The Guest House Hauntings Boxset

by Hazel Holmes

  “Bath is next to the closet. The shower is small, and it takes a while for the hot water to kick in, but it’ll come.” Iris set the candle down as Sarah walked to the window. “You’ll have your privacy, but keep in mind that I reserve the right to search any part of this house without a warrant.” She held up the silver key as a threat. “So mind your sticky fingers.”

  Dust covered the window, the scent growing stronger the closer Sarah moved to the glass. Her room boasted a view of a garden in the back, which was surprisingly vibrant. Amid the changing leaves and the black and white of the coming winter, there was nothing but green.

  “I’ll expect you downstairs at the front door, dressed and ready for work tomorrow. Uniforms are in the closet. I’m sure you can find one your size.” Iris grabbed the candle, turning to leave, and then stopped before she closed the door behind her. “You have free run of the house, so long as the doors you try aren’t locked. But I don’t want you snooping around on the fifth floor, understand?”

  “Sure,” Sarah answered.

  “I’m serious, girl,” Iris growled, pressing her chin into her neck. “That is one rule that is unforgiveable. I will throw you out without pay if I find you up there.”

  Sarah finally peeled her gaze away from the window, slung her backpack off, and placed it on the bed. “I got it.”

  “Good.” Iris stepped toward the door, and then stopped herself. “Oh, and no smoking in the house.” She wrinkled her nose. “I could smell that disgusting habit on you the moment you walked into the diner.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Sarah gave a deep curtsy, keeping her head down until the door slammed shut, and Iris was gone.

  Sarah lifted her head and flipped the bird at the door, lip twisted in a snarl, then flopped down on the bed next to her backpack.

  The mattress swallowed her up, and while it was soft, it didn’t offer much support. With effort, she finally sat up and opened her pack, dumping its contents over the sheets.

  A few shirts, an extra pair of jeans, thick wool socks, another scarf, a sweater, and a few pairs of underwear were her spare clothes. She had one bra but never wore it. The bulky Carhartt jacket took care of concealing her breasts, and she wasn’t complaining about not having to wear one.

  Aside from the clothes, she had a can of pepper spray, two packets of beef jerky, a flashlight, a lighter, and her last pack of cigarettes. With money scarce, she had been forced to cut back on the habit, and she had bummed as many smokes on her trek north as she could, which were few and far between since most people had kicked the habit or were too smart to start in the first place.

  Staring into the backpack now, anyone would have thought it was empty. But Sarah reached toward the bottom and pulled at a loose corner. The fabric gave way and exposed the tough leather underneath, and she removed a folded photograph.

  Holding it, Sarah shivered, then tucked it into her pocket. She stacked a few logs in the fireplace, dumped some lighter fluid over them, then struck a match.

  Flames brightened the room, and a quick blast of heat warmed her cheeks. But the initial blaze died down quickly. She added more lighter fluid, and it helped the flame catch permanently.

  The room warmed quickly, and Sarah sat down at the vanity, the mirror offering a cloudy and scratched reflection. She unwrapped the scarf and examined the bruises along her neck.

  The finger marks didn’t look as bad as they had when she’d first hit the road. The worst of the purple and black had faded, leaving only a few lingering marks from the middle and index fingers. But the area was still sensitive to the touch.

  Starting to sweat, Sarah removed her jacket, the long-sleeved shirt underneath loose against her body, and then rotated to the left and lifted her shirt to examine her side.

  Like the marks on her throat, the bruises on her ribs had started to fade. She dropped the shirt and placed her hand over her side, gingerly leaning back in the chair. She hadn’t pissed blood since the fight, and it didn’t hurt to breathe anymore, so she was glad to discover her body was healing.

  Sarah glanced around the room once more and sighed. Once again, she found herself in a stranger’s home where she never wanted to be in the first place.

  But it was a dance she was familiar with, and she had started it young, after the death of her parents. For fifteen years, she had ping-ponged around different foster homes, fighting for her life and the right to see tomorrow.

  Her childhood had been spent fending off a drunken foster parent who wanted to knock her around, and then as she grew older, protecting herself from the molesters that wanted to take what she wasn’t willing to give.

  She hoped that she wouldn’t run into those types of people here, but if Sarah learned one thing, it was to never trust a book by its cover. And while Iris Bell played the part of cranky old woman well, Sarah bet there were more than a few pages the crow wished she could burn.

  Sarah turned to watch the fire and placed her hand over the pocket that held the picture. She liked keeping it close whenever she was in a strange place. It had been that way ever since she was little.

  After a few minutes of gazing into the crackling flames, she realized how tired she was. Travel, cold, and her injuries had drained her energy, and she hadn’t had a full night’s rest since she’d left New York.

  With an actual bed to sleep in, Sarah crawled beneath the covers and shut her eyes. Two minutes later, she was sound asleep.

  Despite Sarah’s desire for rest, the nightmare returned. It was the same nightmare that she’d experienced every night for the past week. She was running through the streets of New York, cutting down alleys, tossing quick glances over her shoulder at the dark figure in pursuit.

  It was night, her path illuminated by yellowed and flickering streetlights. There was no traffic and no one else on the sidewalks, just her and the man with the gun. But no matter how far she ran, or how fast, the man always caught up.

  Sarah tripped and skidded to the concrete, tearing the skin from her palms and knees. When she turned to look behind her, the man was silhouetted from a nearby streetlight. He had the gun aimed at her head, his finger on the trigger.

  But he never pulled it. He lowered it, a smile stretching over his face that pulsed cold chills through Sarah’s body. He’d step closer, until he was practically on top of her, and he’d just stare down at her with those dead, dark eyes and that cold smile.

  Sarah trembled, incapable of doing anything but wait for the end. And then, just when she thought he might walk away and let her live, his hand would strike out quick as a snake bite and clamp around her neck.

  Sarah sprang awake, gasping for breath as she instinctively reached for the imaginary hand around her neck. She coughed then drew in hyperventilated gasps as she checked the room to ensure she was alone.

  “It’s not real.” Sarah shut her eyes, whispering to herself. “He’s not here. It’s not real.” Slowly, her heart rate calmed, and she collapsed back onto her pillow. She regained control of her breathing and then flung the covers off of her bed, letting the air cool the sweat that had drenched her body.

  Sarah rolled her head to the left, checking the old wind-up clock on the nightstand. It was three o’clock in the morning. She groaned and then rolled the opposite direction, knowing it would be difficult to go back to sleep.

  Groggy, Sarah rolled out of bed, still dressed in her jeans and t-shirt, and grabbed the pack of smokes from her pack. Having one usually calmed her down. She walked to the window and tried to open it, but the lock was jammed shut.

  “Shit.” Sarah turned from the window and then walked over to the dying amber glow of the fireplace. She pressed the end of her cigarette against the hot log, and then puffed the smoke into the chimney. “Sorry, Santa.”

  After only a few hits, Sarah felt the nicotine calm her down. And while the rest of the room had become drafty again, it was still warm by the dying coals. The combination of the cigarette and the warmth helped rock her back into a sleepy daze, and
just when she was about to nod off, a loud bang echoed in the hallway.

  Sarah jerked her head toward the door. She frowned, pausing before she took another hit of the cigarette. She waited for the sound to return, but heard nothing. She stood and then flicked the nub of her smoke into the fire.

  Sarah made it one step toward the door when the knock returned, this time hitting against her own bedroom door.

  Sarah froze, her heart once again beating quickly in her chest. “Hello?”

  Another knock.

  “Um, just a minute.” Sarah was approaching the door when another knock made her jump. “All right!”

  The pounding grew quick and violent against the door, and Sarah grabbed the fire poker from the hearth. She raised the piece of iron in her hands and reached for the doorknob, the knocking reaching a crescendo. “I’m trying to sleep, so if you don’t knock it off—”

  Sarah swung the door open, muscles tensed and poised to swing the rusted iron at whatever was on the other side. But the hallway was empty.

  Sarah stepped into the hallway, checking both ends of the hall, but saw nothing but paintings and wilting flowers in expensive porcelain vases.

  With the hallway clear, Sarah lowered the iron. She turned back toward her door and made it one step before—

  “Can you see me?”

  Sarah spun around, raising the iron with both hands toward the sound of the voice. She traced the voice to a patch of darkness in the hall where the moonlight from the window couldn’t reach. She stared harder. “Who’s there?”

  “You can, can’t you?”

  Slowly, the darkness took shape, and from it emerged the figure of a woman who kept her back toward Sarah. Long black hair fell down her back, and she wore a dark dress that blended her with the night.

  “You have to help us,” she said.

  A cold sweat broke over Sarah’s body, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. The whisper tickled her ear as if the person were right beside her.

  Sarah kept her distance and the iron raised. “Listen, I’m new around here, so if you need help then you can talk to Mrs. Bell.”

  The woman remained silent and motionless.

  Sarah lowered the iron, no longer having the energy or the patience to deal with the lady. “Listen, I’m going back to bed.”

  “No Bell.” The words were hissed between lips with disdain.

  Sarah stopped. “What do you mean, no Bell?”

  “No Bell. No Bell. NO BELL!”

  More chills pulsed through Sarah, and she lifted the iron again. “You leave now or I’m going to call the cops. I don’t care if you work here or not, understand?”

  “Please,” the woman said, her voice softer. “You must help us.”

  “Help you do what?” Sarah hissed back angrily, the frustration mixing with her exhaustion.

  The question triggered the woman to slowly turn, but she kept her head down. As she spun, the darkness seemed to shift with her, and Sarah retreated, a fierce cold seeping into her bones. It was raw and sickening, and triggered panic through her veins.

  A scream that she couldn’t control crawled up and out of her throat, and she retreated faster, the woman growing closer and closer, her head down but her arm stretched out to try and grab Sarah.

  “NO!” Sarah slammed into something behind her, tripping to the floor and dropping the iron in the fall.

  “Hey, are you all right?”

  Still on her back, Sarah smacked at the hands grabbing at her shoulders and then snatched the iron as she quickly stood. It was hard to make him out in the darkness, but he was a man. He wore a white T-shirt, flannel pajama pants, and a pair of slippers. She looked him up and down, still gripping the iron with both hands. “Who the hell are you? Are you with her?” But when Sarah turned, she found the woman gone.

  “I’m not with anyone.” He kept his hands raised in a passive gesture. “My name’s Kegan Bell. I’m Iris’s grandson.”

  Sarah regarded the young man. He was tall, with broad shoulders, and handsome.

  “I got in late tonight,” Kegan said. “I didn’t want to wake her, so I thought I’d surprise her in the morning.” He offered a hand to shake. “Are you the new help?”

  “I’m the new employee.”

  “Right. Sorry.” Kegan smirked, one of those half smiles that were common practice for pretty boys who’d never had trouble getting girls.

  Sarah finally lowered the iron and then turned back to where she’d seen the woman. “You didn’t hear anyone?” She faced Kegan again. “Talking to me just now?”

  “The only person I heard was you,” Kegan answered. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Sarah walked past him. “I’m fine.” She returned to her room and shut and then locked the door.

  She laid the fire poker back on the hearth before getting back in bed. And the longer she lay there, the more she questioned what she had seen. She lifted her head and looked at the door one more time before flinging the sheets off. She retrieved the fire poker from the hearth, set it next to her bedside, and climbed back under the covers.

  60

  After the disruption in the night, Sarah struggled to fall back asleep and ended up watching the sun come up. She stayed in bed until about seven thirty and then decided to get ready.

  Still groggy, she flung the covers off, shivering as she placed her bare feet on the wood. She furiously rubbed her arms and walked to the closet, remembering that Iris had mentioned wearing a uniform. But when Sarah opened the closet doors, she frowned. “What the hell?”

  Several articles of clothing hung from the racks, each varying in size, but all of them in the same style. The uniform was a simple black gown complete with a starched white apron with frilly lace around the edges and a mob cap to wear on her head. If it had been nineteen twenty-six, she’d have fit right in.

  Sarah sighed, shutting her eyes. “Five hundred dollars a week.” She repeated it like a mantra and then undressed and picked the smallest size she could find. Then she headed downstairs.

  “Well, there you are!” Iris said, tapping her foot as Sarah came down the hall. “I was beginning to think you’d run off.” The old woman was still immaculately dressed, her make-up layered on thick, and clutched the wooden sphere at the end of her necklace with fingers that were crooked and swollen from arthritis.

  “It’s seven fifty-five.” Sarah fidgeted with the uniform. It was stiff and constricting. “I’m early.”

  “Well, I’ve already been up for three hours,” Iris snarled and then gave Sarah a once-over. “Probably a bit more modest than what you’re used to.” She smirked. “Of course, if I still had your figure, I’d flaunt it too.” She sighed. “Well, c’mon. We’re burning daylight.”

  Sarah followed Iris to the third floor, where they stopped at a small door, Iris unlocking it with that same silver key.

  The room was small but crammed with furniture covered with sheets stained with dust. The curtains were drawn over the windows, extinguishing the morning light and keeping the room in darkness. Two of the walls contained bookshelves that stretched the length of the wall from floor to ceiling, where a smaller version of the foyer chandelier hung, cobwebs strung between the crystals.

  “I expect you to be efficient,” Iris said, staying in the doorway. “Like I mentioned yesterday, anything beyond repair or a good cleaning just set out in the hallway and Dennis will pick it up in the evening. Cleaning supplies are in the kitchen in the west wing on the first floor. Pick what you want from the fridge during your lunch break, but—Wake up!”

  Sarah snapped her head forward, jumping a little as she swayed on her legs.

  Iris narrowed her eyes, turning her nose up at Sarah. “Do you think you can handle this, or do I need to end our agreement?”

  “No,” Sarah said. “I just didn’t get much sleep last night. One of the night crew woke me up.”

  Iris arched her eyebrow, pausing before taking a step back. “Well, be that as it may, I s
till expect you to perform your duties efficiently. Now, get to work.” She quickly clapped her hands together twice and then left.

  Sarah waited for Iris to leave before she headed back down to the kitchen, which was massive. After piling what she thought she’d need into a bucket, Sarah lugged the supplies up the stairs and then got to work.

  Sarah opened the curtains, letting light spill into the room, and then pulled the covers off the furniture. Dust flew about, swirling and dancing in the rays of sunlight.

  Never having done any type of maid work before, Sarah started with the simple things like the windows, then dusting, and dusting some more, and then dusting up the dust that she’d just dusted.

  All the while, Sarah examined the room for anything valuable. She checked under cushions and in old clothes pockets for cash, and drawers for jewelry, but found nothing but lint.

  Sarah picked at her uniform, which became even more constricting and uncomfortable as time passed. She didn’t understand how women could have worn this kind of stuff. Just layer after layer of cloth, corsets squeezing them until they couldn’t breathe anymore… she couldn’t have imagined living back then.

  It had taken her until lunch to rid the room of the thick layer of grime, and that was just on the surfaces of shelves, windows, and furniture. She hadn’t even touched the floor.

  When lunchtime finally rolled around, Sarah was convinced that she had inhaled more shit from that room than in her seven years smoking cigarettes. Coughing and with her stomach rumbling, Sarah headed toward the kitchen.

  Having already seen most of what the kitchen had to offer when she was searching for the cleaning supplies, Sarah grabbed a plate and made herself a turkey sandwich with a side of chips and grabbed a bottled water from the fridge.