Chapter 3. Holly
Holly
Before Holly had a chance to slip her key into the front lock, a gleaming silver Acura, sleek as a fox, pulled into the driveway behind her no-frills Kia. A vaguely familiar woman emerged, but Holly couldn’t place her face. Chester meowed an alert from his carrier on the front stoop.
The unexpected visitor had shoulder-length, wavy, bleach-blond hair and dazzling white teeth, which she flashed in a smile that was more like a bite.
Over her right shoulder hung a fluorescent pink purse that screamed young, hip, and now, despite belonging to a woman decidedly in the middle of her middle age.
She’d applied her makeup with a moderate lack of discernment.
It was evident to Holly, even from a distance, that this woman’s bronzed complexion wasn’t from sun exposure.
“Holly Sinclair,” she called, voice shrill, practically running with a hand extended, her apple-red nails reaching for Holly like claws.
Holly took the woman’s hand because her only other option was to flee. Up close, the air thickened with a floral perfume, reminiscent of air freshener.
“I’m Gail Provost, from Beauport Realty—I heard you were coming to town. I was hoping to catch up.”
Holly realized why she looked familiar. This was the same woman who’d been hounding her for years.
Gail Provost sent personalized, hand-addressed letters to Holly’s Brooklyn apartment with the regularity of a supermarket circular—her smiling face stamped on the upper left corner of every correspondence.
Dear Holly:
I’m writing to let you know that the value of your home has increased …
How did this woman know when Holly would arrive?
The caretaker, she guessed. He had known when she was coming to town and could have easily tipped Gail off.
Everyone in Beauport who wasn’t a tourist was in each other’s business, something Holly knew from experience.
She hadn’t even stepped into her house, and already she felt the walls closing in.
“I’m so glad to finally meet you in person,” cooed Gail.
Holly acknowledged her with barely a smile.
“Come, I’ll take your little friend inside.” Before Holly could protest, Gail lifted Chester’s carrier, jostling it and causing the cat to let out a strangled cry. Holly unlocked the front door.
“Oh my goodness, how stunning,” said Gail, trailing Holly into an empty foyer.
Stunning? Holly didn’t know what Gail was seeing. To her, the house looked like the setting of a B-grade horror movie.
The furniture—the tables and chairs, the TV console, a few lamps, all relics from Holly’s youth—was draped in white sheets, like bodies at a crime scene.
The curtains had yellowed to a dull mustard color.
Ideally, the trust would cover the cost of cleaners, but it would be up to Holly to clear out the cobwebs and dust, making it livable in the meantime.
“It’s only a two-bed, right?” asked Gail, who had plenty of info on a house she’d never set foot inside.
“Yes, but my grandfather slept on the screened-in porch, so it didn’t feel small.”
Holly pulled a sheet off the couch, her breath catching at the sight of the familiar floral pattern. How many afternoons had she and Anna lounged on this ratty old thing? How many meals did they share in front of the TV, exhausted from a day at the beach?
Instinctively, Holly touched her claddagh ring.
The sisters had picked out matching rings at a shop on the boardwalk many summers ago, spending all their babysitting money on what felt like an extravagant purchase.
Anna had worn her ring every day. Holly still kept hers on in tribute—a reminder that they’d always be connected, if only in memory.
Gail set Chester down in the living room, heading off to inspect the kitchen.
Holly opened the front of the carrier, apologizing for the woman’s brusque handling. Chester was not ready to emerge, his fuzzy gray form cowering inside his crate. Green eyes flashed with reproach. Chester hadn’t asked for any of this.
“The stove still works,” Gail called from the other room. “Only one burner is out.”
Better than the one at my old apartment, thought Holly. She might not have an idea for her next book, but she was going to work in a sadistic, greedy landlord—modeled after the one who evicted her—who dies a grisly death.
She had lived in a rent-stabilized apartment, and he claimed to have made major upgrades to the building as an excuse to justify the obscene (and unaffordable) rent increase. It was bullshit.
She couldn’t pay, even if she had wanted to. Her complaints to the Department of Homes and Community Renewal went unanswered long enough for her to accumulate massive back rent. When an inspector finally arrived, he sided with her landlord, who happened to be his cousin. Unbelievable.
Holly couldn’t believe Gail Provost, either. She ventured into the kitchen and found her plugging in the refrigerator.
“This still works, too,” said Gail, patting the sturdy appliance as if it might appreciate the praise. “They don’t make things like they used to. I have to replace my modern fridge every five years.”
Holly could confidently say there was nothing modern in this kitchen.
The linoleum floor was the color of coffee-stained teeth, the old wood cabinets were clinging to the walls like desperate mountain climbers, and the round table where she had consumed countless bowls of Cocoa Puffs was scratched and covered in dust. The appliances were all aged white metal with chrome accents.
But they still worked, including the refrigerator, which hummed as though it had been roused from a long nap.
Chester finally mustered the courage to abandon his crate.
He darted into the kitchen, displaying impressive dexterity despite having only three legs.
Holly had known from the moment she laid eyes on him at the shelter, hobbled from a car accident that would have killed him if not for his nine lives, that he would be hers forever—or at least twelve to eighteen years, depending on how things went. She was hoping for as long as possible.
Using the kitchen table as a springboard, Chester climbed onto the windowsill and took in a view of the unappealing backyard. He jumped down, brushing up against Gail’s legs.
“Oh my, what an absolute cutie,” said Gail, barely paying Chester any mind. Chances were she only paid close attention to things she could sell. “What’s her name?”
“His name is Chester,” Holly replied.
Chester was thirsty. The smarty-pants cat made his way to the sink. But what came out of the faucet was brown and didn’t clear, even as Holly let the water run. She shut it off, noticing the countertop around the sink had bubbled.
“I need a handyman,” Holly said. “Do you have any recommendations?”
Gail’s face lit up like Christmas had come early. “So you’re fixing the place up to sell? Oh, let me help.” She clapped her hands with delight. “A vacation rental investor would snap this up in no time.”
“I have a lot of legal issues to look into before I can consider selling. But I need someone to do repairs so I can live here, at least for now.”
Gail smiled, unfazed. “I know just the handyman for the job. Mind if I look around upstairs?” The Realtor was on the move before Holly gave her blessing.
“Be my guest,” Holly said to Gail’s back. She followed her up to the second-floor bedroom she had once shared with Anna.
The sisters had stayed here every year, from the moment school ended through Labor Day weekend, soaking up summer until it gave its first pre-fall yawn. The bedroom walls were still a vibrant robin’s-egg blue, but the dresser with an attached mirror needed a good cleaning.
Two twin beds, their mattresses encased in plastic, lay like prone sentries keeping watch all these years. Everything was as Holly remembered, and it all hurt. She felt as though she’d stepped into a photo album, except everyone Holly loved, all the people who made this place special, were gone.
Gail peered out the bedroom window, marveling at the view, commenting on Holly’s good fortune.
The Realtor didn’t realize Holly’s so-called luck had come at a steep cost: losing her father when she was only a year old, then her grandfather when she and Anna were still in their teens.
But the loss of her sister was the most gut-wrenching of all.
It happened unexpectedly the year Holly turned twenty-two.
Anna was just two years older. Soon after, her mother began experiencing depression-induced dementia.
Now Mom was gone, and this house was all Holly had to remember them by.
Some luck there.
Holly stood next to Gail by the window, catching another whiff of her perfume—Eau d’Argent, she dubbed it—French for money.
Below them, the sea spread out like a vast dark carpet sprinkled with flickering drops of sunlight.
Colorful umbrellas dotted the nearby shoreline.
As Holly struggled to lift the window, Gail helped pry it open, letting in a blast of ocean air.
Gail sighed, then muttered to herself, “A unique residential property that offers the fortunate buyer an incredible opportunity for seaside living.”
Holly’s mouth dropped open. “Are you writing the listing in your head?” By this point, Holly found Gail more amusing than detestable. This woman certainly put the g in gall.
“I can’t help it,” said Gail. “The listing writes itself. Stunning, panoramic ocean views, footsteps from one of the best beaches in the Northeast, and just a stone’s throw from a dizzying array of restaurants, galleries, and shops.”
Gail certainly took her always-be-closing mantra literally. Holly sniffed the air. “Is that black mold?”
Gail took a whiff, but if she smelled anything, she wasn’t dissuaded. “Could be, but nothing a dehumidifier can’t take care of.”
Eventually, Gail had seen enough. Placing several flyers and business cards on the fireplace mantel, she departed, promising to find Holly a handyman.
Chester emerged from the kitchen when he heard the real estate agent drive off.
Holly figured he was glad to see her go. But she knew Gail would be back.
At least she wasn’t living in the boonies. All the major conveniences were just a walk or a phone click away—including DoorDash.
Holly ate her dinner, a fried haddock sandwich, while sitting in her grandfather’s rocking chair, admiring a watercolor her mother had painted years ago.
It was a scene of the beach, looking down from their front lawn.
The two tiny figures playing in the sand—one in a yellow T-shirt, the other in a pink beach dress—represented Anna and Holly.
Holly didn’t have any memories of her father, and her mother never found anybody else after he died. It was always Mom and Grandpa here. His ubiquitous pipe still graced the mantel above the fireplace, next to Gail’s flyers.
After dinner, Holly had just enough energy to retrieve her suitcase from the car and undo the plastic on the queen-sized bed in her mother’s room, which she planned to make her own.
She left a window open, inviting the sea air to wash over her.
She had only one blanket, which was more than enough for her and Chester, who lay curled at her feet, keeping them warm.
Holly always had supremely cold appendages. Max Egan, her college sweetheart and first true love, would hold her hand and ask, “When did you pass?” He’d wink, then press a kiss to her chilly cheek.
Max was the kindest, most sensitive man she had ever known.
While other boys were swilling beers at frat parties, Max preferred going to the indie cinema or discovering cool bands in underground clubs.
He was a connoisseur of ramen noodles, a fan of art openings, and amazing in bed.
She would have married him—but trauma had other plans.
Through no fault of his own, Max was forever associated with the worst day of Holly’s life.
Now another woman shared Max’s bed and his children, and Holly suspected she had been searching for him (and writing about him) ever since.
Holly drifted off to sleep, bittersweet memories pulling her into a world of chaotic dreams. Eventually she fell into a deeper void, where all thoughts, troubles, and emotions dropped away, her mind finally finding much-needed rest.
She awoke with a jolt. Her eyes sprang open, adrenaline coursing through her, shocking her back to consciousness. Had she heard something overhead? There it was again—a thump or a bump, certainly too loud to be a mouse.
She held her breath, her heart pounding. This was why she hadn’t wanted to come back. It wasn’t just memories haunting her, it was entities.
This wasn’t the first strange occurrence Holly had encountered in the cottage. In the initial weeks after Anna had died, she would sometimes hear unexplained noises and see flashes of things that shouldn’t have been there. She’d told herself it was grief playing tricks on her mind.
Carol, however, thought otherwise—and for that reason, refused to rent or sell the house out from under her dead daughter’s spirit. Of course, this came from a woman who later developed dementia with bouts of psychosis.
“Are you there, Anna?” Holly said into the dark.
No answer, not even a thump.
Great. Now Holly had a new worry to add to her long list of troubles: going crazy, just like her mother.