Where the Wild Things Bite (Half-Moon Hollow #8)

by Molly Harper

  The Possum’s Nest was fading from its former glory. The roof was tiled in dull, chipped brown slate, and the once-creamy stucco on the walls was riddled with cracks. A water fountain stood next to the oversized carved front door, empty and split down the middle. Tree limbs lay scattered around the grounds, looking eerily like spindly arms reaching from under the earth. Even stranger, there was no one in sight. Not one car in the gravel parking lot. All of those windows—without curtains—and we couldn’t see a soul. And for some reason, that filled me with a sense of foreboding, as in “standing outside of the Bates Motel” foreboding. Maybe even “checking into the Overlook” foreboding. It definitely ranked high in terms of bathtub murder potential.

  “What is this place?” I whispered.

  “I’m just glad you see it, too,” Finn whispered back. “Because I’m pretty sure this is one of those ghost buildings that only appears when it’s hungry for more souls.”

  “Maybe there is different, less frightening civilization nearby,” I whispered, turning around to see a huge gray form looming over me.

  “JEE-sus!” I yelped, throwing myself back into Finn’s arms.

  The gray shape turned out to be an eight-foot-tall concrete possum, painted in lifelike colors, with oversized, bulging white eyes and pink rat tail. The exaggeration made the statue look more like a large, aggressive Chihuahua, looming over us with raised Frankenstein-posed arms. And he was one of three. He had several possum buddies frozen in mid-lurch behind him.

  “Why?” Finn said, shaking his head. “Why would anyone do this?”

  “I think we should run,” I told him. “Now.”

  “I would, but I’m paralyzed with fear right now.”

  “You eat possums!” I whispered fiercely.

  “And now they’re back for revenge!”

  Behind us, the front door opened, and a small, thin figure stood silhouetted against the light. “Hello?”

  Finn stepped closer, carefully eyeing the elderly proprietress. She looked like a tiny goblin woman, wizened and white-haired, wearing a fuzzy pink cardigan and pleated khakis and a possum pin at her shoulder. She was adorable. I was no longer sure that I trusted adorable.

  The woman gave a little wave. “Hello.”

  I froze. I’d forgotten how to talk to people who weren’t trying to swindle or kill me. How did you make small talk? What was I supposed to say? What tone of voice should I use? Also, is it considered rude to ask someone if they are planning to lure you into their potentially evil hotel and imprison you until it was time to bake you into a pie?

  “We were hoping to use your phone,” I said. “And all of your indoor facilities. You do have indoor plumbing, right?”

  Finn shot me an incredulous glance. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. She’s had a long day. Travel makes her sort of loopy.”

  “Oh, isn’t that sweet, you’re honeymooners. You’d have to be, to be all snuggled up like that,” she said, nodding at the way Finn was still cradling me in his arms. We glanced down at our dirtied, ragged clothes and exchanged a concerned look. Could she not see how disheveled we were? Maybe that was why those possums were so exaggerated. Her eyes were so far gone she could only see horrifically cartoonish features. Her glasses were so thick maybe we could hand her an index card and convince her that it was an American Express.

  How exactly were we supposed to play this? It seemed wrong not to tell her that we’d survived a plane crash and a survival hike from hell. But what if the shapeshifters came looking for Ernie or, worse, came looking for us? Surely they would notice police cars and ambulances and federal aviation vehicles parked in front of the Possum’s Nest. We could be putting her in jeopardy if we gave her our real names. Worse, we could be putting ourselves in danger, which was against my personal policy. Also, the woman had giant concrete possums in her front yard, which didn’t exactly speak well for her sanity/potential evil.

  “You are married, aren’t you?” the woman asked sternly. “I don’t allow for couples to sleep together here unless they’re married. This isn’t some backwoods love shack.”

  “Oh, of course,” I said, quickly. “Just married.”

  “Yaaaay, marriage,” Finn added in a strained voice that made me snicker.

  “It’s so nice to see a young couple in love,” she cooed. “Come in, come in.”

  “Play along,” I whispered, as she opened the door for us.

  “You’re insane,” he whispered back. But he played the part of the doting husband, carrying me through the door bridal-style. The parlor centered around a large fieldstone fireplace, flanked by old Civil War reproduction couches and dark wood furniture. The large picture window framed a brass birdcage. Inside was a taxidermied rooster. The little old woman tottered behind a large maple sideboard she was using as a registration desk and pulled open a leather portfolio. A little brass sign near the registration table stated “Mrs. Maybelline McCreary, Proprietress.”

  “Now, do you have a reservation?” she asked. And despite the additional light from the refurbished oil lamps, she did not seem to register our dirty, disheveled appearance. I had to wonder how well she saw or if she was just being polite.

  “No, ma’am. We just happened upon the place,” I said.

  “Stumbled right into it,” Finn added, prompting me to elbow him in the ribs, making him chuckle.

  “Name?”

  “David Seever. S-E-E-V-E-R,” Finn piped up before I could say anything.

  Mrs. McCreary flipped through her reservations book, mulling over the list of rooms as if it was going to be a struggle to fit us in, despite the fact that the inn’s parking lot had been completely empty. “Breakfast is at seven and lasts until eleven. We don’t accommodate vegetarians.”

  The disdain in her voice made me want to snicker, but I didn’t think Mrs. McCreary would appreciate that.

  “Actually, my wife is pretty hungry. Is there any chance she could get something from the kitchen?” Finn asked.

  Mrs. McCreary looked me over, still totally oblivious to my dirtied, disheveled state, which made me doubt the effectiveness of those bottle-thick bifocals of hers. “I’ll send up a cheese sandwich,” she said, sniffing.

  “Thank you,” I said politely. “Would you mind if I used your phone?”

  “It’s not a long-distance call, is it? Those charges apply to your bill,” she said, peering at me over the rims of her glasses. “As well as late-night room service.”

  “I understand,” I told her solemnly.

  “Phone’s in the breakfast nook,” she told me, nodding to a dining table surrounded by a frightening number of silk floral arrangements. And porcelain dolls. And ceramic teapots.

  Despite my urge to cling to Finn’s side, I turned to him and said, “I’ll just pop over to call Jane. You take care of the room, honey.”

  Finn took out his wallet, which was still damp and water-spotted. His cash was probably a loss, but the plastic would still work. He took out a black credit card, and I noted that it had been issued to a David Seever. And I chose to ignore it, because, at this point, credit card fraud was the least of my worries.

  “Send her my love,” Finn muttered, as I hurried toward the phone.

  For a moment, I stared at the old rotary model, wondering if I had the muscle memory required to actually dial the antique. I marveled at the weight of the receiver and immediately missed my cell phone. The idea of a phone without apps was vaguely grotesque.

  I dialed the number I’d memorized from Jane’s business card.

  “Specialty Books,” a voice drawled into the phone.

  “Hi, may I speak with Jane Jameson-Nightengale, please?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Jane?” I sighed. “This is Anna Whitfield.”

  “Very funny, jackass,” Jane barked into the phone. “You read the news coverage just like everybody else. Congratulations. I’ll have you know that Anna Whitfield was a sweet, intelligent woman who deserved a better fate. She definitely deserved better t
han to be memorialized by morons who can’t even be clever about their prank calls.”

  A wave of fondness washed over me. Other than Rachel, I didn’t think anyone had ever spoken on my behalf like that, all fierce, righteous loyalty. Jane was good people.

  “Jane, I swear, it’s me. I survived the crash with another passenger. I’ve been wandering in the woods for the last few days. We just now managed to find an inn, which is creepy, and I would like to not stay here overnight if it’s at all possible. Because I think the owner may be a part of some sort of possum-worshipping cult.”

  The other end of the line was silent.

  I tried again. “Ask me anything, something that only the real Anna Whitfield would know.”

  “If this is really Anna, what book did I promise to lend her when she reached my shop?”

  I thought back to our phone conversations, those lovely exchanges that had made me think maybe I’d found a kindred spirit. They seemed a lifetime ago, before the crash, before my world got turned inside out. And I realized I would forever define my life in two sections, Before the Crash and After the Crash. This wacky misadventure had changed me in ways I didn’t even understand yet. It would take time and sleep and a lot of therapy to determine how much of that change I wanted to hold on to.

  “Uh, you didn’t promise to lend me anything, but you said you would show me your first-edition copy of Frankenstein. Which you keep in a glass case in your house, because you don’t trust the shop’s security system. Also, because someone named Georgie likes to drink mugs of dessert blood while she reads, and you’re convinced she would leave thumbprints all over it. I don’t think I would be allowed to touch it in this scenario, but I could look at it really closely.”

  Again, my ear was met with dead air. Then “Anna,” and Jane sighed, her voice trembling.

  I grinned, though I knew she couldn’t see me. “Yeah?”

  “Oh, Anna! I’m so— I can’t believe it! Are you OK?”

  “I wouldn’t say OK, but I didn’t lose myself to pine-tree madness. That’s saying something.” Jane’s laugh was shrill and a little manic, with a teary hiccup at the end. It felt very weird to be joking about our ordeal like this, when I probably deserved a nice, messy breakdown. But it felt good to make someone laugh about it.

  Jane cleared her throat. “How did you— Are you hurt? Where— Did anyone else surv— I swear, I’ll stop sputtering out questions in just a minute. It’s just that I’ve never dealt with a person returning from the dead. I mean, technically, I have, but they always come back as vampires or ghosts. You aren’t a vampire or a ghost, right? Because that’s the sort of thing you should definitely tell me. It definitely changes how I handle the situation.”

  “I’m human, Jane. I promise. Hungry and tired but human.”

  “Who do I need to call? I don’t even know what to do right now. If this was a vampire situation, I would call Dick or myself, but humans probably have all sorts of rules about reporting plane-crash survivors. Maybe I should call a lawyer. Or the Park Service. Or the—”

  “Jane!” I shouted through the phone, drawing a glare from Mrs. McCreary.

  “Sorry,” Jane said. “I’m sorry. I just felt so guilty, Anna, knowing that your plane crashed because you were coming to meet me. I felt like it was my fault that you were gone. It’s just been awful. I’m probably going to overcorrect and be sort of clingy for the next few nights. I will ignore all of your boundaries, but it will be rooted in guilt and a lame attempt to make up for my home state trying to murder you. Now, back to my original questions: Are you OK? How did you survive? Do I need to call a doctor for you?”

  “I’m not hurt. I’m just tired and starving and need to bathe forever. How I survived is a story for a long evening, spent devouring fruity vodka drinks and ice cream.”

  Jane laughed. “Well, I promise to have plenty of both on hand for you when we get you to the Hollow. And how about the other passenger? Is he or she OK?”

  I craned my neck to look at Finn, who was still chatting amiably with Mrs. McCreary. He’d said that he and Jane didn’t get along well. Should I tell her that he was my camping companion or just let that problem sort itself out when Jane arrived? At this point, Jane was glad that I was alive. I didn’t want to change that right away. “The other passenger is fine. You might want to bring up a supply of blood for him.”

  “Oh, so one of my constituents, then. Can you give me some information about him?”

  I shook my head. Nope, they were going to have to handle that themselves. “He should probably introduce himself,” I said.

  “Are you sure you’re OK? He’s not standing there with his fangs to your throat or something, is he?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. But I figure the two of you should work out any vampire-y issues yourselves. I am unqualified.”

  “That seems fair. I hate to be crude at a tender, bonding moment like this, but did you manage to hold on to the book? I only ask because I promised a friend he could show it to his family.”

  “I did. In fact, I would discourage you from calling the authorities, considering some of the events that led to the crash. If someone else hears that we’re alive and gets here before you do, I’m not sure what would happen.”

  “You are amazing. So where are you?”

  “An extremely off-putting hotel called the Possum’s Nest.” I picked up a phone book and added, “It is located in a town called Cooter Holler. What are the odds of those two words being combined into a town name?”

  “It’s Kentucky, so a better-than-average chance.”

  I could hear papers rustling in the background and keys jingling. Jane’s voice was muffled, so I assumed the phone was smashed against her face while she scrambled around. “We will be there as quickly as possible. Cooter Holler is on the far side of Murphy, about an hour’s drive from the Hollow. We could get there quicker, but Peter has the Council helicopter.”

  “Bring fresh clothes,” I told her. “Two sets for two tall adults. We’ve been wearing the same stuff for days. Remember that we’re both lanky people.”

  “Sure, no problem. See you soon. Wait, who is it—” Jane said, just as I hung up.

  Yawning widely, I looked at the map of western Kentucky on the back of the phone book. I found Half-Moon Hollow and was shocked to see that it was the biggest city on this side of the state. How small were the other towns? I traced my finger across the green space labeled Lakelands Nature Preserve to find Cooter Holler. It took me a while, because Cooter Holler was a tiny speck almost hidden under a spot of bacon grease. We were right on the edge of the nature preserve.

  I smiled, hugging the phone book to my chest. We’d made it.

  I tried to dial Rachel’s number, a number I knew by heart, but when I punched the last number, the line went dead. I dialed again, with the same results—a dead line. Disgruntled, I hung up the receiver and returned to the front desk.

  Finn was diligently filling out a very extensive guest registry card. He was firmly entrenched in his charming social mode, the same roguish persona he’d presented to me when we’d met on the plane. And Mrs. McCreary was lapping it up, leaning on the counter, smiling absently while she hung on every word. If Finn had a British accent, the old lady might have torn his clothes off right then and there.

  “Auntie Jane says hello,” I told him, smiling sweetly as I looped my arm through his.

  “Oh, good,” he said in a dry, unenthusiastic tone. He kissed my temple like a good little husband and signed the registration card with a flourish.

  The dreamy expression evaporated from Mrs. McCreary’s face as I stepped into her line of sight. Apparently, my appearance had ruined her mental image of Finn’s wedding. To her.

  “Mrs. McCreary, I tried to make a second call, but the phone line went dead.”

  With a sour expression, Mrs. McCreary said, “Our phone system doesn’t allow more than one long-distance call within a thirty-minute period from the guest extensions, to keep costs down.”r />
  “You’re still using actual metal keys, but you have a phone system that polices your long-distance calls?”

  Mrs. McCreary sniffed. “If you want unlimited phone minutes, go to a Verizon store.”

  My mouth dropped open to respond, but Finn defused the situation by slipping his arm around me and dangling the metal key in front of me. “We’re in the Wildcat Room. Every room is themed around one of Mrs. McCreary’s favorite woodland animals. Squirrels, deer, raccoons. But we get the Wildcat.”

  Mrs. McCreary turned her gaze on Finn and smiled sweetly. “The Wildcat Room is our very best. I installed the liner paper in the drawers myself.”

  “We certainly appreciate your attention to detail,” Finn said in that improbably sincere way that turned a girl’s knees to water.

  She tittered. I’d never actually heard someone titter before, but she did it in a girlish fashion only seen in creepy anime.

  Somehow I managed to get her attention without snapping my fingers in her face. “Mrs. McCreary, we may have some visitors coming along in the next few hours.”

  Mrs. McCreary’s mouth twisted into a distasteful moue. “Late check-ins are extra.”

  She slid the receipt for the credit card transaction across the desk. My eyes went wide when I saw the total and the six additional charge lines for towels, sheets, late check-in, and other “luxuries.” I hoped Finn had an accountant who would be able to get the expense refunded on his taxes. If Finn paid taxes. That seemed unlikely.

  “What isn’t extra at the Possum’s Nest?” I asked her.

  Mrs. McCreary’s pinched expression relaxed as she gave Finn another sugary smile. “But I’ll allow it just this once.”

  I wasn’t sure I appreciated the way Mrs. McCreary was ogling my fake vampire husband. If my morning coffee smelled of burnt almonds, I would not drink it.

  “You enjoy your evening,” Mrs. McCreary simpered as I placed my foot on the creaky bottom step.

  “Oh, I’m sure we will,” I purred back at her, because she deserved to think I was planning on taking Finn upstairs for some glorious honeymoon sex.