Dark Hollows

by Steve Frech

  I was laughing so hard, tears poured down my cheeks, and I had to sit down. The mutt leapt at me and attempted to lick my face off. That was that. I named him Murphy, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. I’m not exaggerating about that. In four years, we’ve rarely left each other’s side. With the long hours I was putting in at the shop, I couldn’t leave him at home, alone, so I brought him with me. Before long, Murphy was Groundworks’ unofficial mascot.

  I remodeled Groundworks to give it an “old-timey” feel and it started to pick up steam. I was there almost fourteen hours a day, seven days a week. Business continued to grow.

  One morning two years ago, Maggie Vaughn, who runs the Elmwood Hotel a block away, stopped by to pick up her supply of coffee, and remarked that her hotel was so full, she was turning people away.

  That sparked an idea to give myself a side project and make a little extra coin.

  By that time, I had hired some staff to lighten the load and had some time for myself.

  I had been using the cottage as storage for Groundworks, but I took out some money, and renovated it as a place to stay. I fixed it up into a charming, one-bedroom affair with a remodeled kitchen and bathroom. I even added the fire pit out front. At the time, Airbnb was starting to take off. I thought they might be too crowded, so I went with a rival start-up called “Be Our Guest”. It marketed itself as a more selective and upscale version of Airbnb. They weren’t going after people looking to save a buck. They were after wealthy people wanting a different experience. These were exactly the tourists who were coming to The Hollows.

  Since Be Our Guest was new, they wanted unique properties. I contacted them with photos of the cottage, and they went berserk. A representative from Be Our Guest came out to inspect the cottage and loved it. We went through the formalities. I had to sign a bunch of papers, promising to comply with their policies, one of which was that I wouldn’t become involved “physically or otherwise” with a guest during their stay at my property. I had to submit to a background check, which always makes me nervous. I was confident they wouldn’t find anything, but still, I worry.

  Once that was done, I was cleared for takeoff, and take off, it did. Be Our Guest ran the cottage as a featured property and immediately, the reservations filled up. It was great. I was charging $200 a night in the off-season and $300 a night in the fall. If I wanted to, I could have booked the cottage every night. It’s the easiest money I’ve ever made. I usually only saw my guests once or twice. They were always polite—well, most of the time, and all it took was an hour or two, at most, to clean and reset the place after they left.

  Some of the hotel owners in town were upset that I had gotten into the game, but not too upset. They were still operating at capacity. I think they were more worried that other residents with extra bedrooms might try to go the Airbnb route. Anyway, like I said—easiest money I ever made. I could set my own dates, and if I wanted to take a break from keeping up the cottage, I just blocked out a week or two here and there. People enjoyed their stay. I made sure to keep the cottage stocked with wine from local wineries and coffee—only Groundworks, of course. Once I put in the fire pit, I also made sure to have the stuff to make s’mores in the kitchen. Everyone took advantage of it.

  And everyone loved Murphy.

  I did have some rules, though. I didn’t allow anyone to stay at the cottage who hadn’t already written at least three reviews on Be Our Guest. That’s one of the beauties of the site. Hotels have to let anyone stay at their place, so long as they have a credit card. With Be Our Guest, I get to vet who stays at my place. I can see what they’ve said about other places, and you can tell who’s going to be a problem by their reviews. They’re the people who are determined to have a bad time, no matter what. That’s my rule—three reviews to prove that you are a reasonable person. It’s my most sacred rule.

  And tonight, I’m breaking it.

  Two months ago, I received a request from a woman named Rebecca Lowden to stay in the cottage for one night, only. I was going to reject the reservation request when I saw that she had no previous reviews, but I always check the reservation request to see where they heard about me to stay informed about where Be Our Guest is advertising. I clicked on her request, which took me to her profile page. She was undeniably beautiful, with brunette hair and blue eyes, but it was her bio that caught me.

  In the bio sections, Be Our Guest encourages you to list things, like your hobbies, favorite books, and favorite movies. As one of her favorite books, she listed A Christmas Carol. And in the “favorite movies” section? Dead Again, which is in my top five. Also, she had grown up in a town not too far from where I grew up.

  So, out of simple curiosity, I broke my rule and accepted the reservation.

  *

  I pull the sheets and towels from the dryer, and head back to the cottage. I make the bed, pulling the sheets tight and tucking the corners securely under the mattress. I never made my bed until the cottage. Now, I can’t sleep in a bed that’s not made. I hang fresh towels in the bathroom, and stack the rest on the top shelf in the hall closet.

  And with that, I’m done. The cottage is ready to go. Check-in time is three o’clock and right now, it’s noon. She could be here in three hours, or she might not arrive until tonight, but it’s a safe guess that she’ll be here closer to three. Most people treat arrangements like this as though they’re arriving at someone’s house, rather than a hotel. So, like I said, she’ll probably be here closer to three. I kind of want to be here when she arrives.

  Again, it’s only curiosity. Don’t look at me like that.

  I put the key in the lockbox next to the front door, and reset the passcode for the four digits I sent Rebecca in the confirmation email.

  I have to head to Groundworks in a few hours, but until then, I can kill time in the hopes of meeting her.

  I head back to the main house, and walk into my office on the first floor. The floorboards in the hall squeak in a familiar sound that I’ve grown to relish. It reminds me of the sense of responsibility for the aged house. It’s seen the very end of a Civil War, a World War, a Great Depression, another World War, the Seventies, the turn of the millennium, and I’m the one to make sure it sees the next milestone. I spin into the swivel chair at the desk and fire up the computer.

  I check my emails and see that Sandy Bellhurst, the manager I hired to help me at Groundworks, has sent me the receipts from yesterday. I enter them into my accounting software and take care of some more emails. When I’m done, I look over to the door and see Murphy’s half in and half out of the room.

  “What? Are you hungry, again?”

  Murphy’s tail starts wagging so furiously, it causes his butt to oscillate.

  “All right. Fine.”

  He turns and runs to the kitchen. I get up and follow.

  I feed Murphy a little more food from the bag in the pantry. I heard somewhere that you should give dogs a little food at a time rather than full meals to keep them from getting overweight. It’s healthier and I want Murphy at my side for as long as I can keep him.

  After I feed him, I set up on the porch. I think about taking Murphy on a walk to The Sanctuary, but decide to play it cool and drop into a chair with a paperback to enjoy the autumn afternoon in case Rebecca arrives early.

  It’s really beautiful. The breeze carries the scent of dead leaves from the forest to the porch. The colors are at their peak. The cotton-ball clouds race through the sky overhead. It’s that perfect temperature where I need a jacket, but not a coat. There’s only a few more days until Halloween, which is The Hollows’ time to shine.

  Murphy comes out, pushing open the unlatched screen door with his nose, and plops down with a contented sigh next to my chair.

  Rebecca Lowden can take her time.

  I’m perfectly fine.

  *

  Hours later, I’m still on the porch, but I need to get going.

  I’m meeting at Groundworks with a rep from Alliance Capital.
It’s a company that’s interested in turning Groundworks into a franchise.

  Murphy’s still here on the porch with me, thrashing around on his back, trying to get an itch on his spine. He snorts as he writhes back and forth. I decide it’s a great pic, and take out my phone. I get out of my chair and crouch down near his head. Still on his back, he looks at me as if to ask, “What the hell are you doing?”

  I get low, right by his nose, and snap a photo. I know right away I can’t use it for the Be Our Guest website because the cottage is framed between his open hind legs. It’s hysterical, but probably not appropriate. Also, as I hit the shutter button, a Ford Focus pulls into frame, and parks next to the cottage. I take another picture, for my own collection, and tuck the phone into my pocket. Murphy rolls over, taking note of the new arrival.

  I stand up and move to the steps, ready to greet Rebecca Lowden, but stop. It’s not her. It can’t be. Someone has taken a wrong turn. The woman getting out of the Focus has red hair. Rebecca is a brunette.

  Murphy takes off towards her. I follow. He pulls up a few yards short, and strikes a submissive pose. She crouches down, and pats her knees in encouragement.

  Wait. I’m wrong. It is Rebecca Lowden. She’s dyed her hair a deep red.

  Murphy gets closer and playfully rolls onto his back for a tummy rub. She obliges.

  I keep walking forward. Yes, it is indeed Rebecca Lowden. She’s still a knockout, but that red hair isn’t working for her.

  “Hi,” she says to me, while patting Murphy’s stomach. “Are you Jacob?”

  “Yep. You Rebecca?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t recognize you with the hair. It’s different from your profile pic.”

  She stands. “Yeah. Just something I’m trying.”

  Murphy gets up, and spins his hindquarters into her for a butt-scratch.

  “And you must be Murphy!” she says in baby talk, running her nails across his hips. Murphy is in heaven. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “No, no. You’re not late. You can check in whenever you want. The key is in the lockbox next to the door.”

  “Great. Thank you.”

  “I’d offer to show you around, but Murphy and I have to run into town for a little business meeting.”

  She lightheartedly slaps Murphy’s butt. “No worries.”

  “I don’t know what your plans are, but there’s coffee and wine in the cottage, and stuff to make s’mores. If you want to use the fire pit, there are some logs around the back.”

  “Great.”

  “If there’s anything else you need, you’ve got my number, right?”

  “Yep.”

  There’s this weird pause where I feel like she’s waiting for me to leave.

  “Okay,” I say. “Come on, Murph.”

  He hesitates, but then comes to my side, and follows me to the truck. I glance over my shoulder and watch as she goes to the lockbox and punches in the code.

  By the time Murphy and I reach the truck, she’s already entering the cottage. She goes in and closes the door.

  I open the truck, and Murphy leaps in. He loves car rides. I climb into the cabin and turn the key in the ignition. As the truck roars to life, the light goes on in the cottage.

  “Murphy, is it just me or was that a little weird?” I ask.

  I look over and see his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

  “Oh, yeah. You’re a dog.”

  I pop the truck into gear and roll down the driveway. I turn onto Normandy Lane, take one last look at the cottage in the rearview mirror, and head towards town.

  *

  Groundworks is busy, which is good. Aside from the revenue, I want it busy so the Alliance Capital rep can see that it’s a thriving business.

  Heads turn at the sound of the jingling bells on the door when Murphy and I walk in. There are a few regulars I recognize, like Reverend Williams from the Old Stone Church. He usually drops by once a month, but most of the customers are tourists I’ve never seen before. They may not know who I am, but Murphy is the ultimate kryptonite, and everyone is instantly enamored.

  I’ll share a little secret with you; at first, I hated this place. From the moment it opened, I regretted staking everything I had on it. I felt like I had thrown all my money away on something I could never get off the ground. Now, I love it. The smell of fresh coffee penetrates every surface. The constant hiss of the cappuccino maker. The perfect view of The Hollows’ main thoroughfare, capped by the Old Stone Church at the end of the street. The location had been expensive, but it paid off.

  Sandy is manning the register, while Tom and Sheila, two local high school kids, race back and forth, concocting drinks. The line is sizable, but not unreasonable.

  “Hey, Sandy,” I say, stepping behind the counter.

  “Hey, boss,” she tosses over her shoulder, and redirects her attention to the man at the counter. “That’ll be $18.47.”

  The man hands her a twenty. Sandy makes the change.

  Sandy’s a bit younger than me, and has a single-mindedness in her pursuits. She wants to be successful in business, and she will be if I have any say in it. When Groundworks started to take off, it was too much for me. I didn’t know how to keep the momentum going. Sandy did.

  “We’ll call your name when it’s ready.”

  The man turns, and goes to wait by the creamer station.

  “How’s it been today?” I ask.

  She multi-tasks as she answers. “Good. I’ve placed the orders. The new napkins with the logos arrive next week. Colton’s Bakery is late with the brownies, again. Other than that, it’s a good day.”

  “What would I do without you, Sandy?”

  She turns to me with all seriousness. “Two stores when the franchise kicks in. That’s the deal.”

  “Done. Is he here?”

  She nods over to the corner of the restaurant.

  “Yep. Over in the booth.”

  I follow the gesture, and see a bald guy with glasses sitting in the corner booth, next to the window. He’s got a laptop and a latte in front of him. He’s thumbing through his phone, and occasionally glances out the window to the shops and the town green across the street.

  “You didn’t charge him, did you?”

  Sandy comically rolls her eyes.

  “Good,” I reply, and head towards the booth.

  “Two stores,” she calls after me.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  Murphy gets up and follows me.

  The man looks up as I slide into the opposite seat across the table.

  “Hi. I’m Jacob Reese.”

  “Gregory Tiller. Alliance Capital. Pleased to meet you,” he says and extends his hand.

  We shake.

  “Good to meet you. This is Murphy,” I say, with a flick of the wrist in Murphy’s direction.

  Tiller nods at him. “Hi, Murphy.”

  “So,” I begin. “What do you think of the place?”

  “Well, as you know, this is just a preliminary scouting trip. I’m pretty low on the totem pole, and have to report back my initial findings, but I have to tell you, I love it—the décor, the themes, the menu. It’s really impressive and your associate … ummm …”

  “Sandy.”

  “Yes. Sandy. She and I went over a lot of the finances before you got here and, I don’t mean to sound rude, but you could be making so much more with this place.”

  “Well, I hope that’s where you come in.”

  He smiles. “Good answer.” He consults his laptop. “Now, I believe I have everything I need to set up a meeting with Helen Trifauni. She’s one of our brand developers. She’s tough, but fair, and I think she’ll really go for this place.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Great. How does next week sound?”

  “Fine with me, but it’s getting really close to Halloween, and it might be a little chaotic here in The Hollows. We tend to go all out. There’s the parade and everyone dresses up. It�
�s kind of a madhouse.”

  “That’s what we want. It will add to the charm of Groundworks.”

  “Then next week is perfect.”

  He looks out the window to the green, where preliminary decorations are starting to take shape for the celebration. “Everyone dresses up?”

  “Yeah. There’s a costume contest that some of us business owners take pretty seriously.”

  “How seriously?”

  “That seriously,” I say, pointing to the trophy sitting on a shelf on the wall near the door.

  He laughs. “There’s a trophy?”

  I nod.

  “And last year, you won?”

  “And the year before that and the year before that and the year before that,” I answer.

  “What’s your costume for this year?”

  I good-naturedly shake my head. “Everyone keeps their costume a secret.”

  It’s true. None of us who enter the competition want to tip our hand. My costume was delivered over a month ago. It’s sitting on a shelf in my hall closet. Tiller’s question reminds me to talk to the post office, because the box was partially open when it was delivered.

  “Will you win?” Tiller asks.

  “Yep.”

  “Love it. Well then, we’re on.”

  We shake hands, again.

  “If this works out,” he says, sitting back and gazing out the window, “there could be a Groundworks Coffee in dozens of towns in two years, and in five years, who knows?” He takes a sideways glance at me. “And that could potentially mean a couple million for you.”

  “I can live with that.”

  Tiller and I trade some more polite conversation. He starts talking about working Murphy into the logo. I tell him it’s all great, and of course, acting as his agent, Murphy would love to do it.