The Guest House Hauntings Boxset by Hazel Holmes (novel books to read txt) 📕

pant leg rolled up, keeping an eye on the icy scales that had progressed to just below her knee. She’d tried every direction—south, east, west, and finally north. Their only commonality was that they led her away from Bell, and the farther she walked from Bell in each direction, the more the scales spread.

Sarah touched one of the scales, the hard edges thick and dull. And the more they spread, the harder they became. Her foot was like an alligator’s hide. She turned back to the north and returned to Bell, nursing the headache that had plagued her whenever she tried to distance herself from the town.

It was the house, and whatever… thing lived inside it.

But aside from what that thing was doing to her, Sarah didn’t know anything about it, and if she wanted to fix whatever the hell was wrong with her, then she needed to learn more about the house and the family that lived there. And during her time in Bell she had met one man who was knowledgeable about the town’s history, and that’s where she went.

The lights in Pat’s Tavern had gone out, the bar already closed for the night. Sarah circled around to the back of the building and found the small shack that acted as Pat’s studio. A light shone through the shack’s only window, and Sarah was glad to know he was awake.

Sarah knocked on the door quickly and then listened for any movement inside. When she heard nothing, she knocked harder. She descended the short staircase and then waited as the sound of footsteps headed toward the door.

“Sarah? Jesus, what are you doing out here at this hour?” Pat was dressed in jeans, shoes, and a long-sleeved shirt. He looked outside, checking to see if anyone was with her.

“I need to talk to you,” Sarah answered.

Pat stepped aside and then motioned for her to enter. “You must be freezing. Come in, come in.”

Sarah paced the small area, examining Pat’s living quarters. It was a simple setup: bed along one wall, a two-person table with only one chair along another, and a small kitchenette near the door. No television. No technology of any kind that she could see.

“It’s like a hermit’s hut in here,” Sarah said, noting the lack of fire in the wood-burning stove.

“It’s better than sleeping outside.” Pat reached for his only chair and then gestured for Sarah to sit. “What’s going on?”

Sarah’s legs groaned in relief when the pressure from her knees disappeared. She felt safe here. And after she took a minute to gather her thoughts and figure out what she wanted to say, she cleared her throat and looked Pat in the eye. “Those stories you told me about. The ones about the town and the deal that Allister Bell had made with that witch...” She watched him closely, studying his expression. “Are they real?”

Pat narrowed his eyes, tilting his head to the side. The hint of a smile crept up his cheeks. He laughed, more nervous than excited. “Are you serious?”

Sarah lowered her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I know it sounds crazy, but…” And before she could talk herself out of it, Sarah rolled up her pant leg, exposing the icy scales.

“Oh my god,” Pat said, his voice a harsh whisper, then bent down to take a closer look. He grimaced, but amid the horror, there was fascination. “What is that?”

“I don’t know,” Sarah answered. “The doctors at the hospital thought that it might be frostbite, but it’s not like any frostbite that I’ve ever seen.”

“No,” Pat said, that sense of awe still in his voice. He raised his eyes to meet Sarah’s. “And you think this has something to do with the Bell house?”

Sarah nodded and then rolled her pant leg back down. “When I was there I saw a woman at night, but she was… hurt.” She couldn’t bring herself to say “dead” because it still sounded like nonsense in her own mind. “I found a box of driver’s licenses and IDs, including the license of the girl I saw. I think all of them used to work at the mansion.” She swallowed. “And I saw a body.”

“Christ.” Pat rubbed his face until his cheeks turned red and then crossed his arms. He stared at the floor a while, shaking his head. “Did you tell the police?”

“I told the deputy about the IDs,” Sarah answered. “I didn’t mention the body.”

“What? Why?” Pat stood. “Sarah, you need to report this.”

“Because the Bell house isn’t the only thing I’m running from.”

Pat frowned. “Sarah the police—”

“I can’t!” Sarah blurted out. “I can’t talk to the fucking police!” She felt control slipping away, and the desire to tell someone, the need to purge herself of what had happened in New York and why she had run here in the first place tipped the scales and became overwhelming. Her breathing quickened, and Pat kept his distance. Sarah prowled back and forth like a wounded animal.

“What did you do that was so bad?” Pat asked.

Tears broke through despite her anger, and Sarah smeared them away with the sleeve of her jacket. “It wasn’t something I did.” Her lip quivered. “It was something I didn’t do.” She sat on Pat’s bed and sobbed.

Sarah could see the girl now, could see her screaming for help, begging for them to stop, but all she had been able to think of in the moment was saving herself. Because that was how she had grown up, and that instinct for survival was all she knew. She looked at Pat.

Pat walked over and placed his hand on her shoulder. “What happened, Sarah?”

Sarah shook her head, clasping her hands together so tightly that her knuckles whitened, and she walked over to Pat’s bed. “I just watched her die.” She froze, feeling as empty as the ghosts that had visited her over the past few days. “I watched them put a gun to her head, pull the trigger, and I didn’t tell anyone.