Donn's Hill

by Caryn Larrinaga

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Thank you!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Caryn Larrinaga

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The use of any real company and/or product names is for literary effect only. All other trademarks and copyrights are the property of their respective owners.

  Copyright © 2017 Caryn Larrinaga

  All rights reserved.

  A Twisted Tree Press Publication

  North Salt Lake City, UT

  www.TwistedTreePress.com

  For Striker

  Chapter One

  The pickup hit a pothole and bounced me up into the air. Not high enough to send me over the tailgate and into the highway, but enough to get me to flail my arms and make an ass out of myself. When I landed back down on the cold metal truck bed, the battered paperback copy of Kurt Vonnegut’s Welcome to the Monkey House flew out of my hands.

  “No!”

  I hurled myself after it, managing to grab it out of the air before the wind carried it away. Cradling the book, I flipped backward through the pages and checked for damage until I reached the inscription on the inside front cover: Happy birthday Mackenzie! Love, Dad.

  The book was irreplaceable. It’d been stupid to try to read it in the back of a pickup truck while we were speeding along the highway, but I didn’t have anyone to talk to on the hour-long drive from Moyard to Donn’s Hill. Boredom had gotten the best of me.

  You’ll just have to live with being bored, I told myself, tucking the book into the bright yellow hiking backpack that held all my worldly possessions. It’s not worth the risk.

  It was just as well that I stopped reading; the truck was slowing down. I craned my neck to see over the tall cab to make sure the driver was taking me where I’d asked to go, and that he wasn’t making a detour to a cabin full of his deranged cousins or something.

  The prospect of being killed on the way to my new life was why I’d been nervous to hitch a ride with a stranger. I thought it was pretty ironic that the driver had made me sit in the open truck bed instead of in the cab with him as though he was in danger from me. Me, the tiny twenty-seven-year-old girl who sometimes still had to buy clothes in the juniors’ section at Kohl’s.

  My fears were put to rest when I saw a weather-beaten sign at the side of the road reading e-z sleep motel. The pickup truck pulled into the motel’s parking lot, coming to a stop under the awning that sheltered the front office. I hopped out with my pack on my back.

  “Thanks for the lift,” I told the driver.

  He leaned out his open window and tugged on the brim of his baseball cap. “You sure you want to stay here? There’s better places in town. My sister runs a B&B right on Main.”

  I’d priced that B&B and all the other lodging options within Donn’s Hill’s city limits. The rates were outrageous; all of them were five times as much as a room at the E-Z Sleep.

  I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’m good here.”

  He cast a doubtful eye over the structure. The motel was older, built in the seventies, with a row of small rooms strung side by side on a single floor. The building sat sideways, perpendicular to the highway to maximize the number of rooms that got to enjoy the breathtaking view of the weathered paint and broken windows of the abandoned lumber mill next door. Despite the low room prices, there wasn’t a single other car in the weedy parking lot.

  “If you’re sure…”

  “I’m sure. Thanks again.”

  He shrugged and pulled away, heading back down the highway toward Donn’s Hill. I put both hands on the small of my back and pushed it forward, stretching out my spine. It ached from the long bus ride to Moyard and then the pickup truck. I couldn’t wait to relax in my room, maybe even draw a bath and soak for a while.

  I tugged open the door to the motel’s lobby. The scent of stale cigarettes made my nose crinkle, and a sallow-faced clerk stared at me from behind a Plexiglas window.

  “Can I help you?” He punctuated the question with a spit that he shot into a narrow-necked beer bottle with the label torn off, adding a bit more to the pool of murky brown saliva that filled it.

  “Um, yes. I have a reservation.”

  He chewed in silence for a moment before responding. “Name?”

  “Mackenzie Clair.”

  The clerk rifled through a small pile of papers in a tray on the desk. Beside me, a baseball game played on a flat-screen television mounted on the wall. The technology felt out of place among the lobby’s ripped vinyl furniture and the motel’s outdated filing system. I wondered if my online reservation was the first they’d ever gotten.

  At last, the clerk found my reservation receipt. “Okay, looks like you already paid. Just gonna need to scan your ID.”

  I unslung the backpack from my shoulders and dug out my wallet, handing over my driver’s license. A pang of sadness hit me as I realized that the address it listed wasn’t mine anymore. I didn’t even know what it was going to be replaced with. For some reason, the prospect of having to register for a new ID card in this new state made my decision to pick up stakes and move to Donn’s Hill more real than packing my bag had done.

  The clerk heaved himself out of his little desk chair and crossed the office to make a copy of my ID. “So what brings you to town? Hope it’s not for the festival. You’re two weeks too early.”

  He chuckled, as though he’d made a good joke, and then returned to his desk and spat into the bottle again. My stomach turned. I was grateful the Plexiglas window was blocking whatever smell was probably wafting up from the clerk’s bottle every time he added to it.

  I swallowed back the bile that threatened to fill my mouth. “Personal business. How far is it to town, anyway? Could I walk there in the morning?”

  “I’m sure you can manage it. It’s just a few miles.”

  He took a sip from a bottle. For one hideous instant, I thought he was drinking his tobacco spit back down. Then I realized the label on the second bottle was intact.

  He passed me a receipt, a small bronze key, and a television remote control. “Sign this. And don’t go walkin’ off with that controller, or it’s a $30 charge to your card.”

  “All right. Thanks.” I pushed the receipt back to him, took my key and remote, and left the lobby.

  “Have a good night,” he called. I heard him laughing as the door swung shut behind me.

  My room felt… sleazy. It was the kind of place I imagined Josh and his other girlfriend had had all their secret rendezvous. That is, when I’d been in town. When I’d been out of town, like for my father’s funeral, he’d just brought her home to our bed.

  The wound was still fresh. It took al
l of two nanoseconds for my anger to bubble up to the surface, and I hurled my backpack into the corner of the room. I had to remind myself to breathe.

  Simmer down, I thought. You left him behind. Let him go.

  I turned my focus to inspecting the room. It was reasonably clean, but there was no getting rid of the lingering odor of stale cigarettes that had followed me from the lobby. The only attempt at decorating was a sad watercolor of a storm-tossed sailboat, which hung above the queen bed. Nothing from the dusty brass fixtures to the peeling floral wallpaper looked as though it had been replaced since the motel opened.

  My visions of soaking in a bubble bath evaporated the second I opened the bathroom door. A clear shower curtain hung limply from its rod, revealing a cramped stall and a worryingly small shower head. Everything was made from one giant piece of molded plastic, presumably so it could be thoroughly cleaned with a power washer. It was the kind of modern efficiency I imagined a serial killer in the movies would appreciate.

  Rubbing the small of my back, I meandered back over to the bed and collapsed onto the rough comforter. I lay there for a while, staring at the heavy curtains that covered the window and wondering, not for the first time, if I’d made the right decision.

  I unplugged the alarm clock and switched off the lamp. Tomorrow, my new life would begin.

  Chapter Two

  Someone was sitting on my bed.

  The thin motel mattress shifted as the weight of the intruder pressed down near my side. My body wanted to roll toward the sunken edge of the bed, but I held myself in place, not wanting to touch him. He—and I was sure it was a “he,” though I couldn’t say why—smelled foul, like rotting garbage. But he hadn’t harmed me. Yet.

  He must be waiting until I wake up. Silence, then, was key. Eyes closed, I held my breath to keep from screaming. I strained my ears for any sound that could explain who’d broken into my room, but only heard the hum of a car passing on the highway.

  The quiet pressed into me with crushing force. There should’ve been some noise. He had to breathe, right? Or maybe he was holding his breath as well. Maybe we’d unwittingly entered into some kind of lung capacity contest, and the loser would be the one who passed out first.

  My thigh muscles burned with the strain of holding myself in place, and any second now he’d notice the change in my breathing. I couldn’t keep this up for long. I needed to move while I had the element of surprise.

  Questions pounded through my mind in time with my thumping heartbeat: Who is he? What does he want? It couldn’t be anything good. People who want to do good things usually knock.

  Taking a chance, I opened one eye into a narrow slit. The motel room was pitch-black. With my arm under the covers, I crept my left hand toward the nightstand. Slow and steady. Don’t make a sound.

  Ten minutes seemed to pass before my hand reached the edge of the mattress. Once there, I hesitated—another inch and I’d be exposed. Meanwhile, my stinky burglar was completely invisible. And he’d been sitting in my room for who knows how long, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He’d see me the instant I left the safety of the sheets, but I had to chance it.

  In one motion, I let out my breath and shot my hand toward the lamp switch, flooding the room with light. I sat bolt upright in bed, blinking rapidly as my eyes tried to adjust. Alert and ready to fight for my life, I balled my hands into fists and raised them in front of me, planning to punch the intruder right in the face.

  My eyes adjusted, and I saw… no one. My heart pounded. Where was he?

  I stood up and leapt off the mattress. As soon as my feet hit the carpet, I dashed forward toward the squat dresser against the opposite wall, putting as much space as I could between the bed and myself.

  When I turned on the light the intruder must have rolled beneath the bed, where he was probably planning to grab my feet and drag me under like some kind of boogeyman. To be completely sure, I crouched down and leaned sideways until I could see underneath. A few dust bunnies rested on the dull gray carpet, but no one was lurking in the shallow space between the box spring and the floor. I straightened up and swept the room with my eyes. There was nowhere else he could be hiding; the thick, brown curtains weren’t long enough to conceal someone’s feet.

  Damn your cheapness, I swore at myself. If I were staying at a cozy B&B in town instead of in this dump, this wouldn’t be happening. If I end up murdered over the price of a hotel room, I’ll be furious.

  Something creaked in the bathroom. My ears twitched toward the sound like a cat who hears its prey. Of course! He’s hiding in there. I tiptoed toward the back of the room, begging the floor to stay silent beneath my feet and grabbing the iron from the open garment rack as I passed it. It felt sturdy and heavy in my hands; it could do a lot of damage if I brought it down on somebody’s head. The thought was comforting yet terrifying.

  I reached the back corner and stood in front of the bathroom door, trying to keep my heavy breathing as quiet as possible. My heart banged against my rib cage like a claustrophobe in a closet. This was it. When the door opened, it would be him or me.

  Channeling my inner Bruce Lee, I raised the iron above my head, kicked the door open, and screamed, “Argh!” which hadn’t been part of my plan. Oh, well.

  The flimsy door slammed open so hard that the narrow handle stuck in the wall. Just like under the bed, no one was waiting for me here.

  To be on the safe side, I stepped into the bathroom and opened the cupboard beneath the sink. I didn’t imagine it was big enough to hide a full-grown person, but who knows, maybe a kid could have crept into my room in the night. Or a very flexible ninja.

  Yet again, I found nothing. I sighed and left the bathroom, deciding it must have been one of those dreams that bleeds into reality—like when you dream that your boyfriend cheated on you, and you wake up with an irrational anger that sticks with you all day.

  Then I saw them.

  Two wet footprints lingered between the bed and the wall, right beside where I’d been sleeping. My hackles sprang up. Those footprints definitely didn’t belong to me; they were way too big to be my feet. The carpet was matted and soaked where the prints were, as though the intruder had been sitting there for a while, but I saw no other footprints leading to or away from that spot.

  Screw this.

  I sprinted for the door, unhooked the chain, threw back the bolt, and flung it open. I didn’t care that I was wearing yesterday’s shirt and an old pair of gym shorts; I just dashed outside, slammed the door behind me, and burst into the parking lot. I skidded to a stop in the gravel, making my long brown curls whip around my face.

  Where am I?

  Rather than the dark parking lot I’d expected, it was bathed in bright sunlight.

  As I squinted against the sun, the shapes around me slowly came into focus. The motel’s cinder-block facade and rusted green awning looked sickly in the morning sun. Trying to catch my breath and slow my heartbeat, I lifted my arms up and rested them behind my head. When my panting finally subsided, I squinted down at my watch. Its delicate hands informed me that it was half past nine.

  There was nothing for it; I had to go back inside the motel room. For starters, everything I owned was in my backpack. Plus, my cell phone, my wallet, and a television remote control that was apparently worth $30 were all on the nightstand. And there was a limit to how long I could stand here in my pajamas. I stood in the lot for a few more minutes, staring at the door while a debate raged in my mind.

  You imagined those footprints.

  Yeah? Did I imagine the dude on the bed too?

  Obviously. We didn’t find anybody in the room, did we?

  That stuck with me for a moment. I took a few steps forward. Then another thought—a long-lost memory—struck me.

  Or maybe the Travelers are back.

  The Travelers. I hadn’t thought of them much since I was a little girl, before my mother passed away. In my teen years, after a few scary movie marathons, I’d wondered if the
y were ghosts and spent a lot of nights cowering beneath my quilt before remembering that there were no such things as spirits or haunted houses. The Travelers were, as my mother said, just my imaginary friends.

  I had a lot of imaginary friends, enough to populate chorus ensembles for several Broadway musicals. Most of them were grown-ups—much older, like the grandparents I’d never known—though occasionally a kid would show up.

  They didn’t stay long, usually just a couple of hours. During the day, they wouldn’t say anything. I’d just feel their weight beside me on the couch as we sat together in companionable silence, watching Sesame Street on television. But I remember some coming back at night, visiting my dreams to tell me stories or talk about random things—their pets or their favorite casserole recipes. And always, they’d tell me they missed home.

  When I told my mother about these people and how so many of them seemed homesick, she dubbed them “Travelers.” She told me I was very lucky to have so many friends to keep me company.

  “Enjoy the time you have with them,” she’d say. “Imaginary friends don’t stay with us our entire lives. One day you might stop seeing them.”

  As she had predicted, I’d grown out of them around the time I stopped believing in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.

  Now I stared at the motel room door, its paint peeling off like sunburned skin, and I wondered if the weight on my bed had been from a real person or an imaginary one. Had I conjured up someone to travel with so my transition to my new life wouldn’t be so lonely?