Last Girl Ghosted(45)
He went deeper into the space with the lamp, and I followed him past rows of canned goods. I recognized some of the jams I’d made with my mother, her careful handwriting on the labeled jars—blueberry, strawberry, grape. Cans of tuna, sardines, beans, and beans and more beans—black, baked, pinto, garbanzo, navy—stood in tiny organized rows. Yams, apple sauce, peanut butter—giant tubs. Sacks of rice were stuffed into plastic containers. Rows of batteries, jugs of water. It seemed like enough to last a lifetime. Where had it all come from? Some of it was covered in dust; other items seemed new.
My father unlocked another door. Inside this deeper room, he held up the lantern.
I drew in a breath. Weapons. Bows and arrows, all manner of knives from serrated hunting knives to machetes. And an enormous stockpile of guns—semiautomatics, rifles, assault weapons, pistols, and rounds and rounds of ammunition. My throat went dry.
“Why do we need so many guns? Guns are for killing.”
A heavy hand on the crown of my head. “Because in the end, only those who can defend themselves will survive, little bird.”
“Defend against who?”
I looked up at him, sure that he was going to say something like aliens or zombies, the diseased undead.
“Each other.”
Something about the way he said it, the flat quality to his gaze made my whole body tingle.
That night I would dream of zombies and the sky turning red, running from a faceless demon through the trees, a demon who turned out to be my father.
Now, as I pull off the highway, the roads get smaller and smaller, until I’m on the one that will lead me right back to the place from which I am forever running.
The newspaper article I found in the box of your things is yellow and creased, lying on the passenger seat.
On the radio, David Bowie sings about the starman in the sky.
A sign by the side of the road reads: Welcome to The Hollows.
I pull onto Main Street and drive though the pretty square.
The Hollows is a picture postcard of a town, one of those places where people from the city come for the weekend to visit pumpkin patches, and pick apples, and drink cider, watch the leaves perform their wild color show of gold and amber, flame red, and bright orange. Quaint, they might call it. Peaceful. Bucolic. The tony boutiques selling local crafts and art and wool blankets from sheep up the road, the yoga studio bright and spare with white oak floors, the upscale coffee shop with its cold brews and gluten-free scones will seduce. It’s the kind of place urban dwellers long for when they imagine that simpler life.
But that’s not what I see when I come here. There’s another side to The Hollows. One a casual weekend visitor might not see. Bad things happen here—more than other places. A simple internet search will confirm that I’m not being dramatic. Bad things certainly happened to me here.
Something inside me is tight, my shoulders tense. I remind myself to breathe as I move out of the square and The Blue House Inn rises on my right. It’s a big Victorian house painted the color of the sky, turned charming B and B.
I park my car in its small lot and head inside. On summer weekends, I might have called ahead, knowing that it would be booked. But the season has passed, and a gray ceiling has settled over the town. The trees have shed their leaves, leaving black branches reaching into the sky. Besides, there’s always a room for me here. The proprietor and I have a long-standing relationship.
Darkness begins to fall around 3:30 p.m. in the winter months. Why does it always feel colder here? A damp chill makes me shiver as I take my luggage from the car.
But when I enter the lobby, a little bell announcing my arrival, the space is warm and cozy, with a fire crackling. Wingback chairs and an overstuffed couch, oil paintings of area landmarks on the wall, shelves and shelves of books. The head of a deer hangs over the hearth, eyes glassy and confused at the way of things. Why do people think it’s okay to do that, to hang the heads of dead animals on the wall?
The bespectacled young woman at the check-in desk looks up from her phone, surprised that anyone has come in at all. There’s a textbook and laptop beside her. When she puts her device down, I can see that she’s on Torch, sorting through the catalog of hopeful faces. I want to warn her off, but I hold my tongue. No one appreciates unsolicited advice. We all like to learn our lessons the hard way, don’t we?
“Is room 33 available?” I ask. It’s the largest room, one with a sitting area, a fireplace, a desk by the window.
She pushes up her glasses, offers a wry smile. “Every room is available.”
“I’ll need it for a few days at least.”
Tucking a strand of her long, auburn hair behind her ear, she tells me that there are no guests on the calendar, enters my name when I give it into the computer.
“You’ve been here before,” she says. “Is your information the same?”
I confirm that it is and after some keyboard clicking, she hands me a gold key.
“You can stay as long as you like,” she says. “Just let us know when you’re ready to check out.”
Thanking her, I shoulder my bag.
“Can I help?” she asks. She glances back at her phone, eager I’m sure to get back to the addictive activity of boy shopping.
“Thanks. I can manage.”
I walk through the sitting room and down the hallway, floorboards creaking, the scent of lilac in the air.