Yesternight (25 page)

Michael and I stamped our feet on a coarse brown mat, shaking small avalanches of snow from the sides of our boots, and we entered a long front hall, flanked on the right by a staircase that rose to a darkened landing. I determined the sweet roasting meat to be venison and also smelled mutton chops.

Mr. Harkey closed the door behind us, and with chattering teeth and violent shivers, we peeled off our coats, gloves, and hats. My body adjusted to that painful transition from numbness and constricted veins to defrosting skin and blood prickling back to life.

To our left, a room accessible by opened pocket doors radiated heat from a stone fireplace, to which the woman with the copper hair tended. Kerosene lamps flickered from walls the yellowish tan of tobacco-stained teeth—an ugly color I did not care for in the slightest. No pictures lined either the hallway or the parlor. Nothing about the place, aside from the fireplace, imparted comfort or hospitality.

The woman hung the fireplace poker on a rack of tools and got to her feet, revealing a young face with brown doe's eyes and plump cheeks. “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Lind.” She came toward us, her right hand extended. “I'm Mabel Harkey. So nice to have you join us this Christmas Eve. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” we said in return, and we shook her hand, her skin toasty from the fire. She couldn't have stood any taller than four foot ten, and I felt an Amazon compared to her, even at five foot four.

“Mrs. Lind said they've come for the history,” said Mr. Harkey, my bags still in hand.

“I've been interested in this hotel since I was a child in Oregon,” I felt compelled to explain. Michael's gold band on my left ring finger slid over the hump of my knuckle, which sent a nervous quaver through my voice. “I finally acquired some time off of work to visit. This is the only week we could manage to travel here.”

“You came from Kansas?” asked Mrs. Harkey.

“We did,” said Michael, his voice as timorous as mine, even though his words weren't a lie precisely.

“You must want to freshen up after your travels, then.” Mrs. Harkey put a hand to her husband's right shoulder. “Let's allow the Linds to get situated upstairs, shall we?”

“How much time until appetizers and drinks?” asked her husband.

“About fifteen minutes, but we can delay if these two need me to press any clothing before dinner. I can heat up the iron on the stove.”

“That reminds me,” added her husband, “I should warn that we have no electricity . . . and no indoor plumbing. I'm afraid you'll need to brave the elements to reach the outhouse or else use a chamber pot.”

I forced myself not to grimace at those unappealing options, and out of the corner of my eye I caught Michael clenching his jaw.

“Bring down any garments that you might need pressed.” Mrs. Harkey bustled down the hallway, calling over her shoulder, “I'll go heat up the iron right now.”

Mr. Harkey lumbered toward the stairs with my bags. “Come along with me. I'll show you to your room.”

Michael grabbed up his suitcase, and we followed our host up the staircase. Because it was an older house, the steps naturally creaked and bellowed below our feet and added to the drama of the establishment. Mr. Harkey plodded up with slow and deliberate steps, as though drawing gasping moans from the wood on purpose. I disapproved of him a little more because of it.

In the landing up above, the dim afternoon light bled into the shadows of evening. Our host led us to a room to our immediate right.

“Here you are.” He opened an anemic wooden door and carried my suitcases to a space on the floor at the base of a four-post bed. A quilt the pale green of lime rickeys covered the mattress.

I entered the room ahead of Michael and again found bare walls and very little in the way of decoration. A bouquet of scarlet geraniums filled a thick vase made of crystal on a table next to the left side of the bed. Against the wall to my right stood an unassuming pine wardrobe, as well as a single chair. I smelled the venison from downstairs, but another odor—a dankness, a sourness—pervaded the air up there. It seemed to be a combination of mothballs and mildew, spoiled meat and stale perfume.

Mr. Harkey's lips edged into a grin, and his cheeks warmed with color. “You two get settled now. We'll see you back downstairs for drinks in about fifteen minutes.”

“All right,” said Michael. “Thank you.”

Our host closed the door behind himself.

Michael turned the key in the lock, removing it thereafter, leaving a tiny lock-shaped hole in its place.

I sank down on the bed and released a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. “This is all a bit exhausting.”

“Agreed.”

I unbuckled my galoshes and yanked them off of the regular shoes hiding within the rubber casings, and then I slipped the second pair off of my feet as well. Michael sat on the bed behind me and removed his boots.

My eyes locked upon the closed bedroom door—upon that keyhole.

Something moved beyond the darkness of the slot; a flash of white. I sat up straight with a jerk of the bed.

“What is it?” asked Michael.

“I just saw something move on the other side of the keyhole. Do . . . do you think Mr. Harkey is still standing out there?”

“I heard his footsteps return downstairs.”

“Are you certain?”

“I think this place might simply have you spooked, and I don't blame you one bit. It's giving me the heebie-jeebies, too.” He lay down on his back across the mattress, which whined like a dying accordion. “Do you recognize the hotel from the inside? Does it seem familiar?”

I rubbed my hands across the tops of my thighs and kept my attention focused upon that door.

“Alice? Did you hear what I—”

“No, I don't quite know what to think of the house just yet. I wish I felt more certain.”

He patted the mattress beside him. “Come here. Let's take a little reprieve from the topic of reincarnation. Settle our nerves.”

I swung my knees onto the bed and crawled over to him with a swiftness spurred on by a sudden fear of someone grabbing my ankles.

Michael pulled me against his side and kissed the top of my head. “If you want . . .” Another kiss, one that spilled chills across my skull. “I could do something to help put you more at ease.”

I chewed my lower lip and stared again at the keyhole. “Mrs. Harkey is waiting for us to bring her the garments that need ironing.”

“I don't think there will be enough candlelight to expose any wrinkles in the fabrics.” He rolled onto his side and kissed me, and I knew—I knew for absolute certain—I heard a rustling outside the door.

Michael didn't flinch, however, so I closed my eyes and willed my fear of Peeping Toms to die a harrowing and brutal death.

Michael coaxed my mouth open with his lips and ran his smooth tongue along mine.

“We must be careful,” I said when we came up for a breath. “Please be careful.”

“I will.” He cupped a warm hand around my left breast, over my three layers of clothing—the sweater, a slip, and a bosom-binding brassiere that squeezed my figure into the boyish shape of a flapper. His mouth moved down to my neck.

“They'll be back at the door in a few minutes,” I said, my voice nothing more than a weak and tipsy-sounding whisper.

“I locked the door.” He drew my skirt up and over my hips. “They'll have to knock.”

“Michael . . .”

He scooted down on the bed and kissed my right thigh in the small slip of space between the bottom of my girdle and the top of my stockings, amid the jungle of cream-colored garter straps.

“Michael, please . . .” I sat partway up, but he ran his right hand
up the length of my stomach and eased me back down to the mattress, where I closed my eyes and begged myself to draw a calming breath. I clenched my fists by my sides and told myself that no one was watching.

Michael's lips tasted my inner thigh, teasing with a touch so gentle, it soothed me, yet so enticing, I allowed my knees to fall open. He inched his mouth farther and farther up the length of my leg, and when my breathing heightened, he kissed me through the thin satin layer of my panties. Without fussing with all of the other trappings of my underclothing, he pulled the panties down far enough to expose my mound of curly brown hair. Cool air brushed between my legs, but in a moment warm breath and a soft tongue replaced the sensation, and I found myself soon holding onto the back of his head and lifting my hips to better place myself in his mouth. He squeezed my outer thighs and moved his tongue faster.

Without any warning, a knock came at the door.

Michael's head shot up. “Who is it?”

“It's Mrs. Harkey.”

I froze, my knees still hanging open, Michael still clutching my thighs.

“Did you have any clothing for me to iron?” she asked.

Michael scrambled to his feet, and I adjusted my underwear, pushed down my skirt, and sat up. Spots of gold buzzed in front of my eyes, but through the disorienting fog of my dizziness, I spied that gaping keyhole, just sitting there beneath the brass knob, observing
everything
. I envisioned Mrs. Harkey on her knees, pushing her eyeball against the hole, catching Michael's head between my legs.

Michael dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief and clicked open his suitcase. “I might have a coat that needs ironing.”

“There's no need to dress too formally,” called our hostess. “Just make sure you choose something warm.”

He tugged his charcoal-gray dress coat out of his suitcase and strode to the door on his sock-covered feet. He fumbled with the lock, and, after what felt like an hour, he managed to open the door to the awaiting Mrs. Harkey.

She smiled with dimpled cheeks and folded Michael's coat over her arm. “I'll have this done in a jiffy. Anything for you, Mrs. Lind?”

I couldn't even look her in the eye. “No, thank you. I travel so often, I pack clothing designed to withstand suitcase journeys.”

“I'll give this back to you when you come downstairs, Mr. Lind.”

“Thank you.”

She turned and left, and Michael closed the door.

I shot off the bed and opened the largest of my two trunks to locate a dress proper enough for a Christmas Eve dinner—one that truly didn't need any ironing.

Michael sauntered toward me, smoothing down his hair. “Do you want to—?”

“No!”

“You don't even know what I was going to ask.”

“I told you I heard someone out there. I knew we weren't alone.”

“I don't think she was standing there the whole time.”

I tugged out a long-sleeved gown made of emerald crepe.

“Do you, um . . .” He stuffed his hands inside his pockets. “Do you want me to leave while you change?”

“Yes, please. Mrs. Harkey is apt to knock again.”

“I'll put on my dress shoes and then give you some privacy.”

“Thank you.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him again dab his mouth
with a handkerchief, which made me both blush in embarrassment and crave a finish to our moment of intimacy.

I stood up with the dress spilling over my left arm and wondered if the next time we entered that bedroom alone—after dinner, after the Christmas Eve ghost tales that Mr. Harkey spoke of at the depot—my connection to the hotel would be blatantly apparent, which might further alter our relationship. Michael might view me differently.
I
might view myself differently.

He sat down on the other side of the bed and tied the laces of his black dress shoes.

“Michael?”

He peeked over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised.

“I'm going to show you something.” I laid the dress on the bed and walked over to him with footsteps that made mere murmurs against the unvarnished floorboards. “I want you to witness a detail about me that might have something to do with my other life . . . if, in fact, another life is at work.”

He continued tying the laces, his right leg propped over the left.

I closed the maroon drapes of the window beside me. Between the darkening sky and the snow blowing in the wind, I doubted that any brave souls would be wandering about enough to catch a glimpse of me up there on the second floor, but one couldn't be sure.

I pulled my sweater up and over my head, exposing the cream-colored slip that covered my breasts.

Michael's eyes hovered at the same level as my chest. He swallowed. “What am I looking at?”

“This.” I stepped forward and put my fingers to a brown birthmark that marred the skin above my heart. “What does it look like?”

“I don't know.” He swallowed again, this time with a discernible ripple of his Adam's apple. “A freckle?”

“Does it look like a bullet hole?”

He blinked as though startled. “Were you shot?”

“No, but I've often dreamt that I was.”

He reached up and brushed a thumb across the marking, his movements cautious.

“Sometimes,” I said, “I dream of a man kicking open a door and shooting me with a rifle. I've experienced the nightmare ever since I was a child.” I sat beside him and took hold of his right hand between my palms. “I want you to know this information in case anything like it comes up when we learn the stories of this house. Just as I did with my investigation into Janie's claims, I want to lay all evidence out in the open before comparing notes with the residents.”

“Are you going to speak to the Harkeys about your suspicions?”

I pursed my lips and debated his question. “I don't know,” I said with a sigh. “I can't yet tell how responsive they'd be to the concept of reincarnation. I'm also worried they'll patronize me and go along with whatever I say just to give me a good show.”

“Do they really strike you as that sort?”

“I don't know what sort they are, but the house seems so bland and unsettling. I can't imagine guests typically coming here for any reason other than hunting down gruesome details about murders and ghosts.”