by Noir, Mila
The front desk was manned by an older woman with gray hair cut short and large-rimmed glasses. She was organizing papers of some kind as Taylor walked up.
“Hi, welcome to Shaded Pines. Visiting one of our guests?” she asked. Taylor thought the word “guest” was a little odd, but it probably made folks feel a little less like this was their final resting place. Even if it was.
“Yes. I’m here to see Mrs. Keeper. I’m not a family member but—” she began, but the woman waved her off.
“That’s all right, dear. We don’t worry about that so long as visitors are nice and respectable and don’t upset anyone. Lots of our guests don’t have family anymore. Who should I tell her is visiting?” she asked.
“I’m not sure she’d remember me, but my name is Taylor Harlow. I used to spend a lot of time in the library. Mrs. Keeper was always…tolerant of my presence,” she said. The receptionist smiled.
“Well, I can tell you really know her, describing her that way. I’ll warn you, she’s usually…persnickety these days. Still got most of her marbles, though,” she said, voice sounding a little regretful about that. She took out a large book.
“Would you just sign here? We like to keep track of visitors,” she said, handing Taylor a pen. She signed and waited. The receptionist left the book open on Mrs. Keeper’s page.
“I just wanted to stop by and say hi, thank her for letting me read everything I could get my hands on back them. I’m a writer now, and I owe it to her,” Taylor said, fudging how much influence Mrs. Keeper had really had a little. It was strange, thinking of Mrs. Keeper as retired. The librarian had let her sit in the stacks and read all summer when she was a teen. She wasn’t unkind, but she hadn’t been warm, either. Idly, she looked at the visitor list and something caught her eye.
“Well, let’s see what we can do, dear,” the receptionist said, and turned her back on Taylor to phone Mrs. Keeper’s room. Taylor took a good look at the visitor names under “Keeper” and confirmed what she’d seen. Suddenly her interview with the old librarian was looking a lot more interesting.
“Hello? It’s May, up at the desk. You’ve got a visitor. Yes, really. Name of Harlow. Said she used to spend a lot of time in the library.” There was a pause. “Alright, I’ll send her back.” And she put down the receiver. “Room thirty-three. Just take a left at the rec room, it’ll be on your left.”
“Thank you.”
Taylor continued to take in details about Shaded Pines and wondered how on earth Mrs. Keeper, a nearly lifelong single woman with no family, could afford such a place. Even if she’d saved every nickel and dime, this kind of retirement home was not for your average book stacker. The rec room was large and jovial, with several TVs, even computers, state of the art. There seemed to be an outside garden, and the staff was attentive and kind. You expected to find wealthy widows in a place like this, not cranky former librarians. Then she thought about the last visitor name again and wondered.
Like a lot of things about Sweethollow, something was off.
Mrs. Keeper’s room was small but homey, with a large quilt in yellows and oranges on the bed, a rocking chair, TV, and a little writing nook. It looked like something out of a movie, everything was so neat and tidy.
The old woman herself sat in the chair, rocking and knitting, the needles clacking a staccato rhythm. Her fingers flashed and whatever she was making got longer and longer as Taylor stood in the doorway. It was like frothy yarn was spilling from her lap.
“Well, come on in, Ms. Harlow. I remember you, if that’s what you’re wondering. Though…” The woman squinted up at her, pursing her thin, lined lips. “You look a lot better than the old days. Those braces were a fright.”
Taylor smiled and walked in, holding out her hand. Mrs. Keeper looked at it like Taylor was trying to hand her a dead fish. She put it in her pockets instead.
“It’s good to see you, Mrs. Keeper. You’re right, I didn’t think you’d remember me. In all your years, you must’ve seen a lot of kids like me come and go.”
“I did. But none of them managed to read all the Oz books and the autobiography section in one summer. And your hair looked like a little fuzzy poodle,” she said.
Taylor kept the smile on her face, inwardly acknowledging that while Mrs. Keeper certainly hadn’t learned how to be more tactful, her descriptions weren’t wrong. And she was quite old now. Her hair was wispy, curling sadly around her scalp, which was speckled with age spots. She still wore her cats’-eye-shaped glasses on a chain, too, though the lenses were thicker. But the eyes behind them were as sharp as ever.
“So, what can I help you with? Never got a visit from an old student before,” she said, looking at Taylor over her knitting, the whir of fingers and needles never stopping.
“Well, I’m up here working on a little story about Sweethollow, the legend, and the recent…deaths. A big part of the story has always been that, about every decade, there are a group of deaths and people always seem to attribute them to the Rider, whether it’s actually seen near the site or not. Sometimes it’s murders, sometimes just accidents. But it’s curious to me how quickly people link them to the legend. Until now,” Taylor said, pulling out the desk chair.
“Don’t see how I could help with that,” Mrs. Keeper said.
“Well, I was at the library today and I noticed some files were missing. Especially older stories about previous deaths around this time of year. I was wondering if you knew where they were and how I could get access to them,” Taylor said, all smiles.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mrs. Keeper said, voice tight. Her fingers continued to whirl, yarn pouring out in neat rows.
“Really? That’s odd. Because in the files, it showed that you were responsible for all the archiving. And for the removal of any documents,” Taylor said, blinking innocently.
“You made a mistake,” Mrs. Keeper insisted.
“I noticed that most of the removals were recent. Right around the time some of my old classmates met such an unfortunate end. Strange coincidence,” Taylor said, watching the old librarian closely.
“Yes.” The knitting needles continued to whirl.
“And then you retired and ended up…here. Lovely place,” Taylor said, crossing her legs.
“I don’t like what you’re implying,” Mrs. Keeper said, not looking up. Her knitting had begun to get uneven, however.
“I’m not implying anything. I’m just asking a few questions. Some curious deaths, a librarian able to afford what I can only say is a very posh retirement facility. And your last visitor was Nick de Marco,” Taylor said, voice suddenly low and harder. Mrs. Keeper’s knitting needles rattled.
“How did you know that?” she asked, looking at Taylor with wide, fearful eyes.
“When the receptionist was calling you, I got a look at the visitor book. You’re not that popular, so the name kind of stood out. I don’t remember Nick being much of a library-type kid,” Taylor said. She wasn’t sure Nick had every willingly picked up a book of any kind.
“What do you want?” Mrs. Keeper asked, finally stopping her knitting and sighing in a deep, sad way.
“Not much. It’s just that something is clearly off about these recent deaths, and many of the ones before it. Sweethollow has been hiding something for quite a while now, I think. And I think you may know what it is. Or at least something about some of it,” Taylor said. She carefully reached into her pocket and flipped on the recording feature on her phone. Or she hoped she did; it was tough to do that by feel with these smartphones.
“I don’t know nearly as much as you think I do. I know a little. I’ve heard things. Things people would rather I didn’t know. But what’s an old woman, anyway? Nothing,” she said bitterly.
“Were you blackmailing Nick?” Taylor asked. Mrs. Keeper snorted.
“Your imagination is a bit too wild, Ms. Harlow. Nothing like that. He just asked me to get rid of some files. So I did. And then he wound up dead and I wound up…
here,” she said.
“Lucky for you,” Taylor said.
“Depends on your point of view. At my time of life, very few things scare me. But that young man did,” she said, shuddering a little.
“Why?” Taylor asked, although she remembered Nick de Marco quite well herself, especially the calculating way he’d looked at many of the girls in school.
“There was always something…off about him. Something cold and not right. He more than scared me, if you want to know the truth. More like terrified. And he was police. So I did what he asked, though it wasn’t really asking. And I got a nice little room here for my trouble. And then he died. I didn’t expect that, I’ll tell you. He always seemed too…mean to die,” Mrs. Keeper said.
“I think I know what you mean,” said Taylor, thinking about that night with Anton and the laughing faces of the Saints. Nick’s had always stood out as being…wrong somehow. He wasn’t just a bully; he was capable of worse. But how much? The names of the two dead girls that same year a decade ago flashed in her mind.
“If you really want to know more about all of it, I’d look up something about the Coulsons. From about, oh, two years back, maybe. It might be what you’re after,” Mrs. Keeper suggested, then took up her knitting again.
“Thank you, Mrs. Keeper. I really do appreciate it. And all the time you let me just…be,” Taylor said. The librarian nodded, and Taylor began to leave. Mrs. Keeper’s voice, low and tense, stopped her at the doorway.
“You’ll want to be careful who you ask questions from here on out, Ms. Harlow. Not everyone is as…friendly as I am,” she said. “People have a funny way of…losing their heads in Sweethollow, as I’m sure you know.” And with that cryptic warning, Taylor left, goose bumps breaking out on her arms.
Outside, Taylor took a few calming breaths and watched the setting sun over the treetops. Everything suddenly felt more sinister and full of secrets than it ever had before. She wanted her big break, but she wasn’t sure she wanted any of…whatever this was. She was beginning to get a very bad feeling.
As she walked back towards Main Street, lost in her own thoughts and Mrs. Keeper’s words, she did not notice the figure watching her, or how it followed her as she got back to town.
She also didn’t notice it trailing behind her in a dark car as she pulled into the inn, or making a note of the light in her window going on.
It sat there, simply watching, for a long time.
***
The next day at the shop was busy and Anton found himself mostly distracted from thoughts of Taylor. Mostly. They would still stray to that thick fall of hair, those plush lips, and he’d have to stop himself before he got too excited.
It wasn’t that he was planning on seducing her. He just wasn’t going to avoid it, either. Why miss an opportunity to have hot, maybe even angry, sex?
Although Anton wasn’t quite the “bad boy” Sweethollow made him out to be, he wasn’t an angel, either. He liked women, he liked sex, he liked beer and getting his hands dirty. In more ways than one. He wasn’t shy about what he wanted, and he usually got it. Especially where women were concerned. He just seemed to have a knack at getting them into bed.
However, he also seemed to be relationship repellant. Even if he’d wanted to, no one really wanted him to stay for long. Not that he’d tried very hard over the years. It was easier to fuck and flee.
It probably hadn’t been too smart to have quite so many affairs in town. The potential for drama was pretty high when you screwed where you lived. But he liked to live a bit dangerously, and they were all grown-ups. One reason he generally slept with married women was that they were as invested in keeping things quiet as he was. Most of them didn’t want to upset their home life; they just wanted to get laid.
Anton watched his people work and wished, again, that he was someone else, from a different family. Preferably one with money and no shitty history. Especially no history like his father’s or grandfather’s, a criminal and an abuser.
He liked to act like he didn’t care much about anyone or anything, and he’d mostly convinced everyone else of that. He even convinced himself sometimes. Except late at night, when the demons that were his memories crawled in and set up shop. Then came the nightmares or hours spent unable to sleep, just reliving crap he’d rather forget. He thought maybe Stew at work, who’d known him since he was a kid, had some idea. Stew had tried to help a few times, and Anton suspected he might have loved his mom in his own way…but he couldn’t really stop his father from being who he was. And Anton’s mom hadn’t been strong enough to leave. She’d had no one but him. He didn’t blame her, not really. He got mad sometimes, the way a little kid does when their parents aren’t perfect and they’re confused and hurt. But his mom had loved him. Protected him when she could, getting in front of the blows. That probably broke his heart more than anything.
Sparks flew in the shop, metal clanged, bikes and cars moved through. Some just needed simple things like oil changes or tire rotations. The bread and butter of the mechanic’s life. Sometimes they got total wrecks and did what they could, but it was an honest business. If a bike or car was unsalvageable, they said so.
Even though he didn’t love most of the work they did, he did enjoy the paint jobs and occasional refurbishings. They were like restoring a piece of art. He could get lost in a good custom paint job, even if they were generally the same flames and skulls. It was like his tattoo moonlighting. It might not all be elaborate back pieces or original ideas, but it was still art. And that was where his heart lived.
He worked alongside his guys all day, shooting the shit, springing for lunch, getting dirty and covered in motor oil. He didn’t mind. There was something satisfying in honest hard work that made you sweaty and tired. He just didn’t want to be doing it until the day he died.
They were enjoying a quiet moment towards sunset, already hitting early around 4:30, when a car drove up with a telltale clanging, wheezing sound. It had out-of-state plates, which probably meant a rental and a tourist. Anton sighed, knowing out-of-towners could be the worst when it came to car trouble. He got up and went to meet the car, which slowed to a stop just in front of him. He peered into the windshield, then laughed. The person behind the wheel did not. He stood with his arms crossed and waited.
The door opened, and a very cranky-looking Taylor Harlow stepped out. She was grumbling to herself and shaking her head. She was also looking lovely in a deep blue sweater and boots. Anton couldn’t help but appreciate her newfound fashion sense, especially since she wasn’t shy about hiding her curves.
“Car trouble?” he asked.
“Yes, Captain Obvious. Don’t look so smug,” she said, walking up.
“What seems to be the trouble?” he asked.
“That horrible sound I’m sure you heard. It just started. It’s a rental and I don’t know a thing about cars. I barely got it started back up a few blocks from here. The brakes were acting funny,” she answered.
“And I thought you just missed me,” he said, grinning. She scowled.
“Hardly. I was in the neighborhood, talking to an…old friend,” she said. He wondered who the hell that could have been. He hadn’t remembered her having any.
“Well, we’ll check under the hood, see what’s making our girl here all cranky. I’m sure it’s nothing a little tinkering and finesse can’t fix,” he said. Her eyes narrowed at him, but he feigned innocence. They both knew he wasn’t necessarily talking about the car.
“Great. I’m guessing it won’t be ready until tomorrow. I’ll get a cab,” she said, taking out her phone. She clearly couldn’t wait to get away from him. He stopped her.
“Let’s wait and see what’s wrong. You never know, some problems can be fixed faster than you think.”
“And some are train wrecks that should be taken out back and shot,” she said. He laughed and led her inside. She looked uncomfortable, which he was enjoying. Teasing her was becoming his favorite pastime. She sat in the waiting
room just off his office as Carlos brought the car in. He gave Anton a look, like What is going on here? But Anton just waved him away. He knew the guys were getting ready to leave. He was going to take care of this himself.
He hadn’t been expecting to see Taylor before their date, and certainly hadn’t expected to see her the day after the diner conversation. She smelled good, but then the whole place generally stank of oil and sweat and car fluids. She had some vague, flowery scent that was fresh and soothing somehow. Even from across the room, her presence was something he could feel, like his skin was aware of her. Meanwhile, she was looking at her phone intently, studiously ignoring him.
This was going to be fun.
***
Taylor really had been only a few blocks away when her car had decided it was time to act wonky. She’d gotten out her phone and searched for the nearest shop. Which had, of course, been Anton’s. Because Fate was an asshole and was clearly determined to make her life miserable for as long as she was back in town.
The day hadn’t been much better overall, so she supposed she should have expected something like this. Her luck was just rotten, like an apple that had lain on the ground too long. Something about Sweethollow was really making her work those apple metaphors.
First, she’d gone to the town hall to look up old records and court cases to try to build on the idea of a pattern. But the public records were either missing or lost, with very little that could actually be helpful. She was frustrated; she needed real evidence that something was wrong in Sweethollow and had been for a long time. Otherwise her story was going to be nothing more than tabloid fluff, and that wasn’t going to get her where she wanted to go. She could just run an entertainment blog if all she wanted was page hits based on nasty gossip and made-up bullshit. This needed to be real.
She supposed she was trying to prove something with this story, expose the ugly side of the town that had hurt her. Sure, it was mostly a band of shitty boys who had done the damage but they’d been allowed to. They’d gotten away with it, and probably worse since. The town covered up anything that didn’t project what they wanted it to, and to Taylor it was starting to look like that included murder. Someone had to say something.
