by Hazel Holmes
The semi lingered for a moment, and Sarah was afraid that the trucker might try and follow her, but she exhaled with relief when the big diesel drove off.
It wasn’t until the noise of the truck’s engine disappeared that she finally turned around, finding the road empty save for the scattered leaves that had been flattened into the asphalt.
Sarah adjusted her pack and then stared at her boots. The leaves beneath her feet were so dead they’d lost their crunch. Winter had already started its purge of life. One of the many reasons she hated the cold.
Sarah wiped her nose, which burned red from the cold and constant run of phlegm. Matching red marks appeared on her cheeks, striking in contrast with her pale skin.
She tugged at her left sleeve and stared down at her hand. The cold, dry air had already caused the flesh over her knuckles to crack, and her left pinky had grown so dry it started to bleed. She tucked her hands back into her pockets and tried to focus on anything but the cold.
Clouds of grey blanketed the sky above, blocking out the sunlight. The road stretched ahead as she tramped several miles, and the sky darkened as the afternoon faded into evening. And just when Sarah was about to turn around, thinking that the town didn’t exist, she saw the house on the hill.
She used the term “house” loosely. It was massive, even from a distance, and the treetops ahead blocked most of it from view. Sarah stopped, glaring at the towers on either side of the mansion that thrust upward and the dozens of windows that lined the front of the house on the top floor. If someone in Bell could afford a house like that, then she might be able to find some work.
The road continued its curving path for another mile before Sarah glimpsed the rest of the town, and found it lacking the shock and awe that the mansion provided.
Seven buildings had been erected on the side of the road, three on the left and four on the right. Before and after the main-street buildings were several one-lane paths that stretched off the paved road and disappeared into the woods.
The buildings on the left side consisted of a grocery, hardware store, and a bar. But then as Sarah walked a little farther she saw another structure appear at the end of the buildings, or at least what was left of one.
All that remained of the building was the skeletal structure. Everything had been burned down, the remaining wood scorched and blackened. But even from what was left Sarah could tell that it was a church. She’d been forced to go to enough Sunday services to recognize the high-pitched roof and the charred rubble from the rows of pews.
The four buildings on the right housed several small businesses that ranged from lawyer to doctor, providing the town’s residents with their basic needs.
A small diner was the last business in the row of buildings on the right. The scent of food worsened the grumble in her stomach, and Sarah was drawn to it like a bug to a light bulb.
Through the windows that lined the front of the diner, Sarah saw only one patron, an elderly woman who was gingerly bringing a soup spoon to her mouth. She was dolled up like she was heading to the city, wearing a floral dress complete with an extravagant pink hat with a peacock feather sticking straight up out of the back.
A bell chimed at Sarah’s entrance, and a blast of warmth loosened the cold’s grip on her senses. The scent of bacon and bleach flooded her nose, and the mix of smells caused her stomach to churn.
Old stools with torn red cushion seats lined the bar, and Sarah sat down, hands folded together, as a man stepped from the back.
Like the trucker who had given her a ride, the man behind the counter was overweight, thickly bearded, and balding on top save for a few greasy black wisps. Brown stains covered his shirt, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he removed a small pad of paper from his apron pocket. Without looking at her, he placed pen to paper. “What do you want?”
The heat from the kitchen warmed Sarah’s front, while her backside remained frosted. “Are you hiring?”
The fat waiter placed the paper and pen back in his apron pocket then pressed his hands onto the counter. He gave Sarah the once-over then tilted his head to the side. “No. Now are you going to order something or not?”
Sarah had half a mind to walk out, but the warmth prompted her to stay. “Coffee.”
The waiter tapped his finger against the counter. “Can you pay for it?”
“Only if it doesn’t taste like piss water.”
“I’ll be sure to brew a fresh pot.” He smirked and then returned to the kitchen.
Sarah planted her elbows on the counter, the rough sleeves of the Carhartt jacket providing a thin layer of cushion, and let her body thaw.
After a while, she started to grow hot, but she resisted the urge to take off her jacket and scarf. She didn’t need people asking any questions.
Sarah swiveled on the stool, sneaking a peak at the old woman, who was still working on her soup. She didn’t slurp, but Sarah noticed that after every mouthful, she’d dab her face with a new napkin. Every time.
“Dollar fifty.” The waiter set the cup down roughly, some of the coffee spilling onto the saucer.
Sarah reached inside her jacket and removed a crumpled wad of cash. She plucked out two wrinkled one-dollar bills and placed both on the counter.
The waiter snatched up both then smoothed out the bills along the side of the register. He tossed two quarters back to her, and Sarah made sure he saw her pocket his tip. He laughed and then shook his head as he pulled the rag from his shoulder and wiped down the counter.
Sarah sipped the coffee sparingly, knowing the moment it was done, the grease ball would either force her to buy something else or kick her out. Neither of which she wanted. Money and warmth were in short supply. And if she couldn’t find a job, then her dwindling cash supply would only shrink.
“How long have you been on the road?”
Coffee in hand, Sarah turned to her right, finding the elderly woman finished with her soup, which she had set aside. Her tone sounded friendly, but the old woman wore no smile.
“A few days,” Sarah answered then returned to the warmth of her coffee.
“All by yourself?”
“Yup.”
The old woman chuckled. “Well, aren’t you brave.”
Sarah ignored the old woman’s remarks.
“Where are you from?” the woman asked.
“Not here.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, will you come over here and just sit down,” the old woman said. “We’re the only two people here, and Frank isn’t much of a conversationalist. I’ll even buy you dinner.”
Almost on cue, Sarah’s stomach rumbled. It’d been more than a day since she’d eaten. Turning down a free meal wasn’t just stupid, it was crazy.
Sarah brought her coffee along, and the old woman smiled in triumph from their battle of wills. The old bat could have the victory so long as Sarah could eat.
“Frank! Bring me another butternut squash soup!” The old woman nodded to Sarah. “What do you want?”
She reached for the menu still on the table and immediately spied the meatloaf and mashed potatoes as Frank returned with the woman’s second bowl of soup.
“I’ll have the number two,” Sarah said.
Frank didn’t bother jotting the order down, but did make it a point to glare at her before he stepped away.
“Don’t mind him,” the old woman said. “He’s just sore because it was another bad tourist season.” She pushed the soup toward Sarah. “Go on. It’s quite good. What Frank lacks in customer service he makes up for in product.”
Sarah hesitated but then snatched up the spoon and shoveled a mouthful down her gullet. It really was good. She shoveled another dozen spoonfuls down before she stopped herself. If she ate too quickly, she knew she’d toss it right back up.
Sarah plucked a napkin from the dispenser and wiped her mouth then took a closer look at the woman across the table. She wore thick, almost comical layers of makeup. And Sara
h noticed the old woman had purposely smeared red lipstick onto the skin around her thin lips to make them look thicker.
“My name is Iris Bell.” She lifted a weathered hand, making an effort to keep it above the table.
Sarah regarded the old woman’s hand. “Bell. Like the town?”
“Pretty and smart,” Iris replied. “You’re just the whole package.”
Iris kept her hand extended, and Sarah eventually accepted the greeting. She barely squeezed the woman’s hand, but the bones inside smooshed together like sticks in a bag.
Iris reclaimed her hand and grabbed the wooden sphere at the end of her necklace. The simple piece of jewelry stood out amongst the rest of her gaudy attire. She twirled it in a practiced motion between her fingers as she narrowed her eyes at Sarah. “What are you doing all the way out here?”
“Looking for work,” Sarah answered.
Iris laughed. “If you wanted to find work, you wouldn’t have come to Bell.” The laughter transformed into a cough that started slowly but turned into a crippling hack. Iris released the wooden sphere and grabbed a tissue and covered her mouth, coughing into the cloth.
When Iris peeled the tissue from her lips, she stared at its contents for a moment then folded it and placed it back in her purse. She noticed Sarah’s stare. “Age comes for everyone eventually, dear. But I’m sure someone so young doesn’t think about that.”
Frank returned with a plate stacked with meatloaf, gravy, and mashed potatoes and slid it right under Sarah’s nose.
Knife and fork scraped the white porcelain, and Sarah no longer cared about eating too fast or the pain that would follow from so much food. All that mattered was filling the aching pit in her stomach.
Iris was silent while Sarah ate, but the old woman stared at her through the entire meal. Once the meatloaf was gone and only a few lines of gravy were left, Sarah pushed the plate away and leaned back, the vinyl seats groaning as she moved.
“I’m surprised you remembered to breathe while you ate that,” Iris said.
Full and warm, Sarah loosened the scarf around her neck. “It’s just been a long day, and I had to walk from—”
Iris’s gaze had fallen from Sarah’s eyes to the bruises on her throat. Realizing what she’d done, Sarah quickly adjusted the scarf, her cheeks blushing redder than Iris’s makeup.
“I suppose those might have something to do with your visit to our little town,” Iris said.
Sarah cleared her throat, keeping her face tilted down. She reached for the coffee, drained it quickly, and then slammed the cup back down on the table. “Thanks for the meal, but I need to get going.”
“If you’re looking for a job I might be able to help with that,” Iris said.
Sarah was halfway out of the booth when she stopped. “Doing what?”
“I’m in need of a maid,” Iris answered. “I’m not much use for cleaning anything, and the house needs a lot of work, but I can pay you five hundred dollars a week.”
Sarah repositioned herself in the booth, straightening up a little. She hoped that she didn’t look too eager. With that kind of money coming in every week, she could save up enough to start over somewhere after a few months.
“You live in town?” Sarah asked.
Iris nodded. “I’m sure you saw my place when you came in.” She leaned toward the window and then pointed north, extending a bony, frail finger.
Sarah inched her way toward the window, following the indication, and spotted the mansion on the hill. Slowly, Sarah turned around. “You live in that house?”
“Me and a few staff,” Iris said. “So what do you say?” She grabbed hold of that sphere again, twirling it between her fingers.
Sarah examined the old woman and then looked back up at the mansion on the hill. It had been three weeks since she’d slept on a proper bed, and six days since she’d taken a shower. Not that she was counting.
But what was more, Sarah had reached the end of the line. The only thing north of Bell was Canada, and Sarah didn’t want to risk more legal trouble by sneaking across the border. And with winter a breath away, she knew she couldn’t survive the cold without shelter. At the very least, she might be able to lift some jewels or valuables off the old woman.
“Well?” Iris asked, her patience thinning.
Sarah turned back around, looking at the old woman who had offered her the best, and only, lifeline she was apt to receive. “When do I start?”
59
The closer Sarah moved to the mansion, the larger the structure grew. But what it gained in size, it lost in luster. Distance had hidden much of the mansion’s decay, and up close it looked more like an extension of the old woman than the beacon of decadence that had been its original incarnation.
The steps leading up to the front doors were crumbling, some of them completely missing, worn away by time and neglect.
The evening sunlight breaking through the gray skies exposed the dirt and grime that covered the windows. Large cracks ran the length of the building’s five stories, and each of the gargoyle statues posted on the roof was missing some type of limb, head, or wing.
But the mansion wasn’t completely without awe-inspiring features. Two massive columns ran the height of the house on either side of the doors, each of them engraved with beautiful, intricate designs and elements of the forest, and though they had been weathered by the seasons, time and nature couldn’t detract from the craftsmanship.
“Damn steps keep multiplying.” Iris stopped at the top of the stairs and leaned up against a statue for support. She was short of breath, and despite the cold, she was sweating. “I just need… a minute.”
After a few minutes of rest, Iris straightened herself and smiled. “Age will do a number on you, darling. Don’t take that young body of yours for granted.” She gestured toward the house. “Now let’s go inside before we freeze to death.”
The front double doors weren’t locked, but they groaned loudly and opened slowly. Iris entered, but Sarah hung back a moment, examining the scrollwork on the wood. It was a carving of the town below.
Sarah saw the road that cut through the middle, the buildings on either side, and on top of the hill was the mansion itself.
“Get in here,” Iris snapped. “It’s drafty enough in this damn place.”
When Sarah finally crossed the threshold, it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness, and Iris closed the doors behind her.
“You’ll get used to the darkness,” Iris said, scooting past Sarah. “Powering this house costs a fortune, and while the Bell name still carries value in town, I’m afraid the family bank account doesn’t share the same clout.” She struck a match and lit a candle.
“I hope it has a little something left,” Sarah said, staring at the back of the old woman’s head, that ridiculous feather sticking out from the top making her look like a weathered bird. “I don’t plan on working for free.”
Iris turned, the glow from the candle shifting the shadows on her face. “You’ll get your payment, dear. Don’t worry.”
“Good.” Unsettled by Iris’s glare, Sarah stepped past her, head tilted up, and gazed at the massive crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling then at the grand staircase that led to the upper floors. Red carpeting draped over the steps, and the stairs’ railing was engraved with more scrollwork, though it was too small for Sarah to decipher. The floor of the foyer was marble, though the stone needed a good polish to restore its shine.
Iris moved past Sarah and stopped at the foyer’s exit onto the first-floor hallway. “Coming?”
Sarah nodded then followed.
“The job is quite simple. You will work Monday through Friday from eight o’clock in the morning until five o’clock in the afternoon. You will be given one forty-five-minute lunch break and two fifteen-minute breaks to use at your leisure.” Iris abruptly stopped in the hallway and spun around. She pointed a long, arthritic finger at Sarah. “But don’t you try and take advantage of that and think you ca
n use that time to start late or leave early. Got it?”
Sarah leaned back, her forehead wrinkling as she frowned. “Yeah, I got it.”
“Good.” Iris spun back around, candlelight illuminating the golden-flecked wallpaper on either side of them, which made it feel as though they were walking down a hallway of stars. “At the beginning of each day, I will assign you a room that needs tending. You will be tasked with cleaning it from top to bottom, including any furniture or belongings that are inside. Should you find anything broken or beyond your capacity to fix, you will notify Dennis.”
“Who’s Dennis?”
“The groundskeeper.”
“How many people do you have working in this place?”
“A few,” Iris answered, her tone ending the conversation. “Now, you and Dennis will be part of the day crew, and there is another shift that works at night. You’re not to disturb them, and they won’t disturb you, understand?”
“What do they do?” Sarah asked, goading the old woman into a flurry.
“Whatever I tell them to,” Iris said, again clutching that wooden sphere, and then tapped her arthritic finger against Sarah’s shoulder. “Do you have a problem with following directions?”
Sarah walked over to a nearby table and picked up an empty vase, wondering if it was worth anything. “So long as the money comes on Friday I’m all yours, lady.”
“Good,” Iris said. “I’ll show you your room.”
A second staircase was revealed at the end of the hallway. It was much more modest than the grand staircase. The space was narrow and cramped, winding tightly, with the steps so small it gave the impression it had been built for children.
Sarah followed Iris onto the third floor, and the pair stopped at the seventh door on the left.
“Here we are.” Iris reached into her pocket and removed a silver key. “This is your room.”
Inside, light flooded through an open window, exposing a modest room that boasted only a bed, a nightstand, and a vanity. The furniture was from the last century, but the sheets on the bed looked new, and the fresh scent of bleach signaled it had been recently cleaned. A fireplace was on the wall opposite the bed, logs stacked next to it.
