The Inn (4 page)

A
nnabel started the car and backed out of the driveway. She wasn't very good at driving; there was never a need in the city. But she'd gotten her license because sometimes she'd needed to drive when they'd go out on photo shoots in the Hamptons or in Connecticut. She didn't necessarily enjoy being behind the wheel of a car, but right now the idea of getting on the road, away from the house, seemed blissful.

Jack had agreed it was a good idea for her to go down to the market and get some groceries. “It will clear your head,” he'd told her.

As a vegetarian, Annabel was going to need some other provisions in the refrigerator besides leftover rabbit stew if she was going to survive. There was a market down at the end of the road, and Jack had told her to buy everything she wanted.

What she wanted was freedom. But Annabel couldn't figure out a way to buy that.

She steered the SUV down the twisting country lane. The misshapen trees on either side of the road terrified her. They reminded her of Cordelia's arthritic hands. She tried to concentrate on her driving, but Annabel's heart was still thudding in her ears from the scare she'd had.

She let out a deep breath.

No
, she told herself. It was not Tommy Tricky. It was another hallucination, like the ones she'd had during rehab and immediately after. Her therapists had found she was prone to hallucinations. She would begin to imagine that nothing was safe around her. Her therapist, Dr. Adler, had kept telling her, over and over, “You are safe, Annabel. Nothing can hurt you.” But she had gone through periods where she had been absolutely convinced that she was unsafe—that everything and everyone around her was out to get her.

Getting off the drugs hadn't been easy. There were times she'd thought she was going mad. She saw snakes coming through the floorboards. She'd thought the apartment was on fire one horrifying night. None of it had been real, and the little blue boy she'd seen wasn't real, either.

Annabel was going to replace that sign no matter what anybody said. Screw tradition. She wanted it down.

Her stepfather had been a sadistic son of a bitch. How could he have terrified a little girl the way he did? Whenever he wanted to get a rise out of Annabel, he'd say, “Watch out for Tommy Tricky!” How she wished her mother had put a stop to it. But her mother was weak. She had just let that horrible man continue torturing her daughter. “Look behind you,” Daddy Ron would say. “I think I see ol' Tommy creepin' up on ya.”

And then he'd laugh—a giant guffaw—as Annabel would start to cry.

When Daddy Ron had been drinking, it was even worse. He got angry so quickly after he'd had a few beers. He looked for excuses to punish Annabel. One time, when her mother had gone out, Annabel had dropped the milk carton as she was putting it away. It had spilled on the kitchen floor, an ocean of milk spreading across the tiles. The next thing she knew her stepfather was screaming at her. He grabbed her by the shirt and dragged her down the hall to the linen closet. He shoved her inside and locked the door. Annabel had sat in the darkness, knees pulled up to her chest, sobbing as Daddy Ron taunted her from outside.

“Tommy Tricky is in there with you! He's got his sharp little axe! He likes to chop up bad little girls and eat them for lunch!”

Mom had let Annabel out of the closet when she got home, hugged her briefly, and then told the little girl not to make Daddy Ron angry anymore.

Up ahead, Annabel spied the market. It was a small wooden structure fronted by big glass windows. A sign above the door read
F
ALLS
G
ENERAL
S
TORE.
Annabel pulled into the parking lot and cut the engine.

She took a deep breath, opened the car door, and headed inside. A bell over the door rang as she passed through.

“Good afternoon,” the lady behind the counter sang out.

“Good afternoon,” Annabel replied.

The woman was large—not fat, just big-boned and tall, with broad shoulders and wide hands. Her hair was gray, worn long, and her face was friendly. She was probably sixty, but her skin was entirely smooth and unwrinkled. Her eyes were periwinkle blue.

“May I help you?” she asked.

Annabel smiled. “Just moved in with my husband's grandmother. And I'm a vegetarian. Turns out there wasn't a lot in her fridge that I could eat.”

The woman laughed. “Well, right now we don't have a lot of fresh produce. We tend to only sell what's grown locally, so you'll have to wait a few months before we'll have tomatoes and corn and green beans and sweet peas and carrots. . . .” She smiled as she came around from behind the counter. “But I think we can stock you up with some of the best canned goods and preserves.”

“Thanks,” Annabel said, returning the woman's smile. “Even frozen is fine.”

“I'm Millie,” the woman said.

“Annabel.”

“Pleased to meet you. Where did you move here from?”

She was pointing Annabel to an aisle filled with canned vegetables and fruits. Most of it was local stuff, preserved right here in western Massachusetts. Lifting a handbasket, Annabel began filling it up with various cans and jars. She tossed in a few boxes of whole wheat pasta as well.

“New York,” she said, replying to Millie's question.

“The city?”

Annabel nodded.

Millie laughed again. It was a small, tinkly sound for such a big woman. “Well, you're going to be in for some culture shock up here. How long you staying?”

Annabel sighed. “For good,” she said.

Millie raised her eyebrows.

“My grandmother-in-law is rather frail. She can't keep up the place by herself anymore, so she's asked my husband and me to take over the house.”

Millie folded her masculine arms across her chest. “So you're really okay moving out of cosmopolitan Manhattan for this little hole in the woods in the middle of nowhere?”

Annabel gave her the most convincing smile she could manage. “So long as I can find other things to eat than Gran's rabbit stew.”

Something in Millie's eyes changed. Her brows furrowed as she studied Annabel.

“Something wrong?” Annabel asked.

“What's your grandmother-in-law's name?”

Annabel returned her odd stare. “Cordelia Devlin,” she said.

Millie opened her mouth to say something, and then stopped. She tried again. “And the house you've taken over,” she said slowly, “is the Blue Boy Inn.”

“That's right.”

“Well, well,” Millie said, hugging herself tighter. “So the old place is going to be given a new lease on life.”

Annabel smiled widely. “That's what my husband and I are hoping. We're going to fix it up, modernize it, get some new technology in there. . . .”

“Technology?”

Annabel placed a jar of peanut butter and some breadsticks into her basket. “Well, the place doesn't even have any flat-screen TVs, let alone any Internet. I think a guesthouse needs some amenities, even if it's out in the woods.” She thought about it. “Actually,
especially
if it's out in the woods.”

“Well, most of the people who still come to the Blue Boy aren't coming for cable television and Facebook.” Millie unfolded her arms. “As I'm sure you're aware.”

Annabel looked over at her. “You mean they come to get away from all that?”

“Maybe, but not necessarily,” the storekeeper replied. “They come to the Blue Boy because they're looking for ghosts.”

Just then, the bell over the door jangled. Annabel was still struck by what Millie had just said, so she didn't turn to look, but Millie did.

“Hello, chief,” she sang out.

Annabel moved her eyes over to observe the newcomer. He was a tall, dark-haired man with a craggy, handsome face, maybe about forty, dressed in dark dungarees and a brown corduroy jacket. He gave Millie a little salute.

“What can I help you with today, chief?”

“Just a quart of milk, Mil,” he said. “Ran out last night and had to eat my Cheerios dry.”

Millie turned to look back at Annabel. “That's what he eats for breakfast and for dinner. Cheerios. The man needs a good woman who will cook for him.”

The man laughed. “I've asked you a million times to marry me, darlin', but you always turn me down.”

“And take a look at him!” Millie said, still talking to Annabel. “Movie star handsome. But still unattached.”

“I'm married to my badge,” he said, placing the milk down on the counter.

Millie moved around to ring him up. “And isn't Woodfield fortunate to have such a dedicated chief of police.” She dropped the milk into a small paper bag. “Hey, chief, meet the new girl in town. Just arrived.” Millie fixed him with a look. “She and her husband are taking over the Blue Boy Inn.”

The chief looked around at Annabel for the first time. For some odd, unexplainable reason, she blushed.

“Is that right?” he asked. “Cordelia's giving the place up?”

“She's my husband's grandmother,” Annabel explained. “And she's asked us to come run the place. She can't do it on her own anymore.”

“Doesn't she still have Zeke around to help her?”

“Yes, he's still there. But he's rather old as well.”

The chief smiled. “Older than the earth, it seems.” He moved closer to Annabel and extended his hand. “Well, welcome to town. I'm Richard Carlson. If there's anything I can do for you or your husband, do let me know.”

She shook his hand. “Thank you,” she said. “I'm Annabel Wish.” She was struck by how dark the chief's eyes were. Almost black.

“Enjoy the rest of your day, Millie babe,” the chief said, heading out of the store.

The little bell over the door rang again.

Annabel watched him go through the large windows. He slid into a plain black car, probably a Ford. No cruiser. Annabel imagined he must have been off duty, since he hadn't been wearing a uniform.

She brought her basket of provisions up the counter.

“Oh, you'll like these,” Millie said, lifting a couple jars of raspberry preserves. “I know the lady who cans these. Grows all her own berries on her farm. In the summer you can go up there and pick your own. Raspberries, strawberries, blueberries . . .”

“I'll keep it in mind,” Annabel said. “But I'm not much of a berry picker, except from the display at Whole Foods.”

Millie frowned. “You're going to have a lot of adjustments living here, sweetie.”

“I know.” Annabel paused. “Millie, what did you mean when you said people come to the Blue Boy to see ghosts?”

The storekeeper stopped what she was doing and fixed her with her blue eyes.

“You don't know?”

“Know what?”

“It can't be that your husband never told you about the murders.”

Annabel's blood went cold.

“Murders?” she asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, if he hasn't told you, then it's probably best that you ask him.”

Annabel suddenly felt frantic. “No, please, tell me what you know.”

Millie shrugged. “It's not like I'm telling tales out of school. Everybody up here knows the history of the Blue Boy Inn. The only reason it stays in business is because of the ghost tourists. People think it's haunted because of all the deaths that have taken place there over the years.”

“And these deaths were . . . murders?”

Millie was placing Annabel's groceries in a paper bag, one much larger than the one she'd just given to Richard Carlson. “Well,” she said, “not all, probably, but some of them definitely were. Like, for example, you don't accidentally get your head cut off.”

“Oh, dear God,” Annabel said.

“Look, honey, I'm sorry to be the one to break this to you. I can't believe you could move up here and not know. You should go right back up there and get your husband to tell you everything.” Millie's eyes were kind, but also serious. “Because there's no way he doesn't know. One of the deaths up there, a long time ago, was Cordelia's young granddaughter. And if I'm figuring correctly, that would have been your husband's sister.”

“I
t's up here, turn here!” Priscilla shouted at Neville. I“That little lane, there!”

“Never would have spotted the bloody road,” Neville grumbled, turning the car up the rutted passageway through the trees.

“Yes, very easy to miss,” Priscilla agreed. “Hidden away in the woods. The way all haunted houses should be.”

Her boyfriend smirked over at her. “Have I told you how excited I am to get to Florida?”

“Yes, six thousand times. Pull in over there. Next to the sign.”

The Blue Boy stared down at him with his faded-paint eyes.

“Creepy, isn't he?” Priscilla said.

“I'd say the place is what's creepy,” Neville replied, shutting off the car. “Looks like it hasn't been updated in decades.”

“Perfect,” Priscilla chirped, hopping out of the passenger seat. She stood gazing up at the old inn. “I can feel the vibrations, can't you?”

“All I can feel are hunger pains. You wouldn't let me stop at that McDonald's back on the highway. Hope this place has something to eat.”

Neville withdrew their two bags from the trunk, and then clicked the remote to lock the car. A series of two quick, high-pitched beeps followed.

“I smell something cooking,” Priscilla said, lifting her nose in the air.

“Probably human flesh,” Neville muttered.

They headed up the walk to the front door. There were no other cars in the gravel driveway.

“Oh, there's somebody,” Priscilla said. “Over there, coming out of the woods.”

The trees had grown thick around the house. Only a few patches of sunlight shone through here and there. The deciduous trees might have been bare of leaves, but their gnarled limbs had all tangled together so tightly that they blocked out the sun in many places. And there were lots of tall pine trees as well, leaving the Blue Boy Inn mostly shrouded in shade and shadows.

So it was hard to see the person emerging from the woods about thirty or so yards away, but Priscilla was trying to wave whoever it was down. It was possibly the proprietor.

“Hello!” Priscilla called, taking a couple of steps in the direction of the figure. “Hello, we have a reservation to stay here!”

“Maybe it's just another guest,” Neville said. “Let's just go up and ring the doorbell.”

Priscilla frowned. “There are no other cars here. It can't be a guest! Hello!”

She waved her hand to catch the person's attention.

It was a woman, she could see now. The hair was long and possibly blond or gray. She was wearing some kind of white, diaphanous dress....

“Hello!” Priscilla called again.

The woman finally turned in her direction.

And Priscilla let out a gasp.

The woman's face was covered in some kind of dark substance.

It could only be blood.

Priscilla screamed.