Dark Hollows. Steve Frech
I take a shower and absent-mindedly run my finger over the two dime-sized scars in my side, while I think about Rebecca. I’m going to apologize to her for being so awkward last night. I want that positive review and the curiosity about who she is has come back.
I go down to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. I look out the window above the sink at the sun peeking over the hills. My gaze drifts down to the cottage.
I stop.
The car is gone.
That’s not unheard of. Some people head out early to catch the sunrise or to make good time to their next destination. What makes me stop is that the door to the cottage is open.
Coffee in hand and Murphy close behind, I head out the door, step off the porch, and start walking towards the cottage. The woods are playing their early chorus of birdsong. A morning mist hangs a few feet above the ground. As I get closer, I realize that no, my eyes are not playing tricks on me. The front door is wide open.
I stop outside the door, and peer into the cottage.
“Miss Lowden?”
The sound of my voice stops the nearby birds, leaving the air filled with an unnerving silence. There’s no hint of a reply from inside.
Murphy waits by my side, sensing my tension.
“Rebecca?”
Nothing.
I step through the door. The air inside the cottage is cold, meaning the door has been open for hours. Nothing’s been touched. The coffee packets wait in the basket by the coffee maker. There are no water droplets in the sink. The throw pillows on the couch are exactly where I left them yesterday.
“Hello?”
I start walking down the short hall to the bedroom. Halfway down, I turn my head to look into the bathroom. The towels and toiletries are undisturbed.
I continue to the end of the hall. The bedroom door is closed. I stop next to the door and stand motionless, listening for any sound from within. I glance back down the hall. Murphy is waiting anxiously in the living room, prepared to flee at any moment.
I tap the door.
“Rebecca?”
There’s no response, which means either she’s not in there, or she is in there, and there’s something really wrong. I gently grasp the knob, turn, and slowly open the door.
The stick doll is on the bed, propped up on the pillows. The guestbook is lying open before it. Angry red letters are carved across the pages. The coffee cup slips from my hand, and falls to the floor.
I step closer, and a name stares back at me from the pages of the guestbook.
LAURA AISLING
The dread of last night comes crashing back, tenfold. My mind was not playing tricks on me. It wasn’t a coincidence.
That wasn’t Laura Aisling. It can’t be, because Laura Aisling is dead, and I thought I was the only one who knew that.
So this means someone knows my secret.
“Yes, I know the account was deleted this morning. I’m trying to figure out who she was.”
“I don’t understand. Was there a problem with her payment?”
“No. That’s not—”
“Was there damage to your property?”
“No.”
“Then, I don’t see the—”
“You said the account was created two months ago. She made one reservation request. My place. Right?”
“Let me see … Yes. That appears to be correct.”
“And then, when she left my place this morning, she deleted the account?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m saying that I’m trying to figure out who the hell Rebecca Lowden really was. I’ve tried online searches, and I can’t find anything about her. Nothing on Facebook or LinkedIn, nothing on Google. It’s like she never existed.”
“Sir, at Be Our Guest, we strongly discourage any attempt to contact a guest outside of your transaction on our site. Besides, I’m still not seeing the problem. It is unusual, but I don’t see anything to be concerned about. I’m sorry that you might not get the review, but your property is one of our most popular spots. I can see that you’ve already had two reservation requests yesterday for December.”
“That’s not the point.”
This has been my entire morning. I immediately tried to find out who Rebecca Lowden was on my own so that I wouldn’t have to contact Be Our Guest and I could avoid these questions, but my search came up empty. So here I am, arguing on the phone with a rep from Be Our Guest.
“I’m still trying to understand this,” the representative continues. “You’re saying that there was no damage to your property?”
“No, dammit. I told you that already—”
“Did you try contacting her through her contact info?”
“Yes. The number is disconnected, and I’m not crossing my fingers on the email I sent.”
“Okay. Yes, I admit, that’s odd.”
“Do you?” I reply with maximum snark. “Do you admit that?”
“Sir—”
“Look, she deleted the account, but you guys still have her information, right? You have a copy of her driver’s license?” I know they do. Owners and renters alike have to submit to a background check when they sign up. I had to email a scanned copy of my license to set up my account. So did she.
“Yes.”
“Do you have it pulled up, right now?”
“Sir, I’m not going to give you any information from her—”
“I don’t want you to, but do me a favor and do a search for the address on her driver’s license. I want to know if the address is real.”
“Mr Reese, that would be highly irregular.”
“I’m not asking you to tell me where she lives. Just tell me if it’s a real address. If it is, I’ll hang up, and you and I can go about our day.”
He sighs. “One moment …”
I hear the clicking of his keyboard through the phone. It stops, as does his breath.
“You still with me?” I ask.
“Well … yes, there does seem to be an issue with the address.”
“Where did it put you; the middle of the ocean?”
“It might just be a problem with the—”
I shake my head. “It’s gotta be a fake ID.”
“Well, that is a possibility. I’ll be sure to make a note of it in the—”
“Let me ask you something: just how thorough are those background checks you do over there at Be Our Guest? I know they cost money. You guys cutting corners?”
“Mr Reese,” he answers with a new note of concern in his voice, “I’ll pass this along to my supervisor, and they’ll get back to you once we’ve resolved the issue.”
“Like you said, the account’s deleted, so there’s nothing you can really resolve, but sure, you let me know.”
I hang up the phone.
Whoever