The Family Tree

by John Everson

  “Huh.” He said aloud. He sat back down in the chair, and watched the woods where the car had entered. He could just barely see the lights as they turned and drove along the edge of the forest. After a minute, they disappeared amid the trees.

  Scott sat there for a few more minutes, staring at the dark tree line. The moon illuminated the scrub grass at the edge of the forest, and after a while, a figure walked out of the woods. He leaned forward and squinted, trying to make out who it was. It was a big guy…maybe one of the handyman brothers–Agnes’s boys? The stocky figure moved quickly down the trail towards the inn, and disappeared.

  “Interesting,” he murmured to himself, and packed up the laptop. Time to call it a day, he decided.

  Chapter Twelve

  Scott met Ellen in the hall, who scolded him for missing dinner, but then took him back to the kitchen to fix a roast beef sandwich. He thanked her, and took that and a bottle of homebrew ale back to his room, claiming exhaustion. In truth, he really did just want to go to bed; the day staring at the screen had taken its toll. He ate the sandwich and was yawning before he’d finished half the bottle of ale.

  His leg was a little sore from sitting in one spot for so long…as were his stomach muscles. He knew why his stomach was tender, and it had nothing to do with sitting still…it had everything to do with three women. At that, he glanced up at his bedroom door. The last thing he wanted tonight was Caroline using her skeleton key to come in and “comfort” him. He hated to admit it, but he needed a night alone. So much for being a stud, he thought.

  Scott hoisted himself up from the bed and slipped in the chain latch on the door. She might have a key to the lock, but she didn’t have one that would remove the chain! Then he stripped and slid beneath the sheets, moaning at the feel. There was nothing that felt as good as that first minute when you slipped into bed and let the mattress suck you in after a long day. He turned out the table lamp next to the bed, and closed his eyes.

  And ironically, couldn’t get to sleep.

  His stomach was full, and his head warmly fuzzy from the ale, but sleep didn’t come. He lay there, thinking through all of the work he’d done during the day, and wondering about the car he’d seen driving into the woods. And about why three different women here were chasing him when he couldn’t get laid at home to save his life. Was it really just because he was the new boss in town, and everyone wanted to stake a claim? That seemed utterly ridiculous, when framed that way. Was it just that everyone here slept with everyone else because of the aphrodisiac impact of the ale?

  A faint sound of metal clinked from the door. Scott rolled to his side. The light from the moon gave enough blue light to the room that he could just make out the doorknob turning. And then the wood moved, and made a faint rasping sound as the chain caught and stopped it from opening. A splinter of dull light from the hallway fell across the bed. “Scott,” a soft feminine voice called. “Are you awake? I just came by to check on you.”

  It was Caroline.

  He didn’t answer. She whispered his name twice more, and then the light disappeared from his bed. The door clicked shut again.

  He’d dodged that one.

  He wondered if there would be knocks from the other two as the night went on. Visits from his three “ghosts” of sex nights past! The thought made him snort, as he pictured each of them in flimsy white see-through silken outfits, ghosting it up as they glided across the room, coming after him with nipples erect and tongues hungry…this time, when he rolled over, he did slip into sleep, with a smile on his face.

  When he woke again, it was due to the pressure in his bladder. The beer Ellen had given him had been a tall and was now ready to leave his system. He tried to ignore it, but finally shoved himself up and shambled to the small bathroom.

  On his way back to bed, he heard voices in the hallway.

  Laughter.

  He looked at the clock, which read past eleven. Curious, he stepped to the door, and undid the latch. Carefully, he turned the knob and opened it just a crack. Pressing his eye to the crack, he could see that walking down the hall was a group of people, some familiar, some not. They had just passed his room. Sherrilyn’s voice rose above the murmurs, and he picked her out easily in the crowd, a dark-haired man walking beside her. They were all talking animatedly, some linked arm-in-arm. He saw Rocky was with them too, and the brothers.

  He remembered the night before, passing the room where it had sounded like an after-hours party was going on. Was there a steady, secret nightlife going on here at the inn? Part of him imagined a subterranean disco down there, and he laughed at the image of Ellen, walking across a black floor lit with red and blue spotlights, serving beer from her home-crafted bottles.

  Scott’s curiosity was piqued, and he pulled on his shorts and a baggy T-shirt. Then he stepped out of the room and followed the now-distant murmur of voices down the hall. Were they going to the same place?

  He followed the sounds down one hall and then saw the group disappear down another. They were heading back to the older area of the inn, where there seemed to be no guest rooms. But there were stairways to the eyrie, and the basement of bones.

  Scott stopped when he reached a turn in the hall. The group was several doors down, and one of the men was holding up a bottle and calling for a toast. Two middle-aged women were kissing and hugging Agnes’s boys against the wall, as Sherrilyn keyed open a door.

  “Let the night begin,” she called out, above the din of the group, and with a rush, the hallway emptied. Scott counted eleven people before Sherrilyn slipped inside the entryway herself and pulled the door shut. He waited a beat, and then walked to stand near the doorway. It was the same place where he’d heard the voices last night. Once they were inside, the laughter seemed to escalate briefly, and then the sounds died down. Someone called out, “Yes, that’s it,” and as he pressed his ear to the door, Scott swore he heard a moan of passion coming from beyond.

  His cock stirred at the thought, and he was tempted to try the door to see exactly what was going on in this late night “party room”. Was Sherrilyn making out with someone? Why did the thought make him just a twinge jealous? He imagined the whole party getting drunk and naked just steps beyond the door.

  Scott pulled his head away. No. He’d vowed to give the libido a rest tonight, and he didn’t need to walk into an orgy uninvited. If that was what was really going on here.

  He backed away and walked quickly to his room. He fell asleep with visions of bacchanalian excess painting his dreams.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When he went to the Family Table for breakfast, Agnes was there. She was eating a muffin, and sipping from a china cup as he filled his plate with slices of melon and his cup with a stream of coffee. When he sat down across the table from her, he realized that the old woman was staring at him.

  He ignored her at first, and then finally put down his fork, and met her gaze. As soon as he did, she nodded. As if she’d been waiting for him to give her his attention.

  “You should never skip dinner, boy. Not good fer ya. Work as hard as you want in the day, but the night is for food, and play. Keep ya balanced. Hear me?”

  With that, she stood up. “Best see ya at this table tonight. And after, if there’s someone who wants your company, you’d best take it. A man’s not meant to be lonely. Ain’t natural.”

  Scott’s eyes must have bugged out of his head, but she didn’t notice. She set her cup on the sideboard and slowly exited the room.

  Did Agnes really know that Caroline had come to his room last night, and been refused? Would Caroline really have told anyone that?

  Stranger and stranger.

  After he finished his coffee, Scott decided to get a breath of air. Ellen was busy in the lobby, checking a couple new guests in, so he passed by the desk easily without getting caught in conversation. Outside, the morning was still just a little brisk,
but it felt good. Scott couldn’t get over how clean the air smelled here. He’d never thought Chicago had dirty-smelling air but now…he wondered what home would be like when he smelled it again.

  He wandered across the porch of the inn, the boards creaking faintly with every step. He noticed the blue Honda parked near the entryway. Probably the new guests, he thought, and glanced at the license plate. North Carolina. Not too far from home.

  Scott stepped off the porch and walked away from the inn, backpedaling now and then just to get the whole picture of the place. Even after being here several days, he was amazed at the height and girth of the Family Tree. It was a behemoth. And he had no idea what kind of tree it was. The leaves were wide like a maple, but longish, like an oak. He’d never seen another like it.

  He hadn’t intended to end up there, but Scott realized after wandering the yard a bit that he was on the faint foot-worn path that led into the forest. He was enjoying the walk, so he went with it, following the path into the shade of the trees. The temperature instantly dropped ten degrees once he was within the tree line, but he followed the trail around to the right and kept walking. He wondered if Rocky and Jerry were out hiking in the area. He guessed that if they were out, they’d likely be far away, taking on higher climbs than this. He was simply skirting the area.

  It was the same route he’d taken when he’d first arrived. The same route he’d watched the car take in the dark last night.

  Some parts of the trail seemed too narrow for a car to get through, but as he looked, he could see the indentations of tire tracks in the mud here and there. And when he reached the big log that blocked the way, the tracks became much more distinct, and a trail of crushed brush and branches marked the way the car had gone.

  He knew where the tracks were going, but something made him have to see.

  Scott passed the graveyard of old clothes and presently stood in front of the clearing filled with old rusted cars. And a few newer models.

  Including one parked just off the trail. He could see the tracks he’d been following led right to its back tires. It was a silver Hyundai, and not more than a year or two old. But it sat here, abandoned in the forest. The license plates read The Birthplace of Aviation, above the state’s name: Ohio.

  Why was it here? Scott wondered. He walked around the car, and saw nothing unusual. It certainly wasn’t a wreck. But with this “parking spot”, it obviously wasn’t intended to be on the road again any time soon…if ever at all.

  Why dump them here? You could sell a car for scrap and at least make a few bucks on the deal. And this one was worth a lot more than scrap.

  Scott felt a chill in his belly. The kind that warned that…something bad was afoot. He didn’t waste time debating the instinct. He cleared the clearing, and put as much distance between the auto graveyard and himself as he could.

  Someone had put those cars there, and it wasn’t because they were worn out. Someone at the inn didn’t want them to be found.

  But why?

  The inn was quiet when Scott stepped back inside. Where’d everybody go? he wondered, but a quick look out the other side of the porch answered that question. Someone was running the small rusted tractor in the field on the other side of the driveway from the front of the inn. The tractor towed what looked like a giant rake, tilling rows in the earth. Meanwhile, in the rows already furrowed, a half dozen backs were showing themselves to the sun, as the denizens of the inn planted the field with what Scott assumed was corn. He could make out Ellen’s pear-shape, beneath a floppy tan hat, as well as the lithe form of Caroline. And a feather of strawberry hair blew in the breeze and caught the sun. Even Sherrilyn was out there sweating with the rest. He wouldn’t have believed that she would get her perfect fingernails down in the dirt, but there she was. There were men too; he assumed two of the distant shapes were Agnes’s boys. So I own a farm as well as an inn, he thought with mild amusement.

  He slipped into the warm rustic foyer of the inn, and looked at the empty front desk at the edge of the room. What happened if one of the guests needed help? Spoken like a manager, a voice in his head laughed. But just as the thought crossed his mind, he saw the answer. A white piece of paper was folded and perched like a name placard on the front of the dark wood of the desk. When he stepped closer he saw that it read, If you need assistance, please come out to the front field of the inn. We’re getting this year’s crop laid in.

  Scott walked behind the front desk, running his hand along the smooth rounded edge. He felt like an intruder here, but he reminded himself of Sherrilyn’s frequent assertion that this was all his now. He was the big boss, not Ellen. So this front desk belonged to him. Not that he wanted to stand behind it and fill out paperwork, issue keys and process guests in and out who were staying at the hotel each day. Still, he wondered what it felt like to be the maven of the inn. Ellen had apparently done it for longer than he’d been alive. He stood behind the desk and rested his hands on the edge of the varnished top, staring out towards the front door. An old grandfather clock ticked softly in the corner, breaking the otherwise perfect, muffled silence.

  Scott looked idly at the piles of paper tucked away in the hidden cubbies of the desk, and even pulled the drawers out. Pens, staples, pads of paper, stamps, envelopes, a rubber thimble…nothing of interest.

  But then he saw the key hooks. They were arranged in rows low on the short wall to his right. There were scores of them, all with small numbers printed on white paper squares above the hooks. 34, 65, 101, 102, 305…below each number, a long bronze key hung from a metal hoop. Just like the key Scott had to his own room, no surprise there.

  Then he saw another hook, closer to his hand. This one held several keys, and they all had the same red-stripe pattern on them that Caroline’s key did. He picked one up and looked it over. If he was right, this was the skeleton key…the universal entry key to the entire hotel. Handy for hotel staff, but a little worrisome for the tenants.

  All the keys appeared identical. He picked one up, and slipped it into his pocket. Could come in handy. He’d run into several locked doors over the past couple days that he—as the new owner!—should have been able to open. He didn’t want to make any big deal about access and be seen as the “snooping” new landlord, and now he wouldn’t have to, if this key worked as he suspected. He’d be as free to quietly take a look at whatever he wanted in his new home away from home. He thought of the after-hours party room right away.

  In fact…

  He walked away from the desk and looked outside, confirming that everyone was still out in the field. Then he walked down the corridor beyond the desk to what he’d begun to think of as the hall of secrets. Secret bone yard, secret party room, secret stairs to the roof…who knew what else? There were several locked doors in that hallway.

  He turned the corner and slowed. The sunlight dappled the deep red carpet in long arrows of fire. But despite the light, the dark wood of the paneled walls kept the corridor dark. Shadowed. He walked a few feet to the first door, and then looked back over his shoulder, making sure the coast was clear. He felt like a thief. Even if he did have full right to look into the cubbyholes of this inn, he still felt as if he were trespassing. He didn’t need to ask permission of Ellen, yet he still felt like he should. But part of him wanted to discover the inner stories of the inn on his own. He’d stalled in reading the diary of his ancestor’s daughter, Margaret. Aside from the Indian massacre, her journal held no more interest than any other teenager’s would.

  The key turned in the lock almost of its own accord.

  The first door in the hall of “secret” doors opened without complaint. And when he looked inside, he saw a walk-in closet holding only the sorts of things that you’d expect to find in a hall closet: buckets, broom heads, stacks of light bulbs on shelves. Not too exciting.

  He closed and relocked the door.

  Then he moved to the second door. Thi
s time, when the knob turned and the door opened, he found a different result. This wasn’t a storage closet. Stairs led up and out of sight. Scott considered following them, but then opted to come back to explore this entry later. He had been to the eyrie following a similar set of stairs just a few doors down. These likely led to the same general area.

  He closed the door and moved on to the next.

  He’d been anxious to reach this one. It was where he had seen Sherrilyn and her group disappear the night before. The “Party Room”. What was in the room where they had been going with such excitement?

  He slipped the key in the lock and smiled to himself. He was going to find out.

  But as he turned the key and heard the lock click, a voice called to him from the end of the hallway.

  “Mr. Belvedere, what are you doing down here?”

  Scott took his hand from the door and turned to see the elderly Agnes, staring at him from the end of the hallway. She seemed to be everywhere today.

  He let the skeleton key slip unseen into his palm, and sent her a wide grin.

  “I was just wondering what was back here,” he said. “But the door appears to be locked!” he said.

  “I’m sure Ellen could open it for you, if you are interested,” she said. “But I can tell you there’s nothing there you’re going to want to see. Just old storage closets down this hall. Closets filled with forgotten things. You’d be surprised at how much stuff gets accumulated over one hundred and fifty-plus years of running an inn.”

  He knew that the door he stood in front of was definitely not a storage closet.

  “I’m sure,” he agreed. “I bet you’ve seen some interesting things here over the years.”

  She nodded. “You learn many interesting stories. Just when you think people can’t surprise you anymore…someone comes along with a new twist.”

  “I bet,” he said. “What’s your story?”

  Agnes smirked. “If you stay in one place long enough, you’ll grow moss. I’ve got the green spots to prove it.”