The Haunting of Riley Watson

by Alexandria Clarke

  “I need my laptop,” I muttered, shoving aside the blankets in a frantic attempt to unearth myself. “Where is it? Have you seen it?”

  “Kitchen counter,” she said, her gaze trained on my two-dimensional TV image. Apparently the news had nothing else to report, because the story about King and Queens seemed to go on forever. “My God, this is fabulous.”

  I kicked off the covers. “Are you delusional?” I asked as I made my way to the kitchen. She trailed after me. The TV was on in the main room as well, so the news report screamed at me from every direction. “This is not good. They’re saying I might have had something to do with the fire at King and Queens.”

  My mother was glued to the TV. “Well, didn’t you?”

  “No!”

  I’d never told a worse lie. The fire at King and Queens was precisely my fault, although it never would have happened if Oliver Watson hadn’t asked me to come to his resort in the first place. I opened my laptop and clicked into YouTube, but when I tried to log on to my personal account, an automatic message popped up to tell me the password was incorrect. I tried again, but the same warning appeared.

  “What the—?” I muttered, clicking the reset password link.

  My mother peeked over my shoulder, her breath in my ear. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think I got locked out of my account,” I said. I ground my teeth together as another “incorrect password” notification popped up for my email account. I couldn’t retrieve the reset password link for YouTube. “Someone hacked me.”

  My mother gasped again and seized my shoulder, her dragon nails digging into my skin.

  “It’s fine,” I said wearily. “I’ll find a way to cancel my accounts. I’ll lose all my followers, but I’m starting to think I’m done with this whole social media star thing anyway. It doesn’t really suit me—”

  “Not that,” my mother said. “That.”

  She pointed at the television. A grainy video image had popped up, zoomed in on me and Nick from across the bar of Porter’s Restaurant. In the short clip—which the news channel kept replaying over and over—Nick leaned into me, his head dipping toward my neck. From this angle, it looked like the two of us had been caught in the middle of a romantic moment. In reality, I’d dropped my napkin under the table, and Nick had reached down to grab it for me. The news anchor returned to the screen. I turned up the volume.

  “Speculation that Mr. Porter and Miss Star have been collaborating to put King and Queens out of business is running rampant,” said the anchor, arching his eyebrows every few words to emphasize them. “This is not the first time we’ve seen the pair on a romantic outing together. Rumors are swirling—”

  “Oh. My. God.” My mother turned on the toe of her heel to look at me, her jaw slack. She practically vibrated with excitement. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me that you were dating Nick Porter?”

  “Because I’m not!” I protested hotly. “That wasn’t a date.”

  Mom leaned over my chair, way too close for comfort. “He kissed your neck.”

  “No, he didn’t. It was a weird angle.” I snagged the remote to turn off the TV, sick of watching mine and Nick’s fake date play across the screen. “Listen, I have to go take care of this. If I don’t do some damage control, things are going to get out of hand. Actually, they’re already out of hand. Has Jazmin been here at all?”

  My mother’s face dropped immediately at the mention of Jazmin’s name. “No, she hasn’t. Thank God.”

  Despite the nap and the chicken soup, I felt weaker than ever. It took three tries to lace up my boots. I kept missing the little hooks at the top.

  “What did I just tell you earlier?” I said. “If you can’t deal with Jazmin, I don’t want you here.”

  “But that girl—”

  I used the edge of the counter to stand up again. “Enough. I have to go find her.”

  Mom grabbed my arm to help me up the rest of the way. “I’ll go with you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to.”

  She piloted me toward the door. I allowed myself to lean on her. In truth, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to make it all the way to the lobby by myself.

  “You know,” my mother said as she led me into the hallway and checked to make sure the door to the suite closed all the way behind us. “If Jazmin’s such a good friend of yours, why isn’t she up here taking care of you?”

  “Good question,” I mumbled. Jazmin had never left me hanging for this long before, but if something was seriously wrong with her ankle, I was sure she would have told me about it.

  As soon as we arrived in the lobby, I knew something was different. Everyone—everyone—stared at me. They pointed. They whispered behind their hands. They widened their eyes and motioned to their friends to get a look at me. The news report had spread like wildfire. It appeared that everyone at White Oak knew the story of what had happened at King and Queens now, and I was at the direct center of the conspiracy theory. A young woman—fifteen or sixteen—detached herself from her parents when she saw me.

  “Is it true?” she asked me in a hushed whisper, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Did you really sic a ghost on Oliver Watson and burn the place down so that you and Nick could own all of Crimson Basin and live happily ever after?”

  “What? No!” I said. “That’s absolutely ridiculous.”

  “But it’s so romantic,” she said, practically melting into a puddle at my feet.

  “You should probably examine the definition of that word.” I shook free of the teenager. “And don’t go spreading that crap around.”

  She was relentless, following me and my mother as we crossed the lobby. “So you’re not dating Nick Porter?”

  “No—” I began.

  “It’s complicated,” my mother finished for me. “They’re keeping it private for now.”

  “Mom!” I stepped in between her and the teenager. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Mr. Porter and I aren’t a thing, okay? We’re barely friends. I only met him a few days ago.”

  The teenager bounced on the soles of her feet. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Wait until I tell my friends that Madame Lucia is dating Nick Porter!”

  “Wait—!”

  But she pranced off in a pirouette before I could stop her. I rounded on my mother.

  “What did you say that for?” I demanded. “Now the whole damn resort is going to think it’s true.”

  “Sweetheart,” my mother replied as she stroked my hair. “That’s exactly what we want.”

  I ducked out of her hold and stepped away from her. My legs shook as they struggled to hold my weight. “This is why you came. I knew it wasn’t just to see me again. You want your fifteen minutes of fame, and you’re using me to get it.”

  My mother took a split second to disguise her guilt. “No, that’s not it—”

  “Oh, really?” I challenged. “How many of your friends did you tell about all of this? Huh? Did you call up Lupita and Nancy to tell them that your daughter the psychic is with Nick Porter?”

  “Can you blame me?” she said. “He’s the richest man in Vermont!”

  “You’re shameless,” I said. “And this little reunion of ours is over. I don’t care if you finish your stay at White Oak, but don’t come near me.”

  My mother’s bottom lip quivered. “You wouldn’t abandon your mother so easily, would you?”

  “You used me,” I reminded her. “We’re done.”

  I tried storming off, but my whole body trembled. I stayed upright for as long as it took to get out of my mother’s line of vision, but around the corner from the lobby in the hallway that led to the indoor recreational sections of the resort, I leaned against a decorative table to catch my breath. A group of guys passed by, heading for the billiards hall. One of them—a blond guy whose hair was still damp from the shower—paused and looked back at me.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “It’s Madame Lucia. You wanna take a pict
ure?”

  My hand slipped off the table, and the blond guy darted forward to catch me before I fell.

  “I don’t know who Madame Lucia is,” he said with an apologetic grimace. “But you look like you could use some help.” He propped me upright, keeping his hands in respectful places. “There you go. It looks like you might be coming down with something. You should probably get to the clinic. Do you want me to help you there?”

  “No, no,” I said. “I don’t have time. I’m looking for someone.”

  The blond guy glanced up and down the hall. His friends had paused awkwardly near the door to the billiards room, waiting for him.

  “Why don’t you call them?” he suggested. “I doubt you’re going to have much luck wandering around. White Oak is huge.”

  “She’s not answering her phone,” I grumbled. “I don’t suppose any of you have seen a gorgeous leggy redhead anywhere around, have you?”

  “I wish!” called one of the blond guy’s friends.

  “Shut up, Chris,” another one said, smacking the first guy’s chest. He was tall with muddy brown hair, but his golden eyes made up for his haze of beige complexion. “Does she have a freckle under one of her eyes?”

  I perked up. “Yes.”

  The man nodded. “I’ve seen her around a couple times. Last time was in the cigar lounge.”

  Chris puffed out his chest. “We can take you there. And then maybe we can all go for drinks.”

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  “Oh, come on.” He separated himself from his friends, approaching me with a swagger in his step that was meant to be attractive but really just felt predatory. “Live a little.”

  “Back off, dude,” said the blond guy.

  “Do you know who she is?” Chris whispered. “She was all over the news this morning.”

  “You watch the news?” the golden-eyed guy asked sarcastically.

  “Shut up, Max,” Chris said. Apparently, this group of guys liked to tell each other that. Chris tried to slip his arm around me. “Come on, Madame Lucia. One drink. You can bring your friend and everything. She sounds hot.”

  I pushed him away, but I wasn’t strong enough to keep him off for long. “Get off.”

  “Let me help you,” he insisted, threading his arm through mine.

  “I said get off!”

  Chris attempted to twine his hands around my waist, but the blond guy stepped in. They stood nose to nose, just inches apart, in a silent challenge. Behind them, Max’s hands balled into fists.

  “Gentlemen!”

  The sharp voice made them all jump. Chris darted away from me, putting several paces between us in a matter of seconds as the owner of the voice approached us. It was Gina, the older woman I’d met on the bird lookout. She wore her usual hiking outfit: a puffy forest green jacket, tan snow pants, and heavy-duty boots that would’ve been handy in weathering the snowstorm a few days ago. She held her hiking poles in one hand, the points of which dug into the carpet. Her outfit and demeanor didn’t quite match up with the rest of White Oak’s bland extravagant wealth, but it worked to her advantage.

  “How swell of you to look after my friend,” Gina said. She stabbed her hiking pole right near Chris’s foot, nicking the edge of his shoe. He jumped back. “But I’ll take it from here. Adios, boys.”

  “But—” Chris protested.

  Gina glared at him. Max and the blond guy grabbed Chris by his overworked biceps.

  “Come on, you idiot,” Max said.

  “I told you we shouldn’t have invited him,” the blond guy muttered as they ferreted their rude friend away. He looked over his shoulder at me and Gina. “Sorry about him. Hope you feel better!”

  I waved weakly. At least they weren’t all jerks. Gina handed me the pair of hiking poles.

  “Here,” she said, helping me curl my fingers around each handle. “Use these. What happened to you anyway? You look like you’re about to drop dead.”

  “I feel like it,” I said. “Did you catch the news this morning?”

  Gina frowned as I attempted to balance my weight on the poles. They wobbled beneath me. “I don’t watch the news much. It’s depressing. Why?”

  Another group of teenagers, laughing as they passed the opposite direction, paused to stare at me. One of them called out, “Yo, Madame Lucia! That shit you pulled at King and Queens was fire. Literally.”

  The group burst out laughing, and a few of them took selfies with me looking sickly in the background before they went on their way. Gina stared after them.

  “That’s why,” I explained. “It’s a long story.”

  She patted my back. “Why don’t you tell me all about it? I was going to go for a night hike, but you look like you could use a cup of tea.”

  “No, it’s fine—”

  Yet another holler came my way. “Madame Lucia! Can you contact my dead grandmother for me?”

  “That’s enough.” With a soft hand, Gina led me through the recreational hallway to another wing of suites on the first floor. “Let’s get you out of the public eye.”

  Gina’s room wasn’t far. It was situated on the other end of White Oak’s indoor strip of shops and restaurants, similar to an international airport in a wealthy area. We walked past designer stores and hipster bars, taking in the fancy clothes on display in the windows as well as the enticing smells of gastro burgers and truffle fries. It was dinnertime already. I’d slept through most of the day.

  “Here we go,” Gina said, letting me rest as she dug through her waist pack to find her room key. She swiped it with an air of practiced familiarity in the gesture then held the door open for me to go inside. “Home sweet home. Temporarily at least.”

  Gina’s suite was homier than most. The white couches were draped in handmade crocheted blankets. The pictures on the walls weren’t generic landscape paintings of Crimson Basin during each season of the year, but rather hand-drawn sketches of different bird species, as well as a few abstract portraits. Gina’s in-suite kitchen—smaller than the one in my suite upstairs but just as efficient—was stocked with her own glassware and groceries. She retrieved two mugs from the pantry, set a pot of water boiling, and brought down a selection of tea.

  “Chamomile, turmeric, or lemon?” she asked, shaking the jars so that the loose leaves danced around like confetti inside. “I have a few more, but they’re bagged.”

  “Turmeric,” I decided. “It’s anti-inflammatory, right?”

  “Great choice.” She spooned the tea leaves into a diffuser. “Take a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Have you studied Eastern medicine before?”

  “Huh?”

  She held up the tea. “You knew about turmeric.”

  “It’s a fad thing now,” I said, sitting down on the closest sofa and leaning my head into my hands. “Everyone swears by turmeric coffee.”

  “And you?”

  “I think it tastes disgusting.”

  Gina laughed. “I’ll put a lot of honey in yours.”

  “Bless you.” I sank into the fluffy sofa. It was much softer than the brand-new ones in my suite, as if it had seen more use. “I hope your stay at White Oak has been going better than mine.”

  “Wanna fill me in?”

  I gave her the rundown on what had happened over the last couple of weeks, starting at the very beginning, when Oliver Watson contacted me to investigate the paranormal sources around Riley and King and Queens. I told her almost everything but censored the most unsavory details of the story. She didn’t need to know how many bodies I’d seen in such a short amount of time. It felt good to get everything off my chest. Not even Earl the therapist had heard about some of these details, despite the promise of doctor-patient confidentiality. There was something soothing about Gina. First off, she never interrupted me. She listened with practiced patience, tending to the tea kettle and warming up leftover scones as I talked her ear off. She waited until I wrapped up the story to speak.

  “Wow,” she said. “That is a lot to un
pack.”

  “I know.”

  She poured my tea and offered the lemon scone. It was the first thing all day—other than the plain chicken soup—that I really wanted to eat. I smeared a dollop of jam across the top and went to town.

  “It’s odd, isn’t it?” she said, buttering her own scone. “That King and Queens burned down a second time. It’s like that place is prone to fire. Are you sure Oliver Watson didn’t make it out?”

  “Not technically.” I breathed into my mug, and turmeric-scented steam moistened my cheeks. “The rescue team never found his body, but I saw his clothes catch fire. I don’t think he could’ve survived that. Why?”

  “No reason,” she said. “It’s just that the Watsons are the reason Crimson Basin is such a popular destination to begin with. Nick Porter would’ve never had this success with White Oak if King and Queens hadn’t paved the way. Even if that resort is outdated now, it used to be quite the place.”

  “Did you know it?” I asked.

  “Yes, I stayed there quite often at the height of its prime,” Gina said. “That was when the community considered Richard and Stella Watson their own personal god and goddess. People around here practically worshipped them. King and Queens was full of elite blue bloods trying to get their attention.”

  “But you weren’t one of them?”

  “No, no, no,” she said hastily. “I stayed there because at the time it was the only resort in the area. I was always in one of the rooms near the boiler. It was tiny and cramped.”

  I set my tea cup on the coffee table without looking. It rattled and almost tipped over. I had accidentally set it on top of a gold chain. Carefully, I lifted the cup and pulled the chain free. Attached to the other end was a small locket with the letter “N” engraved on it. It dangled between us, swinging like a clock pendulum that ticked off the seconds.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see it there,” I said, offering the locket to Gina. “It looks expensive.”

  She held out her palm to accept it, and the gold chain coiled against her skin like a tiny snake. “It was.”