The Guest House Hauntings Boxset

by Hazel Holmes

  “You bitch!” Brent screamed as he flipped her from her stomach to her back, pulling her, Sarah’s back scraping against the cold and rocky terrain.

  Sarah bucked and twisted her hips, kicking, fighting back with what strength remained to her, but Brent overpowered her and flung her into a nearby tree.

  Sarah’s back buckled harshly against the thick oak, but she was quick to bounce back when she saw him reach for the gun. Back and innards aching, Sarah sprinted toward Brent and then launched her body at Brent, spearing them both to the ground.

  Shoulder, elbows, and knees violently cracked against one another and the ground, and when the rolling ended, Sarah lay next to Brent on her back while he tried to push himself up from his stomach.

  Disoriented, it took her a minute to get her bearings, but when she saw the flash of silver from the revolver, Sarah scrambled toward it. She snatched it up in her hands, and when she heard Brent roar, she spun around and fired as his body slammed against hers and they cracked against the ground.

  Brent’s weight grew even heavier on top of Sarah, but the pistol was still wedged between their stomachs. The pair locked eyes, and Brent’s mouth was hung open in an oval shape, his tongue lolling in his mouth as he gagged.

  Sarah lay still beneath him, watching the life drain from his eyes and feeling the warmth of his blood leave his stomach and spread across her body. She felt Brent’s muscles relax, and then eventually blood dripped from the corner of his mouth and onto her cheek.

  And finally, Brent lay his head on Sarah’s shoulder and exhaled his last breath.

  Crushed by his weight, Sarah struggled to get Brent off. It was her frustration that finally provided the needed strength to move him. She lay there on the ground, eyes shut, sucking in big gulps of air.

  Brent’s warm, sticky blood quickly dried and hardened against her clothes, and Sarah finally pushed herself to a sitting position.

  Dirt and dead leaves stuck to the back of her head and back, and she stared down at the blood that covered her body and the revolver that now rested between her legs on the ground. She stared at the weapon, then turned to look at Brent.

  His arms and legs were splayed out awkwardly, and a massive red stain covered his abdomen. Blood still bubbled up from the wound, and his eyes were open, his face staring up at the fading afternoon sky. He was still and quiet.

  And the longer Sarah stared at the body, the more her nerves frayed and unraveled. She hyperventilated. A sourness plagued her stomach, which lurched and twisted. A warm, acidic bile crawled up her throat, and Sarah scrambled on her hands and knees away from the scene of the crime as she vomited into the bushes.

  Two more rounds came up before she was finished, and then some dry heaves brought on by the sudden stench of blood that still lingered on her shirt. She wiped her mouth and then stumbled away from the pile of vomit, still struggling to catch her breath.

  Sarah planted her hand on the trunk of a nearby tree to help support her, her entire body shaking from the exertion and the cold and the rundown fatigue that had crippled her body. She placed her forehead in the crook of the arm that she folded against the tree trunk, her mind throbbing and aching.

  She stole one more quick glance at Brent’s body. Despite the murderous thoughts that had plagued her since she was a teenager, imagining all the different ways that she wanted to kill the people who had hurt her over the years, she couldn’t comprehend what she’d just done.

  Brent was dead.

  Sarah circled that thought like a dirty water running down a drain. She’d killed him. A man who she had slept with, a man whose body she had used, and in return given her own to him. A man who was a cop, a killer, and an asshole.

  Whatever feeling of resolve or closure that she’d hoped to find with his death didn’t arrive. There was no moment of clarity now that he was dead, only more questions and fear about the repercussions of what would happen to her. She’d just killed a cop, and she was the only witness to the murder. She could cry self-defense, but she knew that Brent’s cronies back in New York wouldn’t let his death go without retaliation.

  “Fuck.” Sarah slammed her head into her arm. “Fuck!” She repeated the motion, slamming it harder. No matter how hard she tried, no matter what she did, she just couldn’t escape the shit loop that she’d found herself in. Any move she made was just one more scoop for her grave. It was never going to end. The pain, the suffering, the questions, the fear, it would follow her until the end of her days. Safety was an illusion, and Sarah had shattered the last of that charade the moment she put that bullet into Brent’s gut.

  Sarah turned back to the body, but her eyes fell on the revolver. It was still on the ground between them. Blotches of blood diminished some of the shine, but not its appeal. She shifted her glances between the gun and Brent’s body.

  Maybe that was the only way out. The only way to end the fear, to end the pain, was to end it all. No more running, or fighting, or struggling. All of it could be erased in the blink of an eye, the lightest pressure of her finger on the trigger.

  The thought festered in her mind like a disease, and Sarah finally pushed herself off the oak tree. She scooped the revolver from the dirt, dropping it the first time, and then reaffirming her grip on the second.

  It was light in her hands, and she examined the barrel and then opened the chamber. Five bullets. She closed it and then cocked the hammer back. She brought the end of the barrel to her temple without any hesitation, but she couldn’t bring her finger to the trigger.

  Sarah shut her eyes, trying to discover the resolve that had helped her pick up the pistol in the first place. She wanted to be done with it. No more pain. No more quests, no more struggle, no more looking over her shoulder, and no more brokenness inside of her.

  “C’mon.” Sarah muttered the word as a taunt and stomped her feet as she pressed the barrel harder against her skull. “Do it!” Her body shuddered in defiance, the only action that her primal instincts of survival could offer. But her mind and thoughts had traveled beyond survival.

  A tenth of a second. That’s all the courage she had to muster. Enough grit to squeeze the trigger, and then nothing. It would finally be over.

  And then with her eyes closed, light brightened against her eyelids. She frowned, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face, which finally forced her eyes open.

  The shimmer from the orb immediately caught Sarah’s gaze, and she saw that it had emerged from its pillowcase and rolled onto the dirt. It must have broken free when she’d dropped it after seeing Brent. The rays of sunlight that pierced through the thick cloud cover shot down in thick streams, and the ray that cast on the orb was separate than the one that warmed Sarah.

  Sarah remembered Dell and the fact that if it hadn’t been for him, she never even would have had an opportunity to make that decision. If she gave up now, then everything else was lost.

  Sarah lowered the pistol from her head and slouched her shoulders. She wanted to cry, but she was too exhausted to bring the tears, and the pistol dropped from her hand. She had no idea how she was supposed to destroy the portal. And she had no idea how she was supposed to stop an entire army of evil from marching into this world.

  She reached into her pocket and removed the picture of her parents. She unfolded the photograph, and a tear fell on her father’s face.

  “Blood is the beginning. Blood is the end.”

  Sarah repeated the phrase like a mantra. If the gate was to be opened during the witching hour of the next early morning, then she had less than ten hours to figure out the riddle behind the words to destroy the orb. If not, then there was always the revolver.

  88

  Centuries of life lived in these woods had left the witch restless and, for the first time in her tenure with the dark lord, tired. His power had sustained her for this long, and while she had unlimited access to the pools of rejuvenation, she felt the desire to sustain them slipping away.

  But she quickly dismissed the thoughts w
ith a flick of her hand, and she rose from Kegan’s bed, still naked and slick with sweat. She grabbed the crystal of whiskey and poured it in one of the matching shot glasses then turned back toward Kegan, who still lay motionless and naked in bed, the same blank expression on his face as he wore when they’d slept with each other.

  “Anything for you, darling?”

  Kegan remained silent, and the witch chuckled to herself as she picked up her glass and took a sip.

  “I do have a tendency to wear men out.”

  The fire in the hearth had heated the room nicely, and with her vegetative lover on top of the sheets, she walked to the window and pulled back the curtains.

  Evening had begun, the sun close to setting on the horizon. It wouldn’t be much longer now. Nightfall would hasten the pace toward the devil’s hour, though it wouldn’t matter if she didn’t have the orb.

  She had hoped the detective would have returned by now. She’d give him till nightfall. If not, then she’d send her new lover to fetch her prize. She turned back to him, and the fire of desire burned in her belly as she lustfully eyed his naked body. The touch of flesh helped ease her nerves.

  The witch drained the whiskey and set the empty glass on the nightstand before she climbed back into bed and straddled Kegan’s waist.

  She placed the fingernail of her right index finger into his chest and then slowly ran it down his stomach and to his groin, her eyes locked onto Kegan’s face, which remain motionless and unmoved, though he hardened in her hand.

  “I’ve been with more men over the years than any other woman on earth,” the witch said, smiling. “And I’ve probably been with more woman than any other man.” She tilted her head to the side. “Each of them has given me what I needed, but none of them have been able to give me what I truly desire.” She let go of him and then crawled toward his face and kissed him, tugging at his lip before letting it go. “But you can give me what I want, can’t you?” She fell off of him, rolling to her side, and giggled. “Though I’m sure your grandmother wouldn’t approve.” She ran her tongue over her lips and shuddered with excitement. “No. But she won’t have a say in the matter, will she? I’ll force her to watch as I cut you open. Oh!” She perked up in excitement and straddled him again. “Or maybe I’ll force her to cut you herself. Oooh, that would be a treat, wouldn’t it?” She giggled again and then gently stroked Kegan’s cheek. “Such a shame to lose such a body like yours though. And I’m confident that your innards won’t be as attractive as your exterior. But I’m sure your blood will taste just divine.” She ran her finger over the lips of his closed mouth and then leaned closer, a sense of wonder filling her that she hadn’t felt since… well, she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt like that before. She was a little girl again, her eyes wide and excited at the prospects and possibilities of the future. She would finally have everything she wanted. She would finally be able to fill that hollow pit that had gnawed at her stomach since she’d made her pact with the devil all of those centuries ago. Her role would be actualized, her mission complete. And all it was going to take was one last sacrifice. “Blood is the beginning. Blood is the end.” She repeated the words like it was born from an ancient text written over millennia before her conception. Even before the dark lord whispered those words to her on the day of their pact, she could remember reciting them as a child. She whispered the words in secret to herself and herself alone. She knew that those words made her special, and if anyone else discovered that secret, then she wouldn’t be special anymore. And she was special. The dark lord had shown her that. Just as Kegan Bell was special. And when he was cut open and his blood spilled upon the altar, all would be good. All would be well.

  The seventh failed attempt at walking had left Iris crippled in the chair next to her vanity. She found it fitting that this particular chair was where she had chosen to rest. Over the years, she had spent countless hours applying rouge and foundation and eye shadow and lipstick and whatever other instruments of youth that she could buy in an attempt to conceal what nature had done to her body.

  Time had marched forward, deaf to Iris’s pleas to stop, or at the very least slow down. And like every other mortal, time cast her aside and stretched over the horizon and out of reach, leaving her to die along the side of the road with the other bodies decaying and picked over by the buzzards for carrion.

  But the funny thing about time was that the longer it stretched, the faster it went by, and the less she cared about reaching the end. In fact, she longed for it to be over, and never had those wishes been more desired than that moment.

  The sands of time had slipped through her fingers, and she knew that she only had a few grains left. And Iris was determined to make them count.

  With a renewed grit, Iris gripped the back of the chair with her left hand and planted her right palm on the desk, then used the leverage to heave herself into a standing position. She eyed the door, the distance impossibly long, but she made her first step.

  The more momentum she gained, the easier the trek became, and while her bones ached, and her muscles trembled, and the resolve in the back of her mind weakened to the point of failure, she didn’t quit. Iris pushed past the pain and when her hand wrapped around the brass knob of the door handle, she exhaled in relief, and in that relief, she collapsed to the floor.

  The loosely-held together bones cracked against one another, and a sharp, hot flash of pain spread up her spine. But despite the collapse and the pain and the exhaustion that was flooding through her body, it was the farthest that she’d gone.

  Iris took a few minutes to gather her breath and find her strength, though it could have been closer to an hour, knowing how quickly time passed for Iris.

  She grabbed hold of the door knob, her body trembling as she half pulled and pushed her way off the floor and finally managed to straighten out, still leaning against the door for support, though it didn’t offer much.

  Thoughts of Kegan and her shame provided enough grit to stand on her own two feet and open the door and step into the hallway. She used the tables and chairs that lined the walls to help her toward the stairs, propelling her closer to the stairwell.

  Despite the clouds of fog brought on by her age and exhaustion, Iris had a plan. She clutched the hidden object wrapped in the cloth that Sarah had given her. The witch was only allowed inside the mansion because she believed she had been invited. Which was true.

  But what Iris knew was the witch was counting on was the fact that she wouldn’t expect Iris to have the strength to boot her out. And if Iris was being honest with herself, she wasn’t sure if she had the strength either. But there was only one way she was going to find out.

  The stairs presented their own challenge, every step of her descent cracking the bones and joints of her knee. Her body was just as noisy and defiant as the old wooden stairs, complaining with every step down. She clutched the railing like a lifeline and took the descent slow, unable to trust her rusty coordination.

  What made the decay of her body even worse was the memory of what it used to be able to accomplish. Even with the decades between her mind and her abilities, she could still remember them as if they were yesterday. So with every harsh crack of her knee, or pain in her back, or swelling of her fingers, Iris used the memory of her youth to propel her forward. But the only bad thing about hanging onto the past was the sacrifice of the future.

  Iris clutched one of the banister posts and hunched over, nearly collapsing as she struggled to catch her breath on the third-floor entrance. Once she had gathered her strength, Iris crept toward the door, naturally slow, but as quiet as she could, and entered the third floor.

  All the candles along the hall had been lit, flickering and causing the shadows to dance along the wall, which gave life to the lifeless. The pictures, the tables and chairs, even the dead flowers in their vases with grey, dirty water came alive.

  But it was only parlor tricks. The shadows were only the zombie projections of the dead things that surrounded I
ris. She clutched the walls and the chairs and the tables on her slow and painful trek down the halls. The shadows moved better than she did. And just when she felt like she was about to give up, just when she thought the end was near, she saw Kegan’s door.

  It was shut, and most likely locked. The light from the fire in the room glowed brightly through the door cracks. Iris shuddered at the thought of what that witch was doing behind those doors with her grandson. But she couldn’t let her win. No matter the cost.

  Iris clutched her fists tight, squeezing until the swollen joints ached with a pain that felt like it could burst at any moment. With what strength remained to her, Iris marched forward, forgoing the crutches of furniture on either side of the hall on her approach.

  The closer she moved toward the door, the more powerful her anger became. And despite the symphony of pain wreaking havoc throughout her body, she gritted her teeth and pushed through it. She squeezed the object in the cloth tighter the closer she moved toward the door. Her heart raced and sweat broke out on her forehead.

  Iris stretched out her hand, reaching for the door, expecting to find it locked, but it opened with a quick turn of the wrist, and she used the momentum to thrust herself inside, the heat in the room blazing compared to the hallway.

  Iris blinked away sweat that dripped from her eyelashes, and her skin felt as if she had plunged her entire body into the flames of the fireplace. It was like stepping into an arid desert, the heat so strong that it sucked the moisture from the air, which moved and wiggled like a mirage.

  It took Iris a minute to get her bearings, but she eventually spotted the witch and Kegan in bed. She was naked, sitting upright and smiling at Iris. Even though the temperatures inside the room were sweltering, she didn’t even look like she was breaking a sweat.