The Guest House Hauntings Boxset

by Hazel Holmes

  “The medical community described the physical symptoms as being similar to shingles or frostbite,” Pat said. “And all of the individuals that came down with the affliction were descendants of Allister Bell. And here, look, here.”

  Sarah leaned closer to the line that Pat had highlighted and read aloud. “Any patient that was transported from Bell to Redford was immediately returned due to making the conditions worse. While most patients didn’t survive, one local doctor managed to save a woman’s life.”

  Pat pounded his fist on the table. “It can be fixed!”

  Hope swelled in Sarah’s chest.

  “Who was the doctor?” Dell asked.

  Pat turned a few more pages and then stopped on an article taped to the center of the page. “Dr. Henry Nash.”

  “Oh my god, look at the patient that was cured,” Sarah said, reading farther down the article.

  Dell leaned closer and read. “Iris Bell.”

  “How old is this article?” Sarah asked, searching for the date.

  “Thirty years,” Pat answered.

  Dell raised his eyebrows. “The doctor might still might be alive. I can make a call to dispatch and look up his address.” He headed for the door, already on the radio.

  Sarah watched him go. “Do you think that doctor is still alive?” Her voice was small and tired like that of a little girl grasping for a piece of hope she wasn’t sure she’d be able to obtain.

  Pat’s expression softened, and he walked over and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “I do.”

  “How can you be sure?” Sarah asked. “How do you know he hasn’t died or—”

  Pat squeezed her shoulder. “We’ll find him.”

  And when Pat smiled, despite Sarah’s reservations, she let herself believe him.

  It had been a while since she’d had a friend to help her and even longer since she’d had someone she could trust. It was a feeling she missed. Foster homes and orphanages tended to kill trust at a very early age. Sarah remembered when it had broken for her.

  She had been six, and she had just moved into a foster home that would be shut down three months later, social workers citing unlivable conditions and neglect. Sarah lived in a room with nine other kids, and between them they shared three pillows and two blankets and zero beds. The house had had no heat and hardly any insulation, so they would all huddle together in the middle of the floor like a pack of dogs.

  When Sarah had first arrived at the house, her foster father had made a big deal about her birthday, and when asked if she’d ever gotten a cake and a present, she said no.

  Chuck—foster parents always had the sleaziest names—told her that they’d get her a cake and whatever present she wanted.

  Unsure of what to ask for, she decided to go with something simple. For food, she requested a strawberry cake because she remembered having one at a church event the previous Thanksgiving, and it had been the best food she’d ever tasted. And for a toy, she wanted a ballerina skirt. The few bits of television she’d seen had been a PBS special on the ballet. After watching those dancers float across the stage to music, it was all she wanted to do.

  The night before her birthday, Sarah didn’t sleep a wink. She lay huddled on the floor, imagining herself as one of the ballerinas she had seen on television. And when the first rays of sunlight finally pierced the window, she sprinted into the kitchen, where Chuck was passed out on the table.

  “Chuck!” Sarah tugged at his sleeve, jumping up and down as she smiled. “Chuck, it’s my birthday!”

  But no matter how hard she tugged, he wouldn’t stir, so with her guardian indisposed (drunk, as she would later understand), she went to the fridge in hopes of finding the cake. But the only thing inside was beer.

  Sarah turned back to Chuck, still asleep on the kitchen table. She looked down at his feet and saw a dozen crushed beer cans littering the floor. She had seen foster parents like him before. She understood that they got mean and angry when they drank that stuff. And even though she was scared, she had built up the excitement about the day in her head so much that her disappointment outweighed the fear of repercussions.

  “You promised!” Sarah slapped Chuck’s arm, but he still didn’t wake. She hit him again, repeatedly, each time harder than the one before. “You promised me!” Her voice rose to a shriek, and it finally stirred the drunk awake.

  “Wha—?” Chuck lifted his face, struggling to open his eyes as Sarah continued to beat him with her tiny little fists. “Hey, stop that!” He shoved Sarah, and her butt smacked the dirty black-and-white-checkered tile.

  Chuck pressed his hands against his temples and burped a few times, while Sarah cried silently on the floor. After another minute, he looked down at her, almost as if he didn’t even recognize her. “What are you crying about?” He dismissed her. “Go back to bed.”

  “It’s my birthday,” Sarah replied, her voice shaking from the tears.

  “Yeah, well, happy birthday.” Chuck provided no sincerity or fanfare as he stood.

  The dismissal boiled Sarah’s rage, and she pushed herself up from the floor. He was just like all the other foster fathers she’d been with, all talk and no action. They made promises that were never kept, and she had finally grown sick of it.

  Sarah flung herself against Chuck’s leg, kicking, punching, flinging all her strength behind every blow, which to Chuck was only an annoyance.

  “Knock it off, kid.” Chuck shook his leg and sent her flying backward, crashing against the tile.

  But the abuse failed to deter her spirit, and Sarah sprang back to her feet and attacked again. Her voice had risen to an ear-shattering scream as she pounded against his leg, beating her little fists as fiercely as she could. “You promised! You promised! You promise—”

  The backhand that knocked Sarah from Chuck’s leg and beat her into the floor also paralyzed her body. A white flash blinded her, and it was quickly followed by a crushing defeat of pain as her vision adjusted to black-and-white-checkered tile.

  “What the fuck is the matter with you?” Chuck towered over her, his face beet red as he screamed. “You think I wanted to do that? You think I wanted to hit you?” He raised his hand high to hit her again, but when Sarah winced, he lowered it. “If you’re gonna be a stupid fucking bitch, then I might as well send you back to the orphanage.” He stomped off, still muttering to himself, while Sarah remained on the ground. “You ain’t worth the fucking trouble!”

  Blood trickled down from the corner of her left eyebrow, the red a brilliant streak of color against her pale skin, and as it mixed with her tears, she looked as if she was crying blood. Sarah remained there on the tile until one of the older kids came from the room and picked her up, carrying her back to the safety of their tiny room.

  That was the first of thousands of other scenarios that Sarah had experienced as an orphan, and it was the foundation of the callus that had formed over the past two decades of her life.

  It was the start of every mistrust she’d ever had with a man and the basis for every failed relationship she’d ever experienced.

  But the man next to her wasn’t Chuck, or any of the foster father’s she’d known.

  “You know, you remind of Mr. Westbrook,” Sarah said.

  “Who’s that?” Pat asked.

  “He was one of the social workers assigned to my case file over the years.” Sarah drifted into the past. “One of the really good ones. He was the only one who actually made sure I was pulled out of bad situations. He went the extra mile. Like you.”

  Pat grinned. “Just trying to help.”

  Sarah held his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Pat said. “It’s not over till it’s over.”

  And while Sarah understood that all of this was a long shot, it still felt good to find some light at the end of the tunnel.

  Dell returned, stepping back inside, and Sarah quickly stood.

  “Did you find him?” Sarah asked.
>
  Dell grinned. “He lives off a dirt road just west of Redford. It’s a bit of a drive, and he’s in the middle of nowhere, even by northern Maine standards, but he’s alive.”

  Sarah threw her arms around Dell, hugging him tightly, happy tears rolling down her cheeks. She then pushed him back and punched his arm in a fit of joy.

  “Ow,” Dell said, rubbing his arm. “You have a funny way of saying thank you.”

  Sarah laughed again and then spun around and flung herself into Pat’s arms, squeezing him tightly as well. “Thank you, Pat.” She peeled her cheek off of his chest and stared up at the man with the greying hair with white patches, the tan face, and the weathered wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. “Thank you so much.”

  “I’ll run and talk to him.” Dell backtracked toward the door and reached for his radio. “And I’ll call for a deputy to come over to keep an eye on things.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Pat said. “I’ve got a shotgun in the closet. Plus I have Sarah to protect me.”

  “I’m still calling the deputy.” Dell headed toward the door and then stopped and turned around once the pair were close. “Just stay put. But if something happens before my guy arrives, then I want you to head to Redford and talk with Faye. You can trust her. She’ll keep you safe.”

  The door swung shut, and Sarah sat on the bed. Patience had never been Sarah’s strong suit, and it grew thinner every time she stared down at her leg. She tugged up her jeans, the icy scales shimmering beneath the yellow light of Pat’s lamps.

  “You all right?” Pat asked.

  “Fine, just—” Sarah paused. “Anxious.”

  “I’ve known Dell for a long time,” Pat said. “He’s not someone who quits when it gets hard.”

  Sarah dropped her pant leg, and then picked at the fading nail polish on her fingers. “Most people aren’t like that.”

  “No,” Pat said. “They’re usually not as good-looking as he is either.”

  Sarah tossed a teenage-like glare, and Pat raised his hands in defense as he walked toward the door.

  “I’m just saying.” Pat laughed and then turned back to Sarah. “I’m heading into the bar for a drink. You want anything?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  But after Pat left, Sarah decided that she did need something, air.

  Outside, the night sky was clear, and Sarah gazed up at the stars. It was a beautiful night. But when she lowered her gaze, it fell upon the Bell mansion, and her smile turned to a frown.

  Despite having more answers than she did an hour ago, Sarah still had questions. She wanted to know why Iris returned to this place. She wanted to know why she had started killing people. And most importantly, she wanted to know how to stop it.

  She remembered what the redhead had told her about the cure being inside the house. It moves, but is always in the same place. She glanced down at her palms and wiggled her fingers, then lifted her gaze toward the mansion.

  Sarah looked back at Pat’s Tavern, making sure the coast was clear, and then faced the mansion on the hill again. She pumped her hands into fists a few times and then tried to recreate the exact conditions she’d experienced before when she was projected into the house. She dropped to her knees, pressed her hands against the ground, and tried to do it again.

  71

  The black GTO blended in well in the darkness off the side of the highway. Brent had pulled over past the shoulder and onto the slope of the ditch that spread into the edge of the forest. The angle kept him leaned against his driver-side door as he listened to the police scanner.

  There hadn’t been much chatter since Brent pulled over, but he hadn’t been there long. Still he fidgeted. The drive up had made him antsy and stiff. But he didn’t want to barge into town without knowing what the cops knew. There was no telling what Sarah had said after the police ran her license through the system.

  He hoped that she had the good sense to keep her mouth shut, but that all depended on how desperate she’d grown.

  Brent turned his head out the window and stared into the woods. It was pitch-black between the trees, and the darkness looked to stretch forever.

  The speaker on the scanner crackled, and a woman’s voice broke through. “Dell, it’s Faye.”

  Brent perked up, and his lower back popped as he leaned closer toward the scanner and turned up the volume.

  “This is Dell.”

  “I’ve got the sheriff on the line for you. Patching through now.”

  “Dell?” The voice was gruff and agitated. “What in the same hell is going on out there?”

  “Sheriff, I need you to call the state troopers in and get Judge Warner to sign a warrant to search the Bell house. I think we have a multiple homicide situation on our hands.”

  “Dell, what in the hell are you talking about?”

  “I have a witness, former employee over at the Bell house, who says that she saw a body on the property, buried somewhere out back. I think we should call the forensic team up from Bangor.”

  “Hold on, now, just hold on.” The sheriff cleared his throat. “You’re saying that Iris Bell has bodies buried in her backyard and that you have a witness?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jesus Christ.” The sheriff sighed. “All right. You have Faye get the paperwork ready and make sure your witness understands that she will have to testify, and then I’ll call the judge. I’m sure he’ll be as happy about the call at this hour as I was.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. Faye, did you get all of that?”

  “Copy,” Faye said.

  “Where are we at with Brent Alvarez?”

  Brent balled his fists in anger.

  “I called the precinct and spoke to the shift supervisor, but they told me he’s not on duty, but they’ll try and reach out to him.”

  “Keep pestering them. I want to know where this guy is.”

  “Copy.”

  The chatter ended, and Brent turned the volume back down to lessen the static. “Shit.” He knocked his head against the window and then snarled.

  Those Andy Griffith Show cops up here could call his precinct all they wanted. Nobody was going to rat him out, but since the bitch had already talked, it meant that Brent had to approach this from a different angle, and that meant keeping Sarah alive. If he could do that then he would just have the DA file so many charges and forge so many documents against her that it would make whatever Sarah told these idiots look like a desperate attempt to clear her own name.

  Defeated, Brent tilted his head back, shutting his eyes. He should have killed Sarah when he’d had the chance. But when he had arrived at her apartment and saw her standing there in her shirt and jeans, staring up at him with those big blue eyes, it was the first time that beauty had changed his mind.

  No, not beauty. He had been with other beautiful women whom he never would have left in that apartment alive.

  Sarah had something else. It was innocence. But it wasn’t naïve or inexperienced. She possessed an innocence that allowed her to be free and, in turn, free the people that she was with. Brent had never been with anyone like that. And he suspected he wouldn’t be with anyone like that again.

  Brent chuckled, the grin stretching wider as his laughter grew and then died down, fading with each shake of his head until his expression became stoic. “The things we do for a good fuck.”

  He removed his phone and found the town of Bell on his GPS. It was close. He started the engine and the four hundred horses roared to life, vibrating the steering wheel and seat. He pulled back onto the highway and continued his journey north.

  The sign for Bell appeared quickly, and Brent hit the brakes hard, nearly missing the turn. His tires screeched, and he was forced to slow his pace on the dark, winding, two-lane road.

  Trees lined either side of the road, and Brent cast a few quick glances about, wondering if the bitch was hiding in the cold.

  The road and forest eventually opened into an even smaller town than Redford. The sad excuse
for its main street boasted buildings that looked one day away from demolition. But Brent’s eyes widened as he took in the massive mansion high on the hill above the town. “Talk about propping up the one percent.”

  Brent made it past the buildings on the right and parked the GTO behind a diner, making sure it was hidden from view of the road. The last thing he wanted was Sarah or the cops spotting him. He cut the engine, quieting the rumbling GTO with a turn of his key.

  Brent opened the glove compartment and removed his .38 special. The serial number had been scratched off, making the weapon untraceable. He pocketed the weapon and stepped out of the car.

  Bell wasn’t much of a town to look at. It only had seven buildings and what looked like a burned-down church across the street. He walked the storefronts, casing the joints with a practiced eye.

  Once he cleared the right side of the street, he meandered over to the left, his attention focused on the large, bold lettering of Pat’s Tavern. He smiled and decided that he could use a drink.

  The front door lock was an easy pick, and thirty seconds later he was greeted with the scent of stale beer and smoke. He weaved between the tables and made his way to the bar. He stepped behind it, perused the tequila selection, and settled on Patron, which had always been his favorite ever since he was a kid.

  Brent found a clean glass and then gave himself a generous pour. He sipped at first and then downed the rest quickly. He worked his mouth into a large “O” shape and shook his head. “That’ll put some hair on your balls.” He chuckled and then poured himself another drink, when the back door opened.

  Quickly, Brent returned the bottle and skirted back around the bar, taking his glass with him, and darted into the adjacent room, ducking behind a pool table.

  Crouched low, Brent removed the revolver from his pocket and listened to footsteps back over by the bar. Glasses clinked together, but the lights never came on. A few grumbles floated through the air, and from the deep tone it sounded to Brent like a man. Probably Pat, seeing as how the place was closed.