his pistol at the skeleton. “You know how long it’ll take for anyone to come and check on this apartment after that gunshot?” He stepped closer. “Thirty minutes, minimum. And do you want to know why?” He bent over at the waist, shoving his face close to the skeleton’s, where he caught a scent of the warm brain matter speckled on his cheek. “Because no one gives a shit what happens with the people around here, because people like you die in these fucking slums every single day. One more dead body is one less person the city has to support.”

  “Jesus Christ, man.” These were the only words that the skeleton could spit out, and he repeated them in the same hysterical laughter that only a person on the edge of madness could utter. He turned toward Brent, looking past the gun pointed at his head, his eyes bulging from his skull. “You fucking killed her, man!”

  “I did,” Brent answered, his tone calm. “And I will kill you if you can’t tell me where she went. I’ll give you to the count of three.”

  “I told you I don’t know where she is!” His cheeks reddened, and the muscles along his neck and throat strained as he struggled to tell Brent what he wanted to hear. “I’m not lying, man!”

  “Two.”

  The skeleton slipped from the couch and landed on his knees, clutching his hands together. “Please.” He worked his mouth to try and form words but found none. His knuckles turned white from the pressure, and the skeleton bowed his head and pressed his forehead against the dirty carpet. “I don’t want to die. Don’t kill me, please. I won’t tell anyone you were here.” He grabbed Brent’s ankles, his voice muffled against the floor.

  Brent looked down at the cockroach next to his boot, gun still aimed at its head, and then looked to the dead woman on the couch. Her eyes were still open, staring upward to some point on the ceiling, her lips slightly parted.

  The dead were always still and quiet, and they never slobbered over your brand-new shoes. Brent kicked the skeleton’s hands off his feet and then stepped backward.

  The skeleton looked up at Brent, snot and tears dribbling from his orifices, his cheeks bright red, his eyes narrow slits. “Please.”

  “Three.”

  The skeleton screamed. Brent squeezed the trigger. Another stain was added to the carpet.

  Smoke drifted from the pistol’s barrel, and Brent lingered in the living room, staring at the growing puddle of blood engulfing the dead man’s head. After a minute, he picked up the two shell casings and shoved them in his pocket. They jingled on his walk to the door, where he stopped and turned back toward the dead. He smiled.

  As he suspected, no one came out of their apartments, and no one stopped to question him as he stepped outside the building and returned to the street. If Sarah wasn’t here, then he was beginning to think that she wasn’t in the city at all.

  Brent opened the door of his black 1968 Pontiac GTO Judge and climbed inside. The leather was cold, but it smelled wonderful. He’d rebuilt and refurbished the vintage car himself. It was a labor of love, and he had ended up dumping more than sixty grand into the damn thing. But holy fuck, did he love that car.

  It was a beast of a machine and one of the most recognizable cars in the city. He loved watching the little street junkies and wannabe thugs scatter at the sound of his throaty four-hundred-twenty-horsepower V8 engine. The car was power. And Brent loved power.

  Brent tapped his finger on the steering wheel and noticed a bloodstain on the fitted leather glove. He grimaced and removed a packet of wet wipes from the glove box. He vigorously scrubbed at the stain, the leather darkening under the moist cloth.

  Finished, Brent threw the dirty cloth onto the pavement. His phone rang. He answered, still examining the glove. “Yeah.”

  “We got a hit,” the voice said. “Northern Maine in a town called Redford. Local PD ran her license through the DMV.”

  “Text me the address.” Brent hung up and then placed the phone in his cup holder, his eyes still locked on the vanished bloodstain.

  So Sarah had decided to try her chances up north in the middle of nowhere. It was a bold move, especially with winter on its way and barely a penny to her name.

  Brent smiled at the thought of her wandering through the woods like a hermit, hitchhiking all the way to the Canadian border. Was that her end game? He laughed. The dumb bitch had imagination, he’d give her that. But she had finally run out of rope.

  Brent revved the GTO to life and took one last glance at the apartment building where he’d left two bodies. Then he started his journey north, where he would take one more.

  68

  Sarah had pulled the hospital blankets up to her chest. The gown they’d put her in was thin, and made her feel exposed. She picked at the corner of the thinnest sheet, the fabric scratchy beneath her fingernail as the deputy in the seat next to her tapped the pen against his notepad, examining his notes.

  “You said you found a box of IDs in a shoebox hidden beneath a loose board in the shed.” Deputy Dell Parker read the statement, underlining the section wi
th his pen, then looked up at Sarah. “And that was when you ran.”

  “Yes.” Sarah kept her answers short.

  “And then Dennis, the Bells’ groundskeeper, chased you down, drugged you, and then brought you back to the house for a—” He flipped to a previous page of his notes. “Ceremony.”

  “That’s what he told me.” Sarah ended her assault on the corner of the bedsheet and started to pick the chipped turquoise nail polish on her finger. Her hands had been wrapped with gauze, injuries from her escape out of the house, the details of which she embellished to the deputy.

  “So you woke up in the basement, broke out of the room, had the sense of mind to grab your backpack,” he looked to the bag on the table by the door, then returned to his notes, “and then ran out of the house, escaping through a second-story window.” Dell removed his gaze from the notepad and looked at Sarah. “Am I missing anything?”

  Sarah shook her head, knowing full well that there was more to the story. She had avoided telling him about the body and the ghost because she knew divulging that information would only lengthen their chat and make it harder for her to leave.

  The deputy tapped his pen onto the notepad, staring at Sarah for a long time, and then finally stood. “All right, Ms. Pembrooke. I’m going to head over to the Bell house now and have a conversation with the family and question the groundskeeper. In the meantime I have a deputy outside and down the hall to keep an eye on you. I’ll also put an inquiry into,” he returned to his notes, “Brent Alvarez.” He closed the notebook and placed it inside his jacket. “See if what he has to say matches up with your story about him.”

  Sarah nodded, knowing that her ex would deny whatever allegations she said about him.

  “You just get some rest.” The deputy smiled, and then left.

  Sarah exhaled relief once he was gone, and waited until the sound of his footsteps faded and there was only the slow cadence of beeps from the machines monitoring her vitals.

  Sarah flung the sheets off her, climbed off the bed, and rolled the machines toward the table and her backpack. Her hospital gown flowed behind her as she opened her backpack and removed her clothes, planning to dress quickly.

  Naked, Sarah examined her pale flesh. Up till an hour ago, she had been freezing, but now, even with her bare feet against tile, there was nothing. No cold. No goosebumps.

  Sarah paused when she slid on her socks, gently touching the icy scales that shimmered on her heel, which had transformed her pale flesh to a frost blue. It was the only proof of her supernatural experience at the Bell mansion, but the doctors had dismissed it as frostbite.

  Ghosts, demons, spirits, curses. The words swirled in her head and consumed her thoughts. She had run this far north to avoid trouble, not be caught smack in the middle of it. She ran her fingers through her blonde pixie cut and shut her eyes.

  She hadn’t asked for this life. She had been born and then thrust into a situation in which she was forced to fight for her life every day. Growing up, she’d always hated the kids with two parents and a stable home. She hated them because she envied them. She would have paid any price to have that security, to feel loved, to lay her head down at night in her own bed and not have to worry about whether she was going to eat the next day or if her foster parents would beat her.

  The past week on the road had been exhausting, but they were nothing compared to the past few days. Sarah wanted nothing more than to stop and rest, but she knew that if the cops had run her license through the system, then Brent would find out about it. The bastard had people everywhere, and he wasn’t someone who let things go. She needed to leave before he was able to track her down.

  Before donning her shirt and pants, Sarah shut off the machines monitoring her vitals, and then plucked the sensors off her chest and fingers. She’d tried ripping them off before, but the devices beeped in alarm and brought the nurses to her room. Turning them off completely might raise some internal flag, but for the time being she was in the clear.

  Dressed in her Carhartt jacket, jeans, and boots, Sarah reached for her backpack and positioned its straps over her shoulders.

  “Sarah.”

  The whisper tickled her ear, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she spun around, but the room was empty.

  Disoriented, Sarah blinked a few times, shaking the voice from her thoughts. She had already watched the woman die, killed by that… thing. It couldn’t have followed her here, could it?

  Sarah shut her eyes and whispered to herself. “It’s nothing. Just walk out the door and leave.” She nodded a few times to affirm her resolve and then spun around.

  She opened her eyes on the turn and gasped as she stumbled backward into the foot of the bed. Blocking the doorway was a woman dressed in an old white gown that covered her skin from neck to ankle.

  The woman pressed a slender finger to her pale lips, her skin whiter than Sarah’s but her cheeks dotted with clusters of freckles. She smiled, her thin lip drawn tight and nearly disappearing from her face. She was pretty, but it was the bright-red hair that flowed behind her in long, wavy strands that made her beautiful.

  Sarah frowned, slowly gathering her nerves. She swallowed, finding her mouth dry. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I was sent to help you.” The woman smiled. She was tall, close to six feet. She was lanky too, her arms and legs too large for her frame. “So you can help us.”

  Sarah shook her head. “No. I’m not going back to that house. I’m done, you hear me?”

  “You’ve been marked, Sarah.” The redhead glanced down to the foot with the icy scales. “He won’t let you leave now.”

  “Look, I’m sorry to whatever happened to you, but I have my own problems,” Sarah said.

  “You’ve always run, Sarah.” The redhead’s voice began to fade. “That’s all you’ve ever done since you were a little girl. But if you want to survive this, if you want to make it out alive, then you must face it. You must find the orb in the house.”

  “I told you I’m done.” Sarah spun around and headed toward the door.

  “She’s sacrificed herself to save you.”

  Sarah stopped abruptly. Her stomach soured as she slowly turned around.

  “Maggie sacrificed her soul so you could escape the house, so you could save those that have been damned.” The redhead slowly floated toward Sarah. “Can you really just walk away from that responsibility?”

  Sarah grimaced. “People have walked away from me my whole life. It’s just how it is.”

  Saddened, the redhead faded with her voice. “You’re the last soul he needs. Save us, and you save yourself. It’s… the… on…ly……” And then she was gone, disappearing as quickly and mysteriously as she had arrived.

  Sarah reached into the space where the ghost had been but felt nothing. She rubbed her fingertips together, contemplating the redhead’s words. But the Bell mansion wasn’t her problem anymore. She needed to move.

  But before she left, Sarah remembered the letters in her backpack, the ones she found on the forbidden fifth floor. She removed them from her backpack and set them on the table. Maybe the cops could use them in their investigation. She didn’t want to have anything to do with that house again.

  At the doorway, Sarah slowly craned her neck around the doorframe. The authorities had stationed a deputy to guard her room, but Sarah spotted him at the end of the hall with his back turned, flirting with a woman at the nurse’s station.

  With the pair distracted, Sarah hurried in the opposite direction and followed the emergency exit signs to a stairwell that dumped her out onto the side of the building and into the cold night air.

  Thick woods backed up against the hospital, and Sarah followed the narrow strip of concrete that separated the two until it fed her out into the front parking lot.

  She adjusted the straps of her pack and then flipped the collar of her Carhartt jacket, keeping a sharp eye out for anyone in the lot. But the late hour and small town offered little tr
affic. With some distance between herself and the hospital, Sarah stopped to catch her breath.

  Between the week on the road and the events of the last couple of days, her energy reserves were running low. She turned around, looking back to the hospital, and the sudden urge to head back flooded her thoughts.

  Leaving meant an endless journey for the rest of her life, one void of any peace and rest. She’d be looking over her shoulder until she was six feet under. Just the thought of it was daunting. But what if Dell could make good on his promise and keep her safe? A chance of success was slim but possible.

  Sarah dismissed it quickly. If a life in foster care and orphanages had taught her one thing, it was that the only person she could count on was herself. Eventually, everyone else would always let her down. And because of that, Sarah left the town of Redford behind.

  When she reached the highway, she turned south, knowing that trying to cross into Canada would cause more problems than it would fix. Her best shot was to head south and then make a hard right toward the west.

  Two miles and three cars into Sarah’s retreat, one car finally slowed to offer a ride. It was a sedan, sporty, which lowered the chances of finding a woman behind the wheel. The majority of drivers that picked her up on the journey here were men. And while she had avoided any incidents, she knew that the law of averages would fix that soon enough.

  The passenger window rolled down before she approached, and sure enough, she found a guy behind the wheel, alone. “Need a lift?”

  “Yeah,” Sarah answered, making sure to keep her coat closed. The bulkiness of her winter attire did a good job of hiding her figure. The less they could see the less tempted they’d be to touch.

  “Well, hop in,” he said.

  With no alarm bells ringing in her head and the road growing longer, Sarah opened the passenger door.

  The driver reentered the highway, speeding up quickly, and then slowed back to the speed limit.