Salem's Daughters

by Stephen Tremp

  Bob glanced at Debbie, wrapped under a sheet in a fetal position. He gave her a swat. “Wake up, honey. Let’s go see your grandparents. I’m sure they’re here.”

  The Roadhouse Blues. How Bob hated this room and its honky-tonk theme. It attracted some of the most undesirable travelers. He thought back to the socially challenged people who slept here.

  The first guests to walk through Murcat Manor’s front door; Eugene and Beatrice Barnett the toilet cloggers, and their red headed triplet boys who terrorized the cats and broke half the lamps and vases in Murcat Manor.

  Paul Knudson, who simultaneously had a heart attack and choked to death, if that were even possible.

  The bikers.

  The drunkards.

  The drug addicts.

  The drifters.

  The derelicts.

  Half probably had warrants for their arrest, others rap sheets the length of a rugby field, and the rest most likely had been lucky and were never found out about their crimes.

  He shuddered, thinking he needed a shower after sleeping in this room.

  Routine. The word seemed to be implanted in his mind as he relieved himself in the restroom of a suite Willie Nelson would be proud to call home. Bob was concerned he was becoming numb to these events.

  He thought back to his dream of riding the gray train. Faster and faster it went, passing stops and people he knew, but never able to find a place to stop and get off.

  Is that what happens, Bob deliberated, when the same events consistently occur? The developments speed up and there’s nothing you can do to change them. You grow a little more incapable of feeling emotion as each new episode become part of a pattern. A routine.

  But four dead cats? Bob couldn’t shake that. And Joseph Meicigama had died in his bedroom, in his very bed. This was not a stranger who died in The Frontiersman room he rented. This was personal.

  Out of all the guests he’d met, many of whom he had already forgotten their names, Bob liked Joseph the best. He checked his heart. He missed that man. His death was a loss, even though he’d told Bob he was going to die soon. Bob edited that out of his thoughts. The rest of his interpretations of his dreams seemed to be accurate.

  Debbie yawned as she rose from the bed and put on her robe. Bob took her by the hand and smiled soft and warm. “Let’s go downstairs and get some coffee. I’m sure your grandparents are waiting for us.”

  Bob had to chuckle as they entered the kitchen. Sure enough, there were Ross and Erma Dempsey with their laptops open.

  But a third person, conversing with Ross, was a total shocker. On the near side of the table sat a plump man with suspenders, wiping his forehead with a red hankie. It was their realtor, Clark Hodgkins.

  Bob nodded to Ross, who was once again wearing a subtle plaid suit along with his trademark contemptible jovial smile. Erma stared off. She seemed distant and disconnected, as if she was lost in her own world.

  Bob had never seen the family matriarch like this. He wondered if she too was becoming calloused to yet another death. Perhaps, this was just another routine day for her, as it was for him. Bob found himself feeling uneasy about her wellbeing.

  Also present were the Goths and Vamps. Raymond served the remaining guests leftover turkey sandwiches. Seeing them in full makeup and attire, Bob thought the Roadhouse Blues wasn’t so bad.

  Clark stood and reached out to shake Bob’s hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, so glad to see you again. Wow, looks like Darrowby’s bozo of a partner really did a number on your nose. Sorry to hear about last night.”

  Bob was happy Hodgkins was present. He liked the man who had referred Kenneth Wilson as an attorney. But why was he here with Ross and Erma?

  “It’s great to see you too, Mr. Hodgkins. What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

  “Well, Ross and Erma asked me to come here with them.”

  “Actually,” Ross interrupted. “That was Erma’s doing. Me, I couldn’t be happier with how things are going. But my Erma?” He wrinkled his nose.

  Like Darrowby, Bob tired of Ross. He wasn’t going to take any more shit from him.

  “A man just died here last night. What the hell are you happy for?”

  Ross ignored Bob’s aggressive comeback. Erma continued to stare off into some remote space. Bob shook his head and chuckled under his breath. These people are more than strange.

  Ross held up the cashier’s check for one hundred thousand dollars. “Last night could not have gone any better.”

  Bob was about to climb over the table and throw a well located, high velocity left hook at Ross. It seemed like the right thing to do.

  “Oh, except for the Indian dying. What was his name? Injun Joe, or something like that?”

  That’s Native American, you moron. And his name was Joseph Meicigama.

  “That was in your bedroom, right?” Ross said, still admiring the check.

  Bob was about ready to tear Ross’s head off and urinate down his throat. He held back, though, and just glared at the man.

  Ross was still enamored with the check to where he didn’t notice Bob’s looks that would kill if they could. “Whatever. I can’t wait to get to the bank and deposit this. What do you think about that, my boy?”

  Ross again held the one hundred-large note above his head and up to the kitchen light. He snapped it a few times, then smiled wide, brought it down and kissed it before putting it away in his wallet.

  “Anyway, as usual, the normal guests left demanding a full refund. As expected,” Ross presented the dark dressed guests at the table. “The fringe element stayed. And Bob, this is where the money is. It’s this element that’s booking Murcat Manor solid well after Christmas.”

  “But what about when the hype dies down?” Erma, still staring off, said. “What then? We’ll still be strapped with twenty-five thousand dollar payments each month.”

  “No. My dear, that episode last night with American Ghost Stories was pure twenty-four carat gold. The ratings were the best ever for the show. The cable channel will be repeating that episode from now until eternity.”

  Erma spoke but didn’t move. Her tone was flat and devoid of emotion. “There’s something evil in this house. A presence exists on this property that has authority to kill without hesitation. I don’t know how to explain it, other than it’s alive with a will of its own. I can feel it.”

  Ross shook his head. “I beg to differ. Things could not be better.”

  Erma broke her faraway gaze and addressed Ross. “Look at the cast from American Ghost Stories. Johnny Rocket is under suicide watch. He’s officially bonkers. And the Leeds brothers, Ned and Henry, they’re convinced they’re each other. They’ll surely follow Johnny to the Looney Bin.”

  Ross dismissed Erma’s statements with a wave of his hand. “That’s just plain balderdash. Ratings. TV ratings. That’s all, my dear. The entire episode, it was staged well in advance.”

  “What about Denise Forsythe?”

  Ross shrugged his shoulders. “The red head? What about her?”

  Erma gave Ross a stern look.

  “What about her, dear?”

  “Her hair. It continued to float, even after the show was over and the cameras were off. It’s as if her hair had a will of its own, mocking gravity and any scientific laws of physics.”

  Ross stared at Erma for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Hogwash. Part of their act. Right Bob? Back me up, my boy.”

  “This morning,” Erma continued, nettled with her husband, but still with the even keeled monotone of a droning monk. “The news said Denise had shaved her head. There was nothing else the dear woman could do. She tried wearing different wigs. Good Lord knows she tried on dozens, is what they’re saying.

  “But that hair also floated. Everyone one of them. Now she has to wear a cowboy hat to cover her bare head, with the strap tightened under her chin to keep the hat from levitating off of her.”

  Erma turned her face enough to level her steely eyes with Ross’s. �
��What do you make of that? Dear?”

  Ross shook his head. “Don’t know. And frankly? Really don’t care. We’re booked solid through the holidays. Freaks they may be, though.”

  Ross looked to the Goths picking over their leftover turkey sandwiches. “No offense.” The Goths looked like they thought they’d just received a compliment.

  “Of course,” Ross went on, diverting his attention to Raymond. “We’ll have to wait until tomorrow to welcome any new booking. Raymond will need to get this place in ship shape first. You can do that by tomorrow afternoon, right? That’s what we pay you for.”

  Ross, you’re a Grade A two fisted jerkoff. An ambidextrous wanker-yanker.

  Erma turned her attention to Bob. “Tell me, Bob. What do you think?”

  “You want to know what I think?” Bob was shocked Erma would ask for his opinion. He glanced to see if she was sneaking swigs from her flask.

  “That’s right. You’re a very smart man. You’ve had a few months to contemplate events here at Murcat Manor. Six deaths in three months. Not to mention the nineteen poor souls who previously died on this property. The complete destruction of the cast from American Ghost Stories. And, for what it’s worth, we can add four dead cats to the total.”

  Bob looked around at Erma, Ross, Debbie, Clark, Raymond, and the Goths staring at him, expecting something, anything, that could help explain the bizarre events at Murcat Manor.

  “I’m not sure. At first, I was a skeptic. I thought these were coincidences.” Bob took Debbie’s hand, knowing she had the same questions.

  “But, having someone die in our bedroom? In our bed? We haven’t had time to think this through. Although I don’t believe in ghosts, now that I had time to think about it, this place may very well be cursed.”

  Bob, waiting for the caffeine to kick in, turned to Clark Hodgkins. “You’ve been silent. What do you think?”

  “It’s not what I think as much as what Erma thinks. She hired me.”

  “The recent surge in reservations from the fringe element is great,” Erma said, snapping herself out of her doldrums. “But it’s not going to last. Something else will come along to tickle the fans of American Ghost Stories and they’ll forget all about Murcat Manor.”

  She looked around the table. “Are any of you following me?”

  “Then we’ll think of something else,” Ross said.

  Erma shook her head. “That’s why I asked Clark Hodgkins to join us today. We have to be realistic. We need a backup plan. An exit strategy. And that’s where his expertise can help.”

  Erma stood and looked directly to Bob. “We have to consider selling Murcat Manor.”

  Ross came around the table and gave Erma a side hug and kissed on her forehead. “Now, now dear, let’s not get hasty. No need to hit the panic button.”

  “I h-have to admit, I’m fear … really fearful,” Debbie said, squeezing Bob’s hand in a death grip. “Coming h-home to a —a driveway full of police, and,” she sighed. “Another dead guest, this time in my very own bed, it’s just too much. I need a break.”

  “There, there, sweetie,” Ross said, pulling Debbie in with his free arm. “Don’t you worry about a thing. There’s nothing to be afraid of here. Just a bunch of old silly hooey superstition. That’s all. Murcat Manor is our cash cow. We’re not going to change anything.”

  Debbie let go of Bob’s hand and pulled away from Ross. She had never fended off a hug from her grandfather. Bob could see Debbie, like Erma, were ready to stand up to Ross and his greedy and demented schemes.

  That’s my girl.

  “Our movie date last night was our first time alone away from this place. And we come home to yet another corpse, this time in our bed.” Debbie looked to Clark Hodgkins. “Do you think you can sell Murcat Manor? I don’t want to live here anymore.”

  Clark didn’t hesitate. “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Stevens. I’ll put together what I think I can realistically list it for. After that, the four of you will have to sit down and decide what you want to do.”

  Ross pushed out his belly and patted it with both hands. “Well, you all can go on and worry about a bunch of superstitious nonsense. Me, I’m getting hungry.”

  Ross looked at Debbie with a manipulative smile. “Nothing a good old fashioned turkey meal from Cornwell’s won’t do to fix what’s ailing you.”

  Debbie looked up at her Grandfather, a glint of a smile forming. “Well, I guess so. A few hours away from this place will help. Thanks Grandpa.”

  Ross took Debbie by the hand. He walked around the table to Erma and tried to lead her to the front door. “Coming, dear?”

  Erma shook her head. “No. I’m feeling a bit under the weather. And my arthritis is acting up again. You all go. I’ll relax on the sofa in the living room.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Erma smiled and stood on her toes to kiss Ross. “Yes. You can bring me back a To-Go plate. I’m going to take a nap. I’ll feel better after that.”

  “That leaves you, Bob. Coming?”

  Again with the big, annoying, commercial smile. Ross was the last person, outside of Darrowby, he wanted to be with. Events were moving too fast. Bob needed time alone to recalibrate his senses and think things through.

  As mad as he was at Ross, he welcomed the break. He could use this time alone to his advantage. Ross and Erma, they were only slowing him down.

  Aside from that, Bob needed time to research the history of the property. Toss in four dead cats? He couldn’t shake the thought of some unforeseen activity at work. For once, he was in agreement with Erma.

  There was a presence in Murcat Manor he felt was hiding in plain view. Now that he admitted there was a force at his bed and breakfast he had no control over, it was time to uncover what it was and what he needed to do to take back authority of his bed and breakfast.

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m going to Western Michigan University’s library. I think I need to dig deeper into this property’s past. I know you can find a lot on the Internet, but I have a hunch there are occult types of occurrences, and strange bits of history, that could better be found—if they still exist anywhere at all—in the archives of a good old-fashioned library.”

  Ross was already halfway through the arched door and into the living room. “Suit yourself. But you’re wasting your time, my boy.”

  Debbie glanced back to the Goths and Vamps. “I’m not sure what time we’ll be back. There’s more leftovers from the refrigerator. Just be sure to clean up the dishes.”

  One of the Vamps tossed her sandwich on the table. “I hate turkey. And I’m bored. Murcat Manor sucks. I still haven’t seen a ghost. This place is false advertising. No one’s died today.”

  Before Bob could kick the freaks out of the kitchen, Erma gave the unruly brat a devious grin. “Day’s not over, yet.”

  Chapter 49 Old Faithful

  Erma Dempsey awoke to a stampeding rush of feet descending the stairs. She opened one eye to see the Goths and Vamps leaping the final few steps and pouring out into the foyer. Their black boots stomped across the travertine tile floor as they laughed and headed for the front door.

  Erma would have slapped the snot out of her kids if they’d run through her house like that.

  She took a deep breath and lifted her head. They were kids, barely eighteen. She surmised they lived off their parents’ money. No way these lost souls, looking and behaving in such a foolish manner, could find a job and support themselves.

  “The food here sucks,” the alpha male Goth said as he opened the front door.

  His girlfriend smacked him on the butt, all smiles. “Mickey Dees, here we come.”

  Erma sat up straight and put on a smile as she ran her hands through her hair and matted down her blouse. Perhaps, these kids, they’ve been neglected. Maybe they never received the love and discipline from their parents she gave to her kids. Erma thought there was something good inside most people. The spark of the divine simply needed to be massaged to the surf
ace. Then pummeled into submission, if necessary.

  She’d raised four children. Surely, these youngsters were not much different, regardless of their choice of clothing and makeup. And oh my goodness, all those absurd tattoos and body piercings. Their counter cultural preferences clearly told her they were desperate for someone, anyone, to notice them. That’s all.

  Erma would attempt to say something nice to them.

  “See ya, granny,” one of the Vamps said, pointing at her. “Don’t try to get up without your walker.”

  Erma’s words froze before they could roll off her tongue. The audacity of the delinquents’ actions stunned her. It was as if there were no repercussions for their conduct. Her kids had never spoken to her in such a disrespectful manner. They knew the consequences.

  But these weren’t her kids. She couldn’t whack them with a switch, so she blurted out the first words that came to mind.

  “Chill. I’m just trying to be cool, that’s all.”

  The lead Goth looked over his shoulder as he stepped out the front door. “Granny, the only time you should say chill and cool is in reference to knitting a sweater.”

  The rest laughed as they piled out onto the front porch. Not one of the eerie and mysterious lot bothered to close the door.

  Erma could only stare and mutter the words, “Disrespectful little bastards.”

  Erma had a good nap. But the afternoon was getting late. Ross and Debbie would be back soon. She opened her purse, knowing where to reach. Left side. Just behind her wallet. It was there in the same place. Just as it had been in every purse she owned over the past fifty years.

  Her trusty flask. A family heirloom, handed down to her from her grandmother on her wedding day. This precious gift was old school, where heritage and personality trumped mass production. A deep tan leather body molded by her grandfather’s hands stretched over the sterling silver container. A green Celtic cross with their family crest was imprinted into the aged parchment.

  She had a name for her flask: Old Faithful. Her best friend was always there to give courage and make her laugh during the most challenging of times. And today, she would need her companion’s help more than ever.