by K. J. Emrick
“Seriously? That is so sneaky.”
“Yup. That’s another spring chicken thing. You’ll get there eventually.”
Darcy tried to get a smile out of her daughter, but all she got in return was a pout. Of course, she didn’t think Colby was interested in the ghost boy—Rupert Bylow—that way. You couldn’t very well have a crush on a ghost. She wisely let it drop and went back to looking at the stones.
To the left of the cross, the one tall rectangular slab of stone leaned at a precarious angle. It was too narrow at the top to hold snow, and the lettering on it was raised instead of recessed like the hateful epitaph on the cross had been. All in all, it was much easier to read. With a little glove scrubbing, they could read it just fine.
Here lies my wife,
Jennifer Bylow.
She died hating
me, as surely as
I hated her.
Love can not
grow in a cold,
dead heart.
“For Pete’s sake,” Darcy whispered. She couldn’t think of anything else that would be appropriate to say out loud around a thirteen-year-old girl and a little boy pretending to be a rabbit. “This is incredible. Orson Bylow was just full of hate, wasn’t he? This was his wife he was talking about.”
“Yeah, I get that,” Colby agreed. “It’s right there for everybody to see. Just like the one for his son.”
This much anger from one person toward his family, all of that vitriol in one man. It was hard to imagine any sane person being like that. Orson Bylow must have been a horrible person.
The kind of person who would kill someone, and not feel a moment’s remorse.
Darcy had promised herself that she wouldn’t think about the mystery while they were out here in the woods, taking a hike together through the snow, but now here they were with these stones. These bad stones.
“So,” Colby said, nodding to each of the grave markers in turn, “if this one is Orson Bylow’s wife, and this one is his son, this last one has to be Orson’s mother-in-law, right? His wife’s mother? You said she died too, right?”
“It might be,” Darcy agreed. “This is listed as the ‘family plot.’ Family members only, right?”
They both went to the other stone and crouched down in front of it. Darcy swept the snow away from the front and dug down deep along the front to uncover the words. They had to trace a few with their fingers that were worn away to almost nothing, but then there it was. When they knew what it said, Darcy stared, wondering how deep this mystery went.
A handyman should
know where to keep
his hands. This man
can lie here forever
with his hands in a
box until they rot off
his bones
Darcy was stunned. Even if Orson had killed the handyman the same as he had the rest of his family—like Darcy now suspected—why would Orson have him buried here, in the family plot, and with such a cruel epitaph? Wasn’t that going too far for a grudge of any kind?
Of course, they still didn’t know for certain that Orson was the one who killed them, even if he was clearly the one who wrote these hateful things on the stones. Like Jon had pointed out, there was a surviving son as well. Maxwell Bylow’s great, great grandfather, Peter Bylow. Just the fact that he wasn’t one of those killed made him a good suspect to be the killer.
And there was still the third possibility, that none of them was murdered after all. The deaths could have happened just like Maxwell said they did. Swanson could be just that clumsy. Rupert might have actually tripped and fallen to his death.
Darcy didn’t think that third one was a strong possibility, but she wouldn’t know unless she went ahead with the spirit communication she was contemplating. The very spirit communication that she came out here to forget about. Obviously, that wasn’t going to work. Right now, her thoughts were full of the mystery at the Hideaway Inn, and Orson Bylow’s wife, and Orson Bylow’s sons, and Orson Bylow’s handyman buried here with the family. And Orson Bylow…
Oh…right. Orson Bylow.
Standing up quickly, Darcy did a slow turn in the snow, examining more closely the area around them. The family plot. This was the family plot. This was where the family should be buried…
She stopped her turning when she was facing the hillside opposite the gravestones of Rupert Bylow, Jennifer Bylow, and Swanson the handyman. The hill was bare of trees, and because of that it sported a heavy covering of snow. The face of it was nearly flat, with hardly any slope to it at all. Now that she was looking at it, the shape of it didn’t look natural. It looked almost like…almost like…
Like something man-made.
“Jon, help me out with this, would you?”
She waded knee-deep into the snow in front of the slope, and started scooping at the heavy, wet mound of white stuff. Jon hesitated for only a moment before joining her in clearing away a section near the middle of the hillside. He didn’t ask what she was doing, and she was glad he didn’t, because she was working on instinct right now. If she was right, it wouldn’t take a lot of work to find…
The next sweep of her arm revealed a wall of red stones. Potsdam Sandstone, she realized. The same expensive material a lot of the Hideaway Inn had been built from. Following the wall further she found a metal door streaked with rust and lines of blue corrosion. She looked at Jon. The surprise on his face was quickly replaced with understanding as he caught on to what Darcy had found.
This was a mausoleum. The final resting place of the head of the Bylow family.
They followed the outline of a square wall to a corner, and then straight across an edge that was just above Darcy’s head. Her fingers were freezing by the time she got to the inscription above the door.
Here lies Orson Bylow. He loved his family. They did not love him.
“This man,” Jon said, “was seriously disturbed.”
Darcy had to agree. What could possibly drive a man to be this cruel?
Jon was blowing on his hands to warm them up, but his eyes were on those words carved in stone. “And where’s his other son?” he wondered out loud. “Peter Bylow, the one who didn’t die. Where’s his grave?”
Darcy didn’t know the answer to that. Peter could be buried somewhere right here, in the family plot, with his stone marker hidden broken and discarded under all this snow. Or, he could have grown up and moved to some other part of the country where he was buried in a cemetery in a quiet little town, forgotten and at peace. It could be something else entirely. There was a very good chance that Maxwell would know which it was.
There was probably a lot that he knew and hadn’t told them yet.
Well, Darcy thought to herself, she was going to ask him for those answers just as soon as they got back.
And got warm.
In dry clothes.
She was absolutely freezing! Why in the world did she use her arms to dig into the snow? Oh, right. Because she was a naturally curious woman in contact with the spirit world who constantly got herself into mysterious situations. Plus, she liked to dive right into things. Literally.
Besides, it would be an excuse to get Jon under the mistletoe again.
Chapter 6
For a building this old, there was plenty of hot water and good pressure in the shower. The plumbing must have been updated when this place was turned into an Inn. However they did it, Darcy was very appreciative of the results.
She let Zane and Colby take showers first. Not that any of them had gotten especially dirty on their trek through the woods. They were just doing it to warm up. Jon declined, saying he was a tough guy and would be fine with just a change of clothes. Darcy and Colby had both rolled their eyes at him. He could be all tough if he wanted to. That wasn’t going to stop them from using the shower to warm up.
Darcy had insisted they hang towels over the mirror in the bathroom first. She didn’t want any prying ghost eyes watching them as they stripped off their wet clothes. No
w that she had read the epitaph on Rupert Bylow’s grave, she knew his death had gone unmourned by his father. The boy’s life had probably been terrible as well, considering what he’d written in the steam.
I fall down a lot. It’s not always my fault.
Poor kid. No one should live like that. Nobody should die like that, either. It could make for a very unbalanced spirit. She didn’t want to think of Rupert sitting in the mirror, watching her as she enjoyed the feel of the hot water spraying over her cold skin. The towels were a necessary precaution.
After she was warm, she dried off and got dressed again in a fresh pair of jeans and a sweater. She took a moment to consider the towels over the mirror. There really was no reason to leave them hanging there, now that everyone was dressed and decent. As long as no one was in here doing…well, bathroom things, then it couldn’t hurt to leave the ghost’s ‘window’ open for him to make contact if he wanted. If she was really going to decide to help, then she needed to let the spirits in the Hideaway Inn talk whenever they wanted.
Taking one of the towels by the edge, she slowly pulled it away.
Her reflection stared back at her form the mirror, standing in a reverse image of the bathroom.
There was nothing else there.
She counted up to ten, waiting to see if Rupert’s face would emerge out of her own like it did in the dream. Then she counted to twenty, and then to thirty. Now that she was here and ready to talk to him, he was nowhere to be found.
Darcy sighed. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.
Stepping out of the bathroom she found Jon sitting on the edge of their bed, Zane on one side of him and Colby on the other. He had one of the kids tablets out, and it took her a moment to realize he was reading to them. She knew the story. It was The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman. It was one of the books she and Jon had selected that would be old enough to keep Colby’s attention, but still young enough to keep Zane entertained. It was surprisingly hard to find stories like that, but being at her bookstore day in and day out let Darcy see some of the best books as they became available.
Jon had just gotten up to the part where the main character was meeting the Jacks for the first time. From here, the story got really exciting.
“Wouldn’t that be easier,” she teased, “if you were reading from the actual book instead of on your tablet?”
Jon paused, and gave her a confused look. “What? It’s all right here on the reading app. It’s the same story, just in a modern format. This way I can take it with us everywhere we go.”
“Yeah, Mom,” Zane echoed. “Modern doormat.”
“It’s format,” Colby told him. “Modern format.”
“For mat?” Zane crossed his arms and stuck out his chin. “Mats is for walking on. That’s what’s for mats.”
Colby dropped herself back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling forlornly. “Why do I even bother?”
“’Cause I’m your brother! You bother ‘cause I’m your brother! Bother, brother, bother, brother!” The words came out like a song as Zane smiled from ear to ear.
Colby covered her face with her hands and groaned.
Jon gave Darcy a wink, enjoying the moment between him and his children. “See? We’re so into this story that nothing else could possibly distract us. You know, we’re fine here, if you want to go ask our host about…you know.”
Colby tsked with her tongue. “Real subtle, Dad. Mom’s gonna go talk to Mister Bylow about the gravestones and the ghosts. You guys don’t have to act like we’ve never seen it before. Go on, Mom. We’re going to stay here and listen to the story for a while and then Dad’s going to let us play some video games on our devices.”
“I am?” Jon asked sarcastically. “When did I say that?”
Bouncing back up next to him, Colby threw her arms around her father for a big hug. “Well, you haven’t said it yet, but you’re about to. Right? Pleeeeease?”
What could Jon say to that? Colby was using her best puppy-eyes face, and he was helpless. “Okay, fine. Two more chapters, and then video games. But there’s going to be a quiz later on everything I read.”
Colby didn’t like the sound of that at all. “This is a vacation, remember? We aren’t supposed to have quizzes and stuff.”
“Oh, it will be a short quiz. Just fifty questions.”
“What!”
“And an essay.”
“Da-a-ad…”
“An essay in Latin. How’s your Latin?”
Colby rolled her eyes so hard Darcy thought she was going to give herself whiplash. “I don’t even know Latin, Dad.”
“Um,” Zane said, sucking on the tip of his finger, “me either. What’s Ladden?”
“Don’t worry, kiddo,” Darcy told him. “Your dad will let you write it in Pig Latin.”
“Oh, good,” he said, honestly relieved. “I can speak pig speak. At-thay’s easy-ay.”
Jon laughed out loud, and Darcy couldn’t stop herself from joining in. Suddenly the idea of a quiz sounded pretty good to her, just so she could see how her son would go about answering questions in ‘pig speak.’
“We’re just kidding, Zane,” she told him, letting him and his sister off the hook. “You guys enjoy the book. I’ll be back soon.”
She gave each of them a kiss on the top of their head, and then she slipped her sneakers on while Jon went on reading about the society of Jacks, and their evil plan to catch the young boy who lived in the graveyard.
Maxwell would probably be downstairs in the main room, at the check-in counter, or maybe in the small office behind it. She would have to spend a little time looking for him, but he had to be here somewhere. He wouldn’t just leave them alone in the Inn. They were trustworthy people, but Maxwell didn’t know them. He had to protect his property, and make sure he was there to get anything they might need. Besides. He lived here.
It occurred to her that they really didn’t know Maxwell that well. They knew more about his past than they did about him. With the way he slipped between different voices and dodged questions of a personal nature, he was obviously trying to hide something from them.
Weird. Just like Jon had said.
Christmas music drifted faintly from downstairs as Darcy stepped out into the hallway. On the way past the library she stopped and looked in, expecting to see the ghost of Orson Bylow’s mother-in-law. Although she waited and counted to thirty, just like she had in their room, the ghost of Millicent Cussington did not appear. It was just like when Rupert’s ghost failed to appear in the mirror. The ghosts in the Hideaway Inn remained silent and absent.
Being able to find one of them again would have made her spirit communication easier. It was no simple task contacting a ghost to have a conversation. Usually you had to have some object with you that also had a personal connection to the deceased. That was going to be next to impossible with people who had been dead for two hundred years. If she could find one of the ghosts now, however, she might be able to convince them to talk to her by physically touching them. That was a different kind of spirit communication that she didn’t use very often, for several reasons. Not the least of which was that it was physically exhausting. Almost painful.
Under the circumstances, she had to believe it was her best bet.
A building full of ghosts, and now that she wanted to see one, they were being shy. Wasn’t that just her luck?
Well, back to finding Maxwell. Down the stairs she went, hand on the railing, fingers brushing against the green garland streamers taped there. The scented candles were still burning, lending the smell of pine trees and vanilla to the room. The colored lights twinkled on the Christmas tree. Darcy smiled. In spite of how heavy her thoughts were getting, the decorations put her back in the Christmas spirit.
All in all, this had been a fun vacation so far. She’d been right to push Jon to bring them here. Their family needed some time to themselves. Ghosts aside, this was going to be good for them.
There were even more Christmas deco
rations out now. Silver bells were strung over the main doors. Even more mistletoe had been taped around the uprights in the stairway railing. A plastic Christmas train with Santa as the engineer was set up on the fireplace mantel. Maxwell had been busy, but Darcy still couldn’t find him. When she knocked on the door to the office, he didn’t answer. Odd. Where could he be? Maybe in his private rooms. Shouldn’t he be out here, taking care of the Inn?
This place was huge, but there weren’t all that many rooms, all things considered. Just a few on the first floor, and then the guest rooms on the second floor of both wings. Maybe two or three rooms on the third floor, or maybe just one big room, but she had no idea how to get up there. She hadn’t yet seen a set of stairs leading up that way. Not even during Maxwell’s tour of the place, now that she thought about it. The Inn was too old to have an elevator. Maybe the third floor was meant for staff only and that was why she couldn’t find a way up.
Heading into the West wing of the Inn from the main room, following the same route Maxwell had taken them on with the tour yesterday, Darcy looked into each room as she came to them. The rooms that had been kept in their former condition really were interesting. Like a window on the past. The furniture, the books, the room décor…
The paintings.
In the room with Millicent Cussington’s painting, Darcy stared up at Orson’s mother-in-law. The glare in her eyes still freaked her out. The anger and hatred the artist captured in her face was nearly a palpable thing. It surprised her, actually, because paintings like that were not cheap. Especially not back in the early 1800s. It must have cost the family as much as what they paid the entire service staff in a month. If they spent that much money to have it painted, why didn’t they have the painter put a smile on her face? As it was now, Millicent looked like she was about to cast a wicked spell on someone and turn them into a newt. Someone must have asked the painter to make her look like that on purpose.
“The Bylows had some serious issues back then,” she whispered to herself. And that was putting it lightly.
