Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Spelling, Connecticut, had one main road with a single stop sign, but everything I loved most occupied that street. The redbrick storefronts with their enormous windows advertised palm readings and séances. Tourists flocked to the paranormal hot spots in the town—the bar where the spirit of a young man who was shot for cheating during a game of cards roamed the back hallway, the town museum where an entire family supposedly caught a mysterious infection and died holding each other in the living room, and the town's main feature: the Reynard Hotel.

The colonial hotel contained seventy-two guest rooms and sat on the very edge of seven acres, facing the street. The brick steps at the front led to double doors haloed by lilies etched into the stained glass. Deep-green shutters framed each of the countless windows, and on the second floor was a balcony that overlooked the town's shops. In the top center of the building stood the famous bell tower, which was depicted on Spelling's tourist brochures and welcome sign. The hotel—my hotel—was what kept this small community alive.

Hunter pulled his truck into a parking space on the side of the lot and turned off the engine. We sat in silence watching people come and go. At all hours of the day, those hoping to run into the hotel's resident ghosts roamed around with their cameras at the ready. The Reynard had even appeared in a couple of those ghost-hunting shows on TV. It was some spooky shit, and people came here chasing the thrill of it.

"This place has always attracted the weirdos, hasn't it?" Hunter asked.

I quirked my mouth and shrugged. "They're just curious. But weren't we the same way that first summer Mom and Dad brought us here?"

"You more than me," he said, opening his door and jumping out. "It was like you wanted to be creeped out by this place."

"I was creeped out by this place. I experienced my fair share of freaky shit over the years, and so did you. You just reasoned it away with the excuse that the hotel is old, but some things can't be explained."

"Here we go, you're already starting to sound like good ole Hazel."

I brushed off his snide remark and followed him to the entrance at the back of the hotel. A white wraparound porch housed several rocking chairs and two swings, overlooking a pool that looked like something out of The Great Gatsby. White stone statues with lifeless gazes stood on pedestals, guarding the calm blue waters. I never looked at them for long, fearing they would unexpectedly turn their heads or form real eyes.

A curtain shifted on the top floor just under the bell tower, and a face half cast in shadows peered down at me. I jerked my gaze away and counted the rows of windows leading back to the ground—five.

I looked up again, but the figure was gone.

"Hey, Hunt, I thought no one was supposed to be able to get into the bell tower."

"Yeah, they closed it off when they put in the speaker system and disabled the bells."

I was no better than an eager tourist wanting to come away with a ghostly tale. I was letting my mind play tricks on me and turning what could have just been a breeze rustling the curtains into something real. Perhaps it was my guilt eating away at me.

It ate me up inside to know that Aunt Hazel had died alone in this place, but she had held back the truth, denying us the chance to be there for her. That didn't ease my guilt in the least, though. It was something I'd never forgive myself for. Nights out drinking with friends or binge-watching the newest television craze could have waited. I should have visited her more often.

We reached the steps to the porch, and Hunter wiggled the loose railing before stomping a foot on the first step and finding it safe to bear our weight. "I swear Hazel was keeping this place standing with superglue and duct tape."

"It's old. Things are going to creak and jiggle."

"It never used to be like this. She must have really let things go when she got sick."

As I opened the back door, the smell of dust and old wood greeted us, and the dim, ornate fixtures in the hallway were just enough to light our path. The wood floor groaned under our steps, and the high-pitched voice of a frantic woman grew louder the closer we got to the lobby.

"I thought I could do it, but I can't! My bottle of water was just sitting there next to the bed, and then it flew across the room. I swear a dark shadow disappeared into the wall after that. It's just too haunted for me. I want my money back." A woman stood at the antique concierge desk with her brown hair in disarray and her clothes resting haphazardly on her thin frame.

"But, ma'am, you were warned that your room was one known for paranormal activity. You stated that you still wanted to stay there," said Larry, the elderly man working at the front desk. He ran his gnarled fingers through his wiry hair, making it look as if he had stuck his finger in a light socket, then patted the front of his black vest. Larry was just as much a staple at the Reynard as Hazel had been. I couldn't remember a single time when he wasn't here, helping guests and my aunt. He looked around as if he was waiting for someone to intervene. It was safe to bet that I wasn't the only one missing Hazel right now.

Hunter snorted next to me and whispered, "You really want to deal with this shit day in and day out?"

Ignoring his comment, I stepped up to the counter next to the woman and flashed a bright smile. "Larry! It's so good to see you!"

His bleary blue eyes lit up with recognition, and relief washed over his pale, wrinkled face. "Miss Fox, we've been expecting you! Do you have any suggestions as to how we can help Mrs. Harris here?"

My heart sped up and I took a deep, calming breath. If I had any hope of keeping this hotel and proving myself to my family, I couldn't fail my first customer-service test. Exuding more confidence than I felt, I turned to the woman and asked, "Which room are you in, ma'am? There must be some explanation."

She looked me up and down, taking in my beat-up sneakers and slightly wrinkled sundress. The curl of her lip spoke volumes; she was having trouble believing I was the owner of anything, let alone this moderately famous New England tourist attraction. "My husband and I were in room 109. And the only explanation is that my water bottle was thrown across the room. It slid all the way from the desk to the bathroom door!"

I put my hand over my mouth and nodded. "Well, that explains it! That room happens to be on the list to be worked on next, right, Hunter?" I turned to my brother, silently pleading with him to help me out. "It's got . . ." I had no idea what to say, but I prayed he knew where I was going with this.

Hunter's bushy eyebrow quirked upward, and I mouthed Please, hoping he'd be able to think faster than I could under these circumstances.

My brother stepped to my side. He kept his voice low so as not to ruin the experience for the rest of the hotel's guests. "We don't talk about this often for business purposes, but the foundation is shifting a bit on that side of the hotel. That room has borne the brunt of the imbalance, and sometimes that causes things to roll and items to fall and slide, even all the way across the room. But I assure you, the room is safe. This building has survived a century and it will continue to stand for many more." One of the reasons Hunter believed strange things happened in the hotel flowed so smoothly from his mouth that he almost had me convinced.

Mrs. Harris leaned into my brother and said, "I can understand why you wouldn't want people to know things like that, appearances and all. I appreciate your honesty, and don't worry." She slid her index finger and thumb across her lips and twisted them like she was locking her mouth shut. My brother had a gift for charming people, including the previously irate Mrs. Harris.

"We really want you to stay for the rest of your vacation and enjoy your time in Spelling. Please, allow us to move you to"—I glanced at the key hooks behind Larry's head—"one of our king suites on the third floor at no extra cost."

Mrs. Harris looked from Larry to Hunter to me and nodded, her wild brown hair bouncing against her shoulders. "That would be delightful. But if there are any other ghostly issues, I will demand a full refund."

"Absolutely!" I grabbed a key for room 315 and pressed it into Mrs. Harris's palm. "And please, call down later and order a drink for you and your husband from the bar. One of the servers will bring it up to you. On the house."

"Why, thank you," she said, and all trace of anger was gone from her face. "I appreciate that, Miss Fox."

"My pleasure. Your comfort is our business at the Reynard." I recited the motto Hazel had printed on stationery, business cards, and coffee mugs like I'd said it every day of my life. When the woman was out of earshot, I let out a massive breath and leaned against the counter.

Looking up at Larry, who appeared as frazzled as I felt, I said, "Please, Larry. Call me Gemma."

Larry smiled and held out his hand. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Gemma. You must have picked up a thing or two from your aunt during your visits here, because you handled that just like she would have. Thankfully, most of our guests are looking for a little mischief and find happenings like that more exciting than terrifying, but it's not for everybody."

I shook his hand and my heart warmed. It was a boost to my self-esteem to know I had handled something the way Hazel would have. It was all I'd wanted growing up—to be just like my aunt. She not only ran a thriving business, but she didn't give a damn about societal norms. Hazel lived for the things that made her happy, and I desperately wanted what she had. But most importantly, I wanted her to be proud of me.

"It's good to see you again, Larry. Thank you for being here with Hazel through everything. I know how much she cared for you." His cheeks tinged with pink as I continued. "My brother and I were stopping by just to check the condition of the place. Is there anything you think we should take a look at?"

"I hope you've got some time, because I've got quite the list for you. Starting with the room that our permanent residents did a number on last week."

Hunter furrowed his brow. "You're not talking about—"

"The boys have been restless since your aunt's passing."

When I was younger, I'd heard the two identical boys roaming the hotel at night, laughing and horseplaying, but I remember interacting with them only once. Or at least I think I spoke to one of them. It was the unearthly color of the boy's irises that had left me enchanted—blue or purple? I had just found the courage to ask him if he was who I thought he was when he disappeared. I searched for him and his brother every chance I got, but I was left with nothing more than tapping on the wall and disembodied laughter. As time passed, I began questioning my belief in the paranormal. Had I really encountered supernatural beings in the hotel, or should I just chalk it all up to a child's overactive imagination?

"Who were you talking about?" I blurted, and Larry and Hunter turned toward me in alarm as if they'd forgotten I was behind them.

Larry lifted his brows and cocked his head to the side. "What's that, hon?"

"Just a minute ago, when you said, ‘The boys have been restless since your aunt's passing.' Are you talking about—"

"The boys who live under the bell tower. Well, I suppose they're more like men now."

Hunter and I locked eyes, and he lifted his hand to his temple and slowly moved his index finger in a circle. I swatted it down just as the older gentleman stopped in front of the room at the end of the hall.

Larry slipped a key in the door, wiggled it, and said, "Rumor had it, Hazel spent years renovating a space for them. Out-of-state lumber companies would drop off the supplies on the fourth floor in the middle of the night. Of course, those who claimed to have seen the piles of wood and drywall could never prove it. The hallways always appeared normal the next day. She said the boys needed a more sophisticated space since they were older. Grown or not, they're still prone to getting emotional over the loss of a loved one just like us."

The room was a wreck—the mattress flung off the bed frame, the dresser shoved onto its side, and holes the size of fists in the wall.

"Larry, it looks like you had someone with a rock star complex in here," Hunter said.

"Jesus," I mumbled, stepping into the room and turning in a circle. Not only was the main area of the room in disarray, so was the bathroom. A fist-sized crack sat in the center of the mirror over the sink, the shower curtain had been torn from its hooks, and the towel rack hung crookedly from the wall. Someone had lost control, and this room had taken the brunt of their anger.

"What happened in here?" I asked.

Larry looked at me like a kindergartner who hasn't quite learned to listen yet. "I told you. They're grieving the loss of the woman they saw as their sister and caretaker. They don't have any other way to let out their aggression, so—"

"Larry." I lifted my hand to stop him. "You're telling me that those two boys are actually here?" In more recent years, I'd almost let myself believe that the twins I'd seen in the painting in Hazel's room were figments of my imagination. Now, the idea that they were real was a touch alarming, yet oddly reassuring.

Larry nodded, leaning against the doorway with his arms over his chest. "You may think you rationalized what Mrs. Harris witnessed in her room with the water bottle, but even she knows she saw one of those boys. She just liked your explanation better."

"Well, can we go to their room?" Hunter asked.

"No, none of us knows how to get up there. Hazel said they deserved their privacy."

"Of course she did," I said, running my hand through my hair. The idea that all my aunt had had in her life were two supernatural beings and a couple of hotel employees as companions made my chest burn. Maybe my family was right; Hazel had had a fragile state of mind. She'd spent her entire life in this hotel and mostly conversed with strangers about the spirits she lived with. She'd needed real interaction with real people.

I stole a glance at Hunter, who shrugged his shoulders and said, "Well, this room is easy enough to fix. Let's continue the tour."

By the time we got back to the lobby, we'd seen no fewer than a dozen things that needed to be repaired, some small, some that would be more costly, but one thing had become abundantly clear: I owed it to Aunt Hazel to keep this hotel running, to keep her legacy alive. I intended to see it through.

Larry retreated to the desk to help a customer, and I turned to Hunter, determination swelling within me.

"I want to do this. I want to keep the hotel."

"You and Aunt Hazel are two birds of a feather then."

"That's not funny, Hunt. I want to continue to build upon what she was doing. This place was her life, and it has a lot to offer," I said, sweeping my arm toward all the people coming and going in the lobby. Every single one had a look of awe on their face. Some were blown away by the mahogany staircase, the intricate designs carved into the ceiling and crown molding, or the focal point of the sitting room—an elaborate fireplace big enough for most to stand in. Others enjoyed learning about the hotel's historical roots and how it was the first woman-owned business in the region. But most were fascinated by the stories of the unexplainable.

Hunter puffed up his chest and let out a long breath. "All right, if this is what you want, let's do it."

"You're going to help me?"

"Do you know how to patch those holes in the wall?"

"Of course not. It's just another item in a long list of why you're my favorite brother."

After saying goodbye to Larry and letting him know I'd be back, I dug my phone out of my back pocket and called Mr. Cartwright. Two hours later, I sat alone with him in his office with a stack of papers set before me.

The attorney straightened his suit jacket and cleared his throat. He turned to the first page of the trust document. "Hazel had three strict stipulations that the new owner must follow. First, the annual Winter Spirits festival is to proceed as scheduled every January twenty-first, without fail."

"Easy, I love Winter Spirits," I said with a shrug.

"Second, renovations may be made to the hotel to keep it up to code, but the main structure has to remain in its current design. It cannot be relocated or demolished. It comes as is, for lack of a better explanation."

"Done."

"Lastly, it cannot leave the ownership of the family."

I laughed at that one. "All those big plans my cousin had for turning it into another cookie-cutter chain?"

"They were nothing more than pipe dreams. It can't be sold." Mr. Cartwright held out a pen. "In all the years I knew your aunt, she spoke of nothing the way she did about the Reynard. This is a big commitment, Gemma."

Commitment. The thing I feared the most, my Achilles' heel that my family loved to throw in my face—but for my favorite aunt, I would conquer my fear. I'd never forgive myself for not being there with her until the very end, but this, this I could do. I sat up straighter in my seat and said, "I know. I want to do it and make her proud."

I took the pen from him and signed my name to the paperwork, my excitement uncontrollable as I let my mind imagine all the new possibilities that managing the Reynard would bring.

* * *

The next forty-eight hours were a whirlwind of activity—packing all the stuff in my apartment, cleaning out my desk at the office where I'd been temping after my last job went awry, and promising my mom I'd come back to visit. But I was more than ready to get back to the Reynard and start this new chapter of my life.

When I fumbled with the hotel's lobby doors, Larry rushed to my side. He took my heaviest bag, even though it looked like it weighed more than he did. "Thank you, Larry," I said, setting my cosmetics bag on the counter.

"You're welcome. I'm so glad you're here to stay. What about that brother of yours, will he be joining you?"

"Yes, but not until tomorrow. He had some loose ends to tie up back home."

"I'll make sure to have a suite ready for him when he arrives. Do you want him to be on the same floor as Hazel's—I mean your—suite?"

A pang of sadness hit my chest like a lightning bolt. I should've been prepared for this; it was reasonable that Hazel's suite would become mine. It was the nicest one in the hotel and the one most outfitted for permanent residence. But the idea of being in there without her ignited the burning emptiness I'd experienced since I'd gotten the phone call that she was gone.

"Yes, the same floor would be great. He'd appreciate a king suite if it's available."

"You got it, boss."

The term of endearment brought a tight smile to my lips; that was what Larry had always called Hazel. It made me believe, if only for a moment, that I could actually do this.

Larry rooted through a drawer behind the counter and held out a large skeleton key on a silver key chain. "Here you are. Let me help you with your bags," he started, but I shook my head as I grabbed a luggage cart from beside the front desk.

"I got this," I said, piling my bags onto the cart. "You just stay down here and man the desk. You've been such a help already."

He looked at me with a dubious expression but finally nodded. "All right. Be careful on that elevator. The luggage rack's wheels tend to get stuck in the gap at the threshold."

I raised my eyebrows as my fear of the ancient lift flooded back. The elevator was up to code, so I had no real reason to worry, but the creaks and groans that contraption let out were like something from a horror film. Every time I rode it, my imagination conjured morbid scenarios of cables snapping and me falling to my death in the antique metal box.

I rolled the cart into the elevator and pressed the button for the fourth floor, the anticipation of seeing Hazel's suite turning to lead in my stomach. It was the place I'd spent so many nights with her, listening to ghost story after ghost story, hearing tales about Spelling, and eating freshly baked brownies until we were ready to bust.

I reached my floor without incident, pushing the cart toward the end of the hall where Hazel's—my—suite waited for me. Reaching the white door with a gold 400 above the peephole, I pulled the skeleton key from my pocket and took a deep breath before slipping it into the lock.

I swung the door open and just as quickly had the urge to shut it again. "Oh, Hazel, you were one more stack of papers away from ending up on Hoarders," I murmured, taking in the environment that my aunt had called home.

The room wasn't much different than I remembered. The living space was furnished with antiques—a roll arm sofa and matching armchairs, a dark walnut secretary desk against one wall, while across the room was an enormous Victorian dining table that seated eight. The suite had no filth, nothing was dirty. But the clutter—piles of papers and books scattered around the room. Just stuff. Everywhere. It would take me weeks to get through everything she'd left behind.

The kitchen was impeccably clean, testifying to how much she'd enjoyed cooking. It had the same ancient feel as the living room, but the antique appliances were modern impersonations. The single bathroom housed a massive claw-foot tub and a separate open shower. But it was Hazel's bedroom that took my breath away. The memory of it rushed back like a raging river, overwhelming my senses. The four-poster bed was covered with a homemade quilt, and a little reading nook was tucked in across from the wood-burning furnace. I ran my fingers along the tall dresser and looked inside the empty walk-in closet.

"Where had you been staying before you died, Aunt Hazel?" I whispered. This room looked like it hadn't been used in months.

I returned to the front room but stopped dead in my tracks as I took it in from this new angle. When I'd entered Hazel's suite, I hadn't given much attention to the fireplace. It was beautiful, hand-carved with an ornate floral baroque design on each side, but it was the painted portrait above the mantel that sent my heart racing. Hazel had said she was the artist, and I'd spent hours staring at it while she regaled me with stories about the hotel.

The subjects of the painting—two teenage boys—were identical: dark-brown hair, plump lips, tan skin, and defined jaws. The only difference between them was the shade of their jewel-toned eyes. One boy was sprawled casually in a high-backed chair, and the other stood beside him with his arm propped on the back. They couldn't have been more than fourteen years old. I hadn't seen this painting in years, but now I wondered how I could've forgotten even the littlest detail.

They were the hotel's ever-present residents—the reason people from all over the world flocked to Spelling. The men who, according to Larry, were still here and mourning the loss of the Reynard's prior owner. And now, the haunted legacy of the Hyde brothers was mine to share with every person who set foot in my hotel.