2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

M isty

I sit, still as a statue in the hover taxi, the driver's irritation rising, as I debate my options. A huge part of me is ready to ask him to hover me back to the spaceport. But I'm nothing if not determined. I'm audacious—or maybe it's stupid—enough to want to see what I'm up against.

After almost crashing through the spongy first step, I make my way into the house. In the once-grand foyer, I allow myself a moment to assess the depth and breadth of the challenge.

I am not a crier. I've always prided myself on that fact. I laugh things off. That's who I am. Prom date no shows? Ha ha ha. Fabulous new job doesn't pan out? Oh well, I can always work at Aunt Cheyenne's hotel.

72 Zo'rel Place is a giant eyesore, death trap, and the biggest money-suck I've ever encountered. Nope. I can't laugh this off. This is tragic.

Of course, there's no power, although I'd arranged it beforehand with Arixxia Fields' power company. That's okay, even though the windows are so dirty that barely any light drifts through, I can see what a giant mess this place is .

The remnants of years of disuse, as well as some familiar brown dots that must be planet Hallion's version of rodent droppings, are in evidence everywhere.

I may not know much about construction, but wherever I look, my brain supplies me with a rolling total of credits for each repair. The sound, ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching, echoes in the back of my brain.

"I can't do this. No way." Did that plaintive wail come from my mouth? I've never made that sound before, but then again, I've never flown across the galaxy on a fool's errand before.

My body feels heavy, as if there are thousand-pound weights on each of my shoulders. I sigh in defeat. There's no fixing this.

I used most of my disposable income on the entry fee for the drawing and the trip here. Although I have little money, I'd figured I would get a loan from a local bank using the property as collateral. It was a sound plan that allowed for the purchase of any furnishings I might need to get the place up and running. My eyes tear as I realize no fiscally responsible institution would bankroll this fiasco.

Something scuffles under the crumbling mauve monstrosity in the great room that might have been a nice couch… a hundred years ago.

"Shoo!" I shout, even though I assume my scolding tone and stamping foot won't be effective at making the little alien creature run away.

Now that I'm over my initial shock, the pictures from the brochure still scrolling in the back of my mind, I can see past the debris and imagine what this place would look like if it were reinstated to its former glory.

"It's too bad, really." I blow an errant lock of hair off my cheek. "If I could get a loan, this inn would be amazing when she's all fixed up."

I leave my suitcase near the front door and give myself the grand tour. The place has such lovely bones: arched windows, spacious rooms, high ceilings. The rounded areas in the turrets would be cozy places to put cushioned window seats so people could sit and read a book .

The guest rooms are designed to please guests, each with a private bathroom. The living room is perfection, its dark paneled walls in surprisingly good shape. It has just enough room to provide several seating areas for couples and families who don't want to be confined to their rooms. There's even a sunroom that would be perfect for the breakfast part of the bed-and-breakfast adventure.

It takes a heave of my shoulder to unmoor the French doors off the back of the house from where they've been stuck, unmoving, for decades. I know I shouldn't, but I make my way through thick piles of leaves to the gazebo.

It had been the deciding factor in my decision to buy this place. Call me an idiot, but I couldn't keep my mind from wandering to pictures of spending starry nights here with a beau. Yeah, I used that old-fashioned word when I thought of being courted in this wonderful homage to a bygone era.

I imagined having a child playing in the yard while I watched from a seat in the gazebo. It all seemed so real, so very doable when I was looking at the pictures in the brochure. I can't control the scoff that escapes my lips when I get close enough to see that all the floorboards are so rotted they wouldn't support the weight of a chihuahua.

Noticing it's almost dusk, I return to the house. After the handle to the French doors comes off in my hand, I feel a pang of sadness. I think about what it would be like to run this place, greeting newcomers, and baking muffins so delicious the smell wakes my guests and calls them down for breakfast.

With a last deep breath, reminding me no muffins will ever be baked in the dilapidated kitchen, I return to my suitcase, planning to stay the night in a hotel, book the first vessel back to Earth, and beg my former employer to hire me back at my crappy job.

"What the fuck!" I shout ten minutes later when my wrist-comm continues to tell me there's no signal. "How am I supposed to get out of here? "

I'm not a quitter, but after another half hour of holding my wrist up as I march up and down the street, I tuck my tail between my legs and drag my suitcase back into the house.

Now that it's dark, the house is more spooky but less filthy. I guess that's a good tradeoff. I use my wrist-comm's flashlight function and choose the least gross room at the end of the hall at the top of the stairs. Bigger than the others and in better condition, it must have been the master bedroom before it turned into a haunted house.

I find some sheets in the middle of a stack in the linen closet that must have escaped the ravages of time. They barely smell musty as I shake them out, then make the bed.

Having no intention of unpacking, I grab the first thing in my luggage that can act as a sleep shirt, then crawl into bed. I'm terrified when I hear scratching from somewhere else in the house. I assume it's whatever varmint pulled the stuffing out of the couch downstairs.

After getting up to shut the bedroom door, I lay down again, but my mind is racing so fast I can't sleep. Between the running total of what this fiasco has cost me and the anticipation of explaining to friends and family that my dreams of running the Interstellar Inn have been dashed to smithereens, I can't get my mind to slow down.

"Whooooo."

What was that?

"Whooooo." Oh my god. That sounds exactly like every ghost in every scary vid I've ever seen.

When the bedroom door opens and closes, my blood feels like it's stopped pulsing in my veins. Maybe I hallucinated the whoo-whoo, but I did not imagine the vibration of the door slamming.

"Wh-who's there?" Panic slices through me. My fists ball and my eyes widen, as my body flies into terror-mode .

The dim room fills with mist, almost obscuring the scant moonlight filtering in through the filthy windowpanes.

I scramble to a sitting position, my back against the headboard, my knees scrunched to my chest as I tuck the covers to my neck. I'm tempted to close my eyes, but I'm too terrified. If something lunges at me, I want to see it.

There's a jangling clash of metal coming from the far side of the room. Is that hangers banging together or a ghost honing his knife before he plunges it into my heart? The bathroom door opens and closes again and again. The strident banging is relentless, then stops, only to be replaced by one of the windows opening and closing. I can't think of a single natural explanation for what is happening. This isn't the effect of drafts. It must be a ghost.

I've never been this panicked. My breath is rasping, my eyes are bugging out of my head, and my body is quaking in fear.

"Whooooo, whooooo." The ghost's voice is deep and quavery. If ghosts have a sex, this is definitely male. "Get out of my house!" he shouts.

The mist increases in a burst so powerful, for a moment it obliterates the watery light drifting in through the windows, plunging me further into darkness. Slowly, it dissipates as the hangers quit jangling in the closet.

"Holy shit," I whisper, then hope I don't hear a response.

Something was in this room with me. And as surely as that was real, I'm certain it's now gone.

My heart is still racing a hundred miles an hour. I'm shivering so violently I've bitten my lip. I clamp my fluttering hands over my mouth, hoping the smell of blood doesn't call some other devilish being into existence to terrorize me.

I sit as still as I can until my nerves are calm enough for me to get out of bed, then get dressed while under the blanket. After quickly throwing my nightshirt back in my suitcase, I hover it down the stairs and to the front steps. I won't be getting any sleep tonight, and there's no way in hell I'll be waiting inside for whatever made all that racket to return.