15. Aspen
ASPEN
I offered to help Blake with whatever work he was doing, but he told me to take the day to explore and settle in.
Carrying my sketch pad and pencils, I wander the grounds, pausing to draw whatever catches my eye.
I’m also looking for a spot where I might pick up some decent cell service.
I’ve had zero bars all morning. I’m aware that I haven’t heard from Tobias yet, and I’m anticipating my cell pinging with messages when I do find some.
Will he be worried? I remind myself that I need to ask Blake for the Wi-Fi password, too.
I turn back to Windridge Hall, wondering how it will look on paper. I could draw the hotel and gift it to Blake. The thought immediately makes me uncomfortable. He’ll probably think it’s terrible but then feel obliged to hang it somewhere until I leave.
As I stare up, movement catches my eye. All the hairs stand up on the back of my neck, and my skin crawls with goosebumps. I stumble back a couple of steps, trying to increase the distance between me and the hotel.
I’m sure it’s a face. Someone standing in the window, staring back at me.
Narrowing my gaze, I furrow my brow. My finger finds my hair, twirling a lock as I watch, engrossed. The face is in one of the windows of the east wing, the part of the hotel Blake told me was unstable and dangerous to enter.
I blink a couple of times, wondering if my eyes are distorting something else into a person, but then they move back, and the next moment, the drape is yanked shut.
It must be a contractor working on the place, I reason to myself, though I haven’t seen any strange vehicles parked nearby.
I look up again. Nothing moves in the window this time, and the drape remains closed.
Perhaps I’d been seeing things and it had just been a trick of the light, or there was a breeze and the curtain had flapped and made it seem like someone had moved it.
I shake my head at myself. It doesn’t matter.
I remember what Blake had said about this place being haunted. How many people had passed through Windridge Hall’s doors over the last hundred years? I can’t even begin to imagine. Is the old place lonely now? Does it miss the days of being filled with noise and laughter and parties?
Though it’s a sunny day, I suddenly find myself chilled. The material of my long-sleeved tee isn’t thick enough, and I could use a sweater.
Pushing away my thoughts of ghosts, I head back inside the hotel. I get back to my room and toss my sketch pad down onto the dresser. I’m happy with what I’ve done today and I allow myself a moment to linger on the dream of making my art my living.
I turn my attention from my sketch pad, my line of sight sweeping over the top of my unmade bed.
I pause.
Something is on my pillow.
My first instinct jumps to the possibility that it’s some kind of large insect or even rodent, though it doesn’t look solid enough for that. I force my legs to move and take a step closer.
I squint, frowning. What is that?
Now I’m closer, I can tell it’s a cluster of twigs. There are no windows left open, though, so it’s not as though they could have blown in here. And why would it have landed directly in the center of my pillow, instead of blowing across the floor?
My stomach is a knot, and my heart beats too fast. Everything about this is screaming ‘wrong,’ and I can’t just ignore it.
I reach the bed and pick up the little tangle of twigs.
It’s a couple of inches tall, and, now I’m holding it, I can tell it isn’t just a random bundle of sticks at all.
The top is curved into a circle, the middle part bent and shaped into a torso, and the four little twigs poking out of the torso are its arms and legs.
It’s a tiny stick doll.
Now I’m holding it, it doesn’t seem quite so threatening. I could scrunch it up in my palm and turn it to kindling, but I don’t. Instead, I examine it. It’s cleverly made, each of the ends of the twigs split in order to wrap around the other parts of the doll it’s attached to.
Someone deliberately made this and left it on my pillow for me. The thing I can’t quite work out is if it’s supposed to be a gift… or a threat.
My first instinct is to assume Levi is responsible. Perhaps it’s even an apology, one brought on after his dad spoke to him about how he’d treated me, though more likely he’d want to scare me.
I gaze around the room, as though whoever left it might suddenly emerge from the shadows.
I’d swear I can sense the weight of someone’s gaze on me, as though whoever left me the doll is standing somewhere, watching my reaction to finding it.
What do they want from me? Do they want me to be frightened?
I’m definitely freaked out. More than anything, I wish my dad was here so I could turn to him and ask him what the doll means.
I miss him with a pang of grief that feels like someone knocks the wind out of my chest, and on top of that, my heart continues to race and I’m trembling from the adrenaline surging through my veins.
I decide to show them that I’m not.
I lift the doll into the air.
“Thank you,” I call out, feeling faintly ridiculous. “It’s beautiful.”
I mean it, too. The creation does have a strange kind of beauty to it. A craftmanship, which, with my artistic nature, I can appreciate.
Picking a spot on my nightstand, I prop the doll up so it’s facing my bed. With my forefinger, I give it a tiny tap on the head, and a smile touches my lips. If whoever made it is watching, I won’t give them the satisfaction of thinking I’m affected negatively by their gift.
Still, its presence means someone was in my room.
I really need that key.