“There’s no ghost. And no, I don’t believe in them. The lodge is old, is all.”
“Uh-huh,” he mumbles. “That why you can barely hold a paint roller or balance on your ladder?”
If he were anyone else, I’d tell him to fuck off. But it’s Owen. I just shake my head and get back to work.
After a long day, a shower, and a change of clothes, I return to the lodge, peering up at the window in the attic along the way. There’s a clear shot from it to my cabin. Has the fucker been watching me come and go? Is he looking at me right now? I should have stormed up into the attic this morning and tossed his ass out, but where’s the fun in that? I’d rather get him when he doesn’t see it coming.
It never even dawned on me until this second to call the police. Could be that a part of me thinks this is all in my head, or maybe one of the guys is pulling a prank. I wouldn’t put it past them. Last year, Zac got the others good. He kept playing a sound bite of a sick horse in the middle of the night. Had the guys out searching the stables night after night. When they finally caught on, they practically tarred and feathered him. Ever since, it’s been a competition to see who can out-prank him.
I enter the back door to the resounding greeting of the bells. I throw them in the trash, along with the others. Supplies are stacked on the counter. The pantry is full from the delivery for tomorrow’s arrival. Oh, this is good. It’s a veritable smorgasbord. No way will he be able to resist this. I glance at the ceiling. What does he do when guests are here?
I yawn twice, then slap my cheeks. I cannot be tired tonight. I open the fridge and pull out a Coke. My eyes are drawn to the yogurt. Five of them now, not counting the new, unopened packs. It’s definitely not in my head.
But it still could be Zac or one of the others messing with me. Ghost, I think and snicker. That would be damn clever of them, and if it turns out to be one of the guys, I’ll have to come up with something exceptionally good to get them back.
I go to the living room, sit, and try to keep myself awake. My mind immediately goes to thoughts of Cameron. God, I miss him. The guilt creeps up, as it always does when I think of him. I get out my phone and look at pictures of the two of us in college. Then my head falls back on the couch cushion as I relive that horrible night for the thousandth time.
I hear a noise. Could be the wind against one of the shutters, but it could also be the squatter. I straighten and listen again, glad for the distraction. I take hold of my gun. Is he watching me now? My eyes wander to the grand foyer, where I can see the bottom of the staircase. Is he standing at the top behind the wall, spying on me? Waiting for me to fall asleep so he can steal more food?
If I’m being honest, I’m a little freaked out. It’s dark outside. Quiet. There’s nobody around for miles. What if the guy is a psycho? He could kill me and dice me into pieces, and no one would know until Lora shows up to greet our guests.
I’m being ridiculous. If there really is someone in the attic, he obviously knows I’ve been here. He’s had plenty of opportunities to take me out. Whoever’s up there is used to having people around. We’ve had several groups of guests over the past month. That’s a lot of tiptoeing and light-footing. I’m kind of amazed he’s been able to pull it off. Part of me wants to meet the guy who’s been so stealthy.
I yawn again, despite being fully caffeinated. I glance at my book on the coffee table. Can’t do it—I’ll fall asleep for sure. I look at the large TV hanging on the wall, half expecting to see movement behind me reflected on the dark screen. I whip around and see nothing.
I have a plan to catch him in the act, but it’s only ten o’clock. If he knows I’m here, he’ll wait until I’m asleep.
I play on my phone for a few hours, have another Coke and a snack. I pretend to call it a night. I could take one of the guest rooms, but I’ve been in the living room for three nights. He’ll be expecting it.
I get pillows and a blanket from the supply room and take them to the couch, counting the steps it takes me to get there. I take stock of my surroundings. I need to be able to navigate this place in the dark. The coffee table is in front of the couch. There are two more couches flanking this one, with about two feet between them. It’s about three steps to the edge of the couch. Behind this couch is a table with a lamp—best be careful not to knock it over. Then it’s almost a clear shot through the foyer and into the kitchen. I’ll have to be careful not to run into the round table in the middle of the grand hall or catch my foot on any of the rugs.
I turn off the light, lie back, and put my legs up, careful to keep my filthy shoes dangling off the couch. I could remove them, but catching a thief in bare feet is not manly at all. I rest the gun on my chest.
It’s hard not to fall asleep. The only thing that keeps me awake is thinking back to first semester sophomore year. How stupid I was back then. How invincible we thought we were at nineteen. We couldn’t have been more wrong. If I had only said no. If I had only put a stop to things. But that’s how things were done. They were done to me, and I was passing the torch. It had been like that for years. Generations even.
My eyes flood and my pillow becomes damp as I think about everything that happened. The camaraderie. The elation. The king-of-the-world feeling.
The stunned silence. The sirens. The out-of-body experience. It couldn’t be happening to me. Us.
The sheer devastation.
I blow out a deep breath, pull my phone under the blanket so it doesn’t light up the room, and check the time. Twelve thirty. I’ve been lying here for two hours. I worry that maybe I’m too late. Could the squatter have already raided the kitchen? After sitting up, I become acutely aware of the cloying darkness. Not one shadow falls across the living room floor. I can’t see a single tree branch outside the window. There’s no moon tonight. I may have my work cut out for me.
I grope my way to the kitchen, careful not to make a sound. The toe of my boot meets the bottom step in the foyer, but I’m walking in slow, methodical steps, so there’s no noise. I alter my course slightly and complete my journey. I’d previously pulled out a kitchen chair and positioned it so I’d be facing the pantry to my left and the refrigerator dead-on. I even tested the chair to make sure it wouldn’t creak when I sat.
I wait, my ass hurting from the hard wooden surface. I don’t dare check the time. My phone would illuminate the room. My guess is it’s been an hour. I obsessively trace the outline of my gun on the table in front of me.
Something is happening. It’s subtle, but I hear it. Not footsteps, though. Breathing. Hard, fast breathing. Like someone is afraid.
I remain perfectly still, trying to control my own breaths so he doesn’t hear me.
Minutes pass. I’m not sure how many. I only hear the breathing. It’s coming from the entry to the back stairs. He hasn’t moved. How long is he going to stay there? Maybe he knows I’m here and doesn’t know what to do. Even though it’s pitch black, I sense slight movement as he crosses the room. There’s no sound. Even his breathing has become silent.
He’s almost to the fridge. As soon as he opens it, the room will light up, and he’ll see me. I quietly raise my gun and point. He hesitates. Did I make a sound?
I sense him cringing as the door to the refrigerator opens. I tense as a small sliver of light slices the cabinets and counter to the left. I can’t see him yet, only his silhouette. He glances aside, but I’m not in the path of the light yet. He’s small. Good. He’ll be easy to take. The fridge door opens more—not all the way, just enough for him to see inside. He reaches in and takes a few things. Now’s my chance. His hands are full. The refrigerator door closes, and I stand, the chair falling backward behind me.