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

set the candle down as Sarah walked to the window. “You’ll have your privacy, but keep in mind that I reserve the right to search any part of this house without a warrant.” She held up the silver key as a threat. “So mind your sticky fingers.”

Dust covered the window, the scent growing stronger the closer Sarah moved to the glass. Her room boasted a view of a garden in the back, which was surprisingly vibrant. Amid the changing leaves and the black and white of the coming winter, there was nothing but green.

“I’ll expect you downstairs at the front door, dressed and ready for work tomorrow. Uniforms are in the closet. I’m sure you can find one your size.” Iris grabbed the candle, turning to leave, and then stopped before she closed the door behind her. “You have free run of the house, so long as the doors you try aren’t locked. But I don’t want you snooping around on the fifth floor, understand?”

“Sure,” Sarah answered.

“I’m serious, girl,” Iris growled, pressing her chin into her neck. “That is one rule that is unforgiveable. I will throw you out without pay if I find you up there.”

Sarah finally peeled her gaze away from the window, slung her backpack off, and placed it on the bed. “I got it.”

“Good.” Iris stepped toward the door, and then stopped herself. “Oh, and no smoking in the house.” She wrinkled her nose. “I could smell that disgusting habit on you the moment you walked into the diner.”

“Of course, my lady.” Sarah gave a deep curtsy, keeping her head down until the door slammed shut, and Iris was gone.

Sarah lifted her head and flipped the bird at the door, lip twisted in a snarl, then flopped down on the bed next to her backpack.

The mattress swallowed her up, and while it was soft, it didn’t offer much support. With effort, she finally sat up and opened her pack, dumping its contents over the sheets.

A few shirts, an extra pair of jeans, thick wool socks, another scarf, a sweater, and a few pairs of underwear were her spare clothes. She had one bra but never wore it. The bulky Carhartt jacket took care of concealing her breasts, and she wasn’t complaining about not having to wear one.

Aside from the clothes, she had a can of pepper spray, two packets of beef jerky, a flashlight, a lighter, and her last pack of cigarettes. With money scarce, she had been forced to cut back on the habit, and she had bummed as many smokes on her trek north as she could, which were few and far between since most people had kicked the habit or were too smart to start in the first place.

Staring into the backpack now, anyone would have thought it was empty. But Sarah reached toward the bottom and pulled at a loose corner. The fabric gave way and exposed the tough leather underneath, and she removed a folded photograph.

Holding it, Sarah shivered, then tucked it into her pocket. She stacked a few logs in the fireplace, dumped some lighter fluid over them, then struck a match.

Flames brightened the room, and a quick blast of heat warmed her cheeks. But the initial blaze died down quickly. She added more lighter fluid, and it helped the flame catch permanently.

The room warmed quickly, and Sarah sat down at the vanity, the mirror offering a cloudy and scratched reflection. She unwrapped the scarf and examined the bruises along her neck.

The finger marks didn’t look as bad as they had when she’d first hit the road. The worst of the purple and black had faded, leaving only a few lingering marks from the middle and index fingers. But the area was still sensitive to the touch.

Starting to sweat, Sarah removed her jacket, the long-sleeved shirt underneath loose against her body, and then rotated to the left and lifted her shirt to examine her side.

Like the marks on her throat, the bruises on her ribs had started to fade. She dropped the shirt and placed her hand over her side, gingerly leaning back in the chair. She hadn’t pissed blood since the fight, and it didn’t hurt to breathe anymore, so she was glad to discover her body was healing.

Sarah glanced around the room once more and sighed. Once again, she found herself in a stranger’s home where she never wanted to be in the first place.

But it was a dance she was familiar with, and she had started it young, after the death of her parents. For fifteen years, she had ping-ponged around different foster homes, fighting for her life and the right to see tomorrow.

Her childhood had been spent fending off a drunken foster parent who wanted to knock her around, and then as she grew older, protecting herself from the molesters that wanted to take what she wasn’t willing to give.

She hoped that she wouldn’t run into those types of people here, but if Sarah learned one thing, it was to never trust a book by its cover. And while Iris Bell played the part of cranky old woman well, Sarah bet there were more than a few pages the crow wished she could burn.

Sarah turned to watch the fire and placed her hand over the pocket that held the picture. She liked keeping it close whenever she was in a strange place. It had been that way ever since she was little.

After a few minutes of gazing into the crackling flames, she realized how tired she was. Travel, cold, and her injuries had drained her energy, and she hadn’t had a full night’s rest since she’d left New York.

With an actual bed to sleep in, Sarah crawled beneath the covers and shut her eyes. Two minutes later, she was sound asleep.

Despite Sarah’s desire for rest, the nightmare returned. It was the same nightmare that she’d experienced every night for the past week. She was running through the streets of New York, cutting down alleys,