by Blythe Baker
“Okay, then,” she said. “Then you know how depressing it is. I’m a writer, and I can’t imagine holing myself up in that grimy little building. This place, entirely ready or not, is miles better. The sea air and the cozy wrap-around porch. It would be perfect.”
It now made sense why she was carrying around a giant typewriter. She was a writer. Though, even then, I wanted to ask whether she’d ever heard of a laptop. It would be much easier than lugging around a twenty-pound machine and a huge ream of paper. However, I held my tongue.
“I’ll pay double the rate,” she said.
I’d been seconds away from repeating for what felt like the hundredth time that we were not able to accept guests, but her generous offer of double the normal rate caught my attention. Not only because she would be our first ever paying guest, but because Page would have to be pleased that I’d managed to snag a customer and make some extra cash while she was out for the week. Maybe it would finally convince her the bed and breakfast hadn’t been such a horrible idea. Also, it would mean there would be someone else in the house with me. Of course, that wasn’t an issue. After all, I’d already decided that Blaire’s theory was ridiculous. Mrs. Harris wasn’t a murderer and ghosts weren’t real.
I took a deep breath. “I’ll need the money up front and you have to understand that there are very few amenities here. I can offer you a bed, a bathroom, and a place to write. That’s about it.”
Holly nodded excitedly. “That’s perfectly fine. I totally understand. Thanks so much.”
She brushed passed me and dropped her luggage by the front door, immediately looking around, inspecting the place.
“How old is the building?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I guess I should look that up before we open for real.”
She nodded. “Old buildings always impress tourists. It makes it feel like more of an experience than a chain hotel.”
“So, wait. You said you sent in a reservation in the mail?” I asked.
Holly nodded. “A few weeks back.”
“Weird,” I said. “I never got anything in the mail.”
Suddenly Holly seemed nervous. “I’m not lying. I really did send it. I’m not trying to scam you or anything.”
I held up a hand to calm her. “That’s not what I was saying. I’m sure it just got lost or something. Don’t worry. It’s fine.”
Holly seemed to calm, nodding her head, offering me a small smile.
I showed Holly to the only unoccupied bedroom that didn’t smell of paint fumes and must, grabbed fresh sheets and pillows from the stock pile Page had created in the linen closet, and showed Holly where the towels and wash cloths were.
“We don’t have any soap or shampoo or anything,” I said, biting my lower lip. “But I can run into town if you need any—”
Holly shook her head. “No, I brought my own. Thanks, though.”
We stared at each other for a few seconds before I realized I should probably leave her alone to unpack. I excused myself, and pulled the door quietly shut behind me. As I went back downstairs to try to find something in the kitchen I could make for dinner, I made a mental note to do some research on how to treat bed and breakfast guests. My customer service needed some serious work.
* * *
I went down to the mailbox earlier than usual the next morning, hoping to catch Ed on his daily route. I had only been waiting ten minutes when I saw him rounding the corner, his mail bag slung over his shoulder. He waved as soon as he saw me.
“Are you expecting something exciting today?” he asked. “Most people who are waiting patiently by their mailboxes are expecting a big package or something.”
I shook my head. “No, actually I’m waiting on you,” I said.
He pulled back in surprise. “Uh oh, what have I done now?” he asked, laughing. “I’m not in trouble, am I?”
I smiled at him. “No, nothing like that. I’m just afraid some of my mail may be getting lost,” I said.
His mouth turned down in a frown, his eyebrows drew together. “Oh no. Hopefully nothing important?”
“Well, yesterday I got a few bills that said they were overdue, but it was the first time I was seeing them. And I have a woman staying up at the bed and breakfast who said—”
“Are you open already?” he asked, interrupting me. “I figured it would be a few more weeks at least. Not to say that the place doesn’t look great. Because, of course it does. But word around the island is that it was a pretty big reno job.”
I shook my head. “That’s the issue. We aren’t open yet, but I have a guest up there who swears she mailed in her reservation over two weeks ago, but I never received it.”
His excitement faded to concern. “I may know what has been happening with your mail…”
“Okay?” I asked, encouraging him to continue.
“Sometimes Mrs. Harris meets me down here in the mornings,” he said.
“Mrs. Harris?” I said, shock plain in my voice. “No, she rarely ever leaves the attic, let alone the house. There’s no way.”
“It’s true,” he said, holding up his hands. “Honest. It started a couple weeks ago. I’d come down the road and she’d just be waiting here. She never says anything or even looks at me, just holds out her hand and waits for me to hand over the mail.”
I sighed. For once, I was beginning to see Page’s point. I’d promised her and Blaire that the feeble old woman wouldn’t be any trouble. She could barely leave her room, so the chances of her disturbing our guests or causing any sort of mayhem were very slim. However, now I’d learned that not only was she leaving her room, but she was leaving the house without my noticing. What other trouble could she find herself in? And who would want to stay at a bed and breakfast when a creepy old woman was standing guard at the end of the driveway?
“I’m sorry,” Ed said, reading my pause as anger. “I know people say she is a little loony, but I wasn’t sure what to do.”
“No, I’m not mad, Ed. Really, it’s fine. But from now on, could you not hand her the mail?”
“What am I supposed to do if she is standing here waiting?” he asked.
“Just say you don’t have any mail, and I’ll come pick it up later. But I’ll also talk to Mrs. Harris, try to convince her to leave the mail alone.”
“I’ll do my best,” Ed said, more nervous than I’d ever seen him. “I’m really sorry about all the trouble.”
I dismissed his concern with a wave. “No harm done,” I said.
Ed’s somber demeaner lasted a few more seconds, before his lips curled up into a devious smile. “Oh, I do have something exciting for you today, though,” he said.
“Oh yeah?”
He nodded and reached into his bag. When his hand emerged, clutched between his fingers was a bright blue envelope.
“Looks like you’ve been invited to the big party after all,” he said, barely hiding his jealousy. “Do you think you’ll go?”
I shook my head. “I told you yesterday. I’m not interested in becoming a trophy on this rich snob’s mantle. He is only throwing this party to make connections, and I prefer to make friends the old-fashioned way.”
“By lurking next to your mailbox to speak with the mailman?” he joked.
“Precisely,” I said.
As I walked back up to the house, I ran my fingers along the envelope. It was a thick blue cardstock and my name and address was embossed on the front, stamped in with some kind of black, shiny ink. I flipped the envelope over, but there wasn’t a return address anywhere on it. Curious, I slid my finger along the seal and eased out a cream-colored invitation.
It was simple, but somehow still oozed excess. The paper felt like butter, and the edges were trimmed in silver ribbon. If I hadn’t known what the invitation was for, I would have assumed I’d been invited to a wedding, not a house warming party. Once I was done admiring the paper quality, I let my eyes rove over the words, and I stopped in my tracks.
Robert Baines
cordially invites you
to his house-warming
on August 18th.
Drinks and dinner will be provided.
Drinks shall begin at 7 PM.
This invitation permits TWO additional guests.
Up until that moment I hadn’t heard anyone mention the wealthy businessman by name, but I knew Robert Baines. Well, I knew of him. He was the president of the Dallas branch of the bank I’d worked at in Houston. Although he worked several hours away, his reputation had been well known among all employees of the bank.
Daniel, my boss at the Houston-area bank and boyfriend—until he’d dumped and fired me in the same afternoon—had often spoken poorly of Robert Baines. The word in the banker’s circuit was that Baines had gained his wealth in less than legal ways. While we were dating, Daniel had gone to a conference where rumor had it that Baines had connections to the mafia. I wasn’t sure if I believed that, but I’d also heard that it was well documented he had cheated shareholders out of their savings. One previous partner of his had reportedly been driven to suicide when Baines’ dirty dealings left him with nothing.
They were all just rumors, of course. If any of it was provable, I was certain Robert Baines would have been jailed long ago. However, I did have to wonder what on earth a man like Robert Baines would want on a small plot of land like Sunrise Island. Perhaps he liked the idea of being a big fish in a small pond?
I read the invitation again, hoping to glean some sort of motive from the few words printed on the small card. However, there was nothing to be found there. Regardless, it didn’t matter anyway. I had zero intention of attending his party. Not only because of the rumors I’d heard about him, but because I had no way of knowing what Robert Baines knew about me. Did he know I’d once worked for the same bank he did or had he simply sent me an invite as the owner of an up and coming bed and breakfast? Would he know about Daniel and I’s relationship? Despite the fancy invite and the small burst of excitement I felt at the thought of meeting fellow islanders and getting dressed up, I shoved the invitation back in the envelope with every intention of forgetting I’d ever received it in the first place.
Chapter 5
Once inside, I dropped the invitation on the circular table in the entryway, and headed up the stairs to Mrs. Harris’ room. Though my desire to speak with her was quite low, particularly after the strange dream I’d had about her a few nights before, I needed to figure out what she’d been doing with the mail. The business wouldn’t work if our power and water were being shut off due to late payments, and Page would flip if she knew the old woman had been sorting through our personal mail.
As I passed the room Holly Belden was staying in, I strained to hear if there was any movement behind her door, but I heard nothing. Maybe she was a late sleeper? Though I knew very little about her, she hadn’t come off as the kind of person who would lounge around in bed after nine. Not wanting to be caught lurking outside her room, I hurried down the hallway and up the narrow staircase to Mrs. Harris’ door. I knocked three times, hard and loud.
No answer.
I waited several more seconds, and then knocked again.
I couldn’t even hear her usual shuffling on the other side of the door. Suddenly, I realized I hadn’t heard anything from her room since the night of my dream. Images of Mrs. Harris lying on the floor, unable to get up flashed across my mind, followed by even more grisly images of her dead in the bathtub or blue and lifeless in her spot on her couch.
I didn’t want to invade her space, but I also didn’t want to wait until her corpse began to stink before checking on her, so I slowly turned the doorknob and poked my head through the door.
“Mrs. Harris?”
The room was as dank and dusty as ever. Every curtain was drawn shut, so the only light came from the small television she kept in the corner, though it was set to a local morning talk show and on mute.
“Mrs. Harris?” I called again, sniffing the air for any sign of human decay. Of course, I had very little experience with what that would smell like, but I’d heard from people who had smelled rotting human flesh, that you recognize the scent even when you’ve never smelled it before. Something in the human brain is set to go off at the smell. An instinctive trait meant to warn us of impending disease or death. I gave several good sniffs, but didn’t smell anything beyond the usual mustiness.
I was making my way into the main room when I noticed envelopes scattered across the coffee table. Stepping forward, I picked one up to discover it was a bill made out to me. Quickly, I rifled through the envelopes and grabbed everything that wasn’t addressed to Mrs. Harris. Which was quite easy considering the only mail she ever got was junk catalogs and brochures about life insurance.
As I arranged the mail into a neat stack and stuck it in my back pocket, I heard a rustling behind me. I spun around, heart racing, having nearly forgotten I’d snuck into Mrs. Harris’ apartment without permission.
A closet door was slightly ajar, a small stream of light pouring from the crack, the only light in the room aside from the dim glow of the television.
“Mrs. Harris?” I asked, trying to hide the shakiness in my voice.
She didn’t respond, but I heard a shuffling of papers from inside the closet.
Slowly, I moved closer and knocked on the door. I could see Mrs. Harris moving just inside the closet, which was an immense relief, but even with me standing less than two feet away, she didn’t seem to acknowledge my presence. I pulled the door open, not wanting to startle her in case she had remained miraculously unaware of my presence in her room.
“Mrs. Harris? It’s Piper,” I said. “I just wanted to come up to check on you.” And steal back the mail that you’d stolen. Though, I didn’t say that last part.
“This is my father,” she said, handing an aged black and white photograph to me over her shoulder without turning around.
I took it from her, examining the tall, proud looking man in the photo. He wore a pair of loose trousers and a white button down shirt. He held a cigarette loosely between his fingers and was leaning up against the side of a nondescript brick wall. Despite knowing he would be old enough to be my great grandfather, I couldn’t help but notice how handsome he was.
“And this is my mother,” she said, handing me yet another photograph.
The second was a more formal portrait. A woman with dark black hair and high cheekbones was looking out of the frame, a plain backdrop behind her. Her cheeks were shaded in to give the illusion of a blush.
“This is lovely,” I said. “It’s so nice you still have these photographs.”
Mrs. Harris nodded her head, but didn’t say anything or turn around.
“I actually came up to talk to you about the mail,” I said, hoping by some miracle Mrs. Harris would turn suddenly lucid. That somehow, she’d turn around with a full-fledged explanation for why my bills had been scattered across her living room.
“So much activity today,” she said, her voice low and quiet.
I could see her shoulders rising and lowering, each breath seeming labored.
At first I thought perhaps she meant because of the bed and breakfast’s guest, Holly, though I had no idea how she’d know about that, considering she hadn’t left her room in a few days.
“The spirits are anxious about the storm.”
I sighed and nodded my head. Of course. Spirits. She was talking to me about ghosts.
Regardless of how clearly out of it Mrs. Harris seemed, I decided to simply say my piece about the mail and go back downstairs. The atmosphere of her apartment was enough to make me believe in ghosts, as dark and eerie as it was.
“There is no need for you to walk all the way down to the mailbox,” I said. “From now on, I’ll slide your mail under your door. Okay?”
Suddenly, Mrs. Harris’ back went rigid, her curved spine straightening for the first time since I’d moved in. I worried I’d offended her, but then her head darted from side
to side as if she were worried the walls of the closet were about to collapse on her.
“Mama? Papa? Is that you?” she called.
Goosebumps spread down my arms and legs at her words. My dream from the other night—the young girl in the fancy dress, running through the halls calling for her own mama and papa. I remembered thinking her voice sounded familiar, and now I knew why. Even hoarse with age and disuse, I could hear the young girl in Mrs. Harris’ voice.
I backed out of the closet and rushed out of the room. Once in the hallway, sunlight streaming in the windows, I took a deep breath of the fresh air, letting it clear my head. No. Mrs. Harris had simply reminded me of the girl from my dream. There was no way Blaire’s far-fetched theory of the house sending me memories could ever be true. Besides, I knew for a fact that Blaire had only said what she’d said to anger Page. She knew her mom to be a rational person, someone who believed in facts and science, and talking about ghosts was the surest way to rile Page up. I was being silly.
As I tried to shake the creepy experience away, I looked down the hall and noticed Holly’s door was open. I moved quickly towards it and peeked inside. The room looked tidy. The bed was made and her suitcase was zipped closed and resting on top of the dresser. Holly wasn’t inside. Even though she was a guest and had free reign of the house, I still felt uneasy not knowing where she was. I headed downstairs to try and find her.
* * *
It didn’t take long. Holly was standing in the entryway, a blue envelope in her hand.
“Did you get an invite, too?” I asked.
Her head snapped in my direction, and immediately she reddened, guilt spreading across her cheeks in blotchy red patches.
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head and dropping the envelope back on the table. “I’m afraid I was being a little too nosy. I’m sorry.”
I laughed. “Not a problem. That was trash mail, anyway.”
Her eyes widened. “Trash?”