Keepers Of The Gate Page 11

  Too rattled to enjoy the shower, Twyla hastens through the hair rinse, turns off the water, and steps from the clawfoot tub toward the vanity mirror, swirling the blow dryer over the misty glass. Her wet reflection emerges, evoking the boggy wraith’s image.

  She’d read that ghosts appear in the form they’d died – bloodied, mangled, burned, whatever the reason they’d perished. The girl’s watery visage and the heart-thumping asphyxiation that claimed Twyla’s breath suggests she’d drowned. Had she taken her last breath in Seneca Lake, the strangled breath she’d wheezed on her knees?

  Consumed with ghosts, Twyla holds the hairdryer in one spot too long and flinches from her reverie when the heat singes her scalp. She twists her hair in a loose bun, drifts from the the bathroom and creeps toward her 18th-century ebonized rope bed. Standing in the center of the room, she gazes at the lengthy attic, dreading the girl’s reappearance and hoping it’s the last time she’ll surface.

  The loft has felt strange since she woke to the storm at the window. She felt a nebulous presence when she broke through the watery dream, though she believed it haze one feels waking from sleep.

  But she’s never discerned the paranormal as she had at that moment. Mom’s the one with extrasensory perception. Maybe the entire morning’s a dream, she muses with a chuckle, dispelling her tension. Twyla pinches her arm twice as she’d done many times after sleepwalking, not to confirm she’s awake, but from habit.

  Twyla strolls toward the built-in bookcase, runs her fingers across treasured books and framed family photos, smiling at the memorable image of archery practice with Grams. Below sits a photo Twyla took of Grams in the parlor, evoking words Grams spoke that day of their non-paying guests, “They’re benevolent spirits and will never hurt you. They don’t know you’re there.” Was she wrong? From the fright in the specter’s eyes, Twyla’s positive the girl saw her and appeared more afraid than she. In her sphere, is she still alive? If so, why have our worlds collided?

  Mystik’s deep, elongated meow echoes, a plea for help from the stairwell, effecting a spontaneous response to her incessant call. Twyla hastens to dress in denim leggings, an oversized sweater and boots, flinging Grams’ locket around her neck.

  Descending the back stairs, she finds Mystik feverishly scratching at the office door. From her behavior, Twyla believes she senses something on the other side. Or is she too spooked to return upstairs?

  It’s time she stretches her legs and roams the inn for a while. Twyla lifts Mystik’s slender yet muscular body, opens the door, and places her on the Victorian cameo-backed settee banished from the front parlor when mom bought a new sofa.

  “OK, Mystik, stay here.”

  She meows, slinks across the cushion, curling into the settee’s rolled corner with her head propped in the air, tossing a greenish-blue-eyed gaze at Twyla. With a feline narrowing of the eyes, Mystik turns her head as if annoyed a ghost ousted her from her favorite spot.

  “I know how you feel,” Twyla mutters, thinking it’ll be a while before she sleeps comfortably in her bed again. “Be good,” she says, glancing over her shoulder as she walks toward the entrance. Just as she opens the door, Mystik growls, hops to the floor and leaps on top of the desk, pawing and poking her nose at the drawer.

  “What now, Mystik?” She asks, stepping toward the desk, wondering what she senses inside. When Twyla slides the top drawer open, Mystik hisses and scratches her hand. “Owww! Bad, bad, bad cat,” she screeches, smacking her paw.

  Mystik growls and springs from the desk, escaping into the corridor.

  This is the fifth scratch from Mystik this week. Her hands look as if they’ve been tangled in barbed wire. What’s wrong with her? She never scratches unless provoked. Twyla glowers at the red, itchy swell across her hand and sucks the metallic ooze until the burning subsides.

  Inside the drawer, items beneath a hand towel grab her attention. She peels back the cloth, unveiling a tomahawk and bone choker. Are they artifacts? The soiled cloth tells her they’re not from Mom’s university lab. Looks as if they were just dug from the ground. Is this what Mom was holding earlier in the backyard? Why did she leave them here? She runs her fingers across diverging swirls – a carved wolf face resembling the Seneca Wolf Clan insignia. Was this what Mystik sensed? Maybe she’s still riled from earlier events.

  “Oh, no,” she murmurs, picturing Mystik prowling the dining room and kitchen, sniffing Dad’s breakfast spread. After banning her at mealtimes, he’ll have a fit if he sees her.

  Twyla hastens from the office to the foyer, realizing she’s still holding the bone choker. She stuffs it in her sweater pocket and continues into the shadowy Grand Hall. This space never receives direct sunlight, only filtered gleams from three balcony windows, hitting at odd angles various times of the day. But with today’s blizzard, stormy light streams through stained-glass windows, casting sinister mosaic shadows across the welcome desk, descending across the floor up to guest seating, ascending the walls. This morning and most mornings, the guest sofa appears occupied by three shadowy individuals.

  Twyla turns on the overhead lights, and the chandelier, and moves toward the triangular alcove sheltering the welcome desk beneath the dramatic gothic staircase. She switches on the antique lamps on the mahogany counter. Shadows from the mezzanine fade into the damask wall’s molding and trim, scurrying light-sensitive creatures.

  Wind whistles at the stately entrance, arousing memories of her first visit to Twilight Ends. The enormous door towered over her tiny frame as she entered with widening eyes, marveling at the Victorian-Gothic architecture. She admired the arched entry, intricate woodwork, massive fireplaces and the sweeping staircase – all original features preserved since Twilight’s beginnings. Though the décor has changed over the years, the original fixtures remained the same.

  Shrewd business partners, Grams and Papa catered to guests who craved old-world charm and modern conveniences, upgrading every room in Twilight with cable, Internet, WiFi, and flat-screen televisions.

  “One day, this will be yours,” Grams said whenever Twyla visited. Grams’ constant reiteration, and Twyla’s love of Twilight, influenced her career choice. For years, she’d planned a life as a successful B&B owner and majored in business administration at the university so she could create a better marketing plan for Twilight. Unlike Mom, she’s always known she’d run the family business.

  When a shadow shifts in the hallway, she glances left, waiting for someone to emerge around the corner. It can’t be Dad or Mom – they’re upstairs – and she heard Jayson in his suite. And the staff hasn’t arrived because of the storm. It can only be Mr. Dox or the Whelans. When no one emerges, she strolls toward the corridor, stopping with a distant memory gnawing at her mind. Her heart speeds with unfounded fear as she rounds the hall.

  Twyla gasps and stumbles backward.

  A yawning chasm engulfs the passage, devouring everything in sight.

  “This isn’t real,” she mutters, pinching her arm till it hurts. “There’s pain, you’re awake, there’s pain, you’re awake.” The mantra plays in her head.

  She steps backward and freezes, recalling Grams’ words years ago on a winter night when Twyla woke with a parched throat and wandered downstairs for water. When she’d entered the corridor, the house transformed, and strange people moved toward her. She’d rubbed her eyes, sure she was sleepwalking and dreaming in unison, but the room continued to change. The vortex enlarged, engulfing her in darkness. She’d dropped to her knees, crawled inside the coat cupboard beneath the grand staircase and hid, praying the blackness didn’t eat her within the closet. Locked in a fetal position, she shook with tears until Grams found her an hour later.

  Grams’ long-forgotten whisper resonates from her childhood memories. “Hush, now little one. It’s OK,” she’d said and carried her to the kitchen table, proceeding to the kettle. Grams sat beside her, soothed her with hot chocolate, and glanced into the corridor. An odd frown had etched her face. Smoothin
g Twyla’s braid, she’d whispered, “Twilight has a way of transforming sometimes. Don’t fear it, my special one. If you step into its shifting path, it will guide you home. I promise.”

  Twyla wondered what Grams meant. Had she stepped into the shifting corridor, too? Grams had lifted the beaded necklace from Twyla’s neck and pressed it to her heart as they’d sat at the table. “This necklace is special, not a toy. You must never wear it again. Do you understand?” She’d insisted in a firm but gentle voice. Unaware she’d fallen asleep still wearing the beaded necklace she’d taken from Grams’ bureau, Twyla had nodded and mumbled, “Yes.” After that night, she’d never played inside Grams’ dresser again. She wonders what other unattainable four-year-old experiences have slipped her memory.

  In a flash, Mystik dashes through Twyla’s feet toward the center of the ever-growing chasm, plonks on her hind, and stares ahead as if expecting something to appear from the void. Does she see it too? Mystik twists her head around, blinks her cyan eyes, mews, and pads onward, pausing again.

  Twyla steps forward, reaches out, but Mystik slips through her grasp. She scuttles forward, vanishing into the obsidian void as everything of substance in Twilight Ends vanishes, altering to a simple log cabin. Several voices sound as if invisible people are moving through the hallway.

  The purging chasm wavers between Twilight’s cherrywood hall and a log cabin then at once transforms into a smoke-gray malodorous space with timbered walls.

  Twyla staggers, losing her balance as a wild animal race in her chest.

  “It’s just an illusion,” she mumbles, remembering Grams’ reassuring words, “Twilight is still here, along with its history.” Spinning with the mutable space, she shuts her eyes, hoping that Twilight’s corridor will reappear. But when she peeks, details emerge clearer, sharper. On her left and right, platform bunks line a long passage. She’s seen this place before, but this can’t be happening.

  Beneath her feet, the Persian runner and hardwood floors morph into hardened dirt. Several burning fire pits center the long room with thick smoke escaping through small ceiling holes.

  Blindly, she reaches toward the wall and moves along the edge, finding Twilight’s wainscoting, and bumping into what she perceives as the tall, handcrafted sideboard. She grabs the edge to steady herself, then gasps when a man’s faint figure develops.

  His clothing – a cocked hat, short brown jacket, tan leggings stuffed inside white, homespun stockings, are clothes of Colonial history books. His image unfolds, a soldier returned from the grave. He reaches over his shoulder for a long-pointed staff, a bayonet she’s sure, and pulls it over his head with lightning speed.

  Twyla gasps and recoils when the blade splits the air with a silvery current. She edges behind the credenza, sure the ghost can’t touch or harm her, but the sharp breeze leaves her uncertain.

  He rushes at her. The phantom blade slits her belly, a painless puncture struck with an alarming, icy tingle. Shocked by the swift bayonet, she reacts too slowly when he seizes her elbow.

  “Twyla, what’s wrong? Are you OK?”

  That voice… I know his voice.

  Though his tone bears no threat, his menacing eyes instill fear in her heart.

  At once, the walls ignite, melting, peeling to the cherrywood corridor. The grandfather clock ticks at the end of the hall. The home’s dizzy metamorphosis and the soldier’s quick morph into Harrison Dox buckles her knees.

  “I got you,” he says, clutching her arm, leading, and seating her in the parlor. “You OK?”

  Twyla grips her belly, examining the sweater for a gaping hole or anything to explain the chill biting her core. “Yes, I’m fine, just a touch dizzy.”

  “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

  15

  Confronting Mr. Dox

  Oh my God, what just happened?

  Besieged with mental images and a racing heart, Twyla doesn’t notice Harrison Dox leave or return to the parlor until he places a glass of water in her hand and sets a mug of coffee on the table. She steadies her nerves with a deep breath, lifts and guzzles the full glass of water.

  “Better?” Harrison asks.

  “Yes, much. Thank you,” she says, wiping her bottom lip. “It’s just low blood sugar,” she lies, remembering mom’s constant excuse whenever spectral energy overwhelmed her. She sits the tumbler on the coffee table and sticks her hands between her thighs with a tight squeeze to stop the trembling.

  What the heck is happening this morning? The boggy wraith, the corridor… I’m seeing Grams’ and Papa’s apparitions. This day can’t get any weirder. The chill in her abdomen lessens with pins and needles, much as frostbite does. She presses her palm to the phantom wound, quelling the sensation.

  She recalls what Grams and Papa used to say, “Ghosts can’t hurt or touch you.” Chilled with a soldier’s icy blade and suffocated with phantom water… They were wrong. Ghosts can harm.

  “You sure you’re OK? Can I help you upstairs or get your folks?”

  “Oh no, please believe me, I’m fine,” she replies, slumping into the couch and looking at him for the first time since he helped her to the sofa. From his expression, she must look a fright. Twyla straightens her back and feigns normalcy, even though she’s a nervous wreck. Lifting her gaze, she catches his charcoal-gray V-neck sweater and caramel cords hanging loose around his boyish hips.

  Despite his momentary act of kindness, he still gives her the willies. Several times during the week, when he thought no one was looking, she detected his sly glances around Twilight as he scribbled in his letter notepad as if he were a home appraiser. And most disturbing, she’d spotted him giving her the once-over a couple of times. Whenever the refined 30-year-old man comes near her, unease crawls beneath her skin. Real or imagined, her hair stands on end.

  Since his arrival, a week ago, she’s pondered his privileged comportment, wily blue eyes, and salivating grin. His mere presence is threatening. When his mobile rang last night, he wandered on to the porch and answered in a quiet voice. By accident, she overheard him say, “No worries. They’ll accept, but if they don’t, we must choose the last resort.” Sensing the call concerned Twilight, a chill eclipsed her mind, and her gut tightened. His sneaky call and inspection of the inn the past week reeked of deceit.

  A buzz resounds from his body. At once, he pulls his cell phone from his trouser pocket, reads the text with arched brows, and a perturbed sigh. He returns the mobile to his side pocket with an expression that’s filled his face on many phone calls she’d spied around the inn. Is it the same person he spoke to on the porch last night? She still believes he’s up to no good. “Mr. Dox, please don’t mind me if you need to attend to business. I’m OK.”

  “Call me Harrison, and that text can wait,” he says with exaggerated casualness.

  Unable to control the eye roll his smugness elicits, she feigns a yawn and lowers her gaze. The arrogance she’d encountered earlier hides under a kinder demeanor for the moment. The pompous behavior might take a life-changing misfortune to humble. She ponders whether she’s projecting her own views and experiences on a man she doesn’t know. But he reeks of corrupt old money.

  Harrison narrows his eyes and taps his fist to his lips in thought. “You looked frightened in the hallway. Was it me?” He asks, attempting humor.

  “No, it was lightheadedness. I just need to eat breakfast,” she replies, examining his face and recalling the urge to run from the menacing, uniformed man whose form he’d assumed in the corridor.

  “Well, as long as you’re feeling better…” he says, crossing his arms and peering out of the window. “Have you seen the storm?” he asks, glancing at her with furrowed eyebrows. “Looks like you’ll have me around another day, but it’s a superb place to be snowbound,” he says with an unsettling grin.

  “You’re welcome to stay as long as it takes.” Twyla fidgets under his lengthy stare, scoots to the sofa’s edge, and takes an audible sip of coffee. Strawberry scones, bacon, and egg
aromas drift into the parlor, erasing the acrid phantom odor that tainted her nostrils in the hall. The images and smells were so real. She realized the edifice was a hodensote, a longhouse of which she’d seen pictures in Mom’s books and at the Iroquois Nation Museum. Sensing Harrison’s steady gaze, she glances up, catches his gathered brows, and forces a smile. “Have you had breakfast yet?” she asks.

  “I’m not much of a breakfast person,” he states, unfolding and dropping his arms, “Just coffee, juice, and toast most days.” He puts his hands in his pants pockets and narrows his blue eyes. “Tell me, Twyla, how do you like being an innkeeper?”

  His disingenuousness is so transparent, probing again as he’s done for several days. She sits straighter, releases an irked breath with a resounding hand smack to her denim-clad thighs. “Ah, well…” She meets his eyes. “Twilight’s my home, my business, my life, and everything I’ve ever wanted. I couldn’t imagine living or working anywhere else. It takes a family effort to keep the inn running and thriving. I love everything about the hospitality business, meeting new people, providing comfort and relaxation during their stay, and seeing them leave carefree and de-stressed. It’s satisfying work,” she says, staring above the mantel, glimpsing the smiling image of Grams and Papa, seated on the dock with Twilight behind them. Remembering Grams’ spunk, she imagines a direct retort to Harrison. She sits taller and bolder, and asks, “So, what’s your business, Harrison?”

  Removing his hands from his pockets, he taps his fist on his lips again and swaggers toward the window. “Let’s just say I’m in the business of hospitality.” He turns and faces her with a grin. “You know – agritourism, leisure and relaxation – much like Twilight Ends.”