Chapter 8. Holly
Holly
“Please keep in touch,” Serena said. She opened the front door slowly, hesitant to leave.
Holly felt the ocean breeze pick up. Was a storm coming or had one already arrived?
She read the subtext in Serena’s strained expression: Heed the advice from the other side—get away from here and never return.
Alone again, Holly felt adrift. What would she do now? Pack up what little she owned to escape an unknown threat? And go where? This was her plan B.
What type of danger did she face? And from whom? Who would care that she’d come back to Beauport?
Anna’s killer. Houses don’t spontaneously combust, chimed a voice in Holly’s head.
Holly thought a glass of wine might dampen the spiritual chatter. Fortunately, the bottle Serena had brought was a screw top, since she had no opener.
She settled into her grandfather’s rocking chair, her glass of wine on a nearby table and a pad of paper and pen in her lap—her sword and armor.
It was time to go to battle. No wallowing in self-pity or pondering the occult.
As Dan suggested, she could pivot and write a bestselling thriller or mystery novel.
Why not? It’s not what you write, it’s how you write it!
So what if she’d never written a grisly murder or steamy sex scene?
Writing is writing, so she would roll up her sleeves and get cracking on some riveting, pacy prose.
On paper, Holly jotted down Step One: What am I going to write about?
She laughed at herself—that standard book-talk question rearing its head once more. Where do you get your ideas?
Holly stared at the empty page. Hell if she knew. Nothing was quite as frightening as a pure white, completely blank space to fill. She took a deep breath, summoning her favorite writing mantra: Be fearless!
She cleared her mind and jotted down her first idea: Woman found dead on a train with six other passengers aboard, a conductor, and nobody else.
Hello, originality! Next …
Mismatched couple lost in the jungle after a plane crash, with mysterious cargo on board that someone is willing to kill for.
Sounded like an action-adventure novel and not something Holly wanted to write. (Nor would she write it well.)
She tried again: Philandering husband meets the end he deserved.
Yawn. Done a million times. She crossed it out.
Chester approached. Holly looked down at him and wrote: A woman finds her rescue cat is an alien. He’s also a gifted storyteller. In return for her kindness, he gives her the perfect story.
“So, Chester,” she said, gazing into his furry face, “let’s have it. What should I write that will sell a lot of copies?”
Chester meowed, presumably because he was hungry. But before Holly could feed him, she heard an unmistakable thud, something heavy falling overhead, like a body dropping.
“What the—?”
A shock wave ran up her spine. She jumped to her feet, scaring Chester, who scampered away—his meal could wait. Some guard cat he turned out to be.
Holly paused to listen but heard only her thumping heart. She stood motionless, waiting for another noise, but all remained ominously silent.
Ghosts don’t thump. Do they?
Either way, she’d done enough guessing. She was stuck in this house—and she wasn’t going to pay an exterminator unless she saw a creature with her own eyes.
If it were a ghost, it wouldn’t be corporeal, so she had nothing to worry about.
It would be spooky, strange, weird—maybe even inspiration for this impossible book of hers.
But if she couldn’t touch it, it couldn’t touch her.
Now, a rabid animal—that was a different story.
Holly headed upstairs holding her pen, which wasn’t a wise choice for armament—definitely not mightier than the sword. But it was too late now. If she retreated to the kitchen for a knife, she’d lose her nerve to investigate.
First, she checked the upstairs bedrooms. They were quiet and vacant, thank goodness.
Now it was on to the hard part—the attic.
Access was through a pull-down ladder in the ceiling, and Holly had seldom gone up there, even when she was young.
It was dark and creepy, with nothing to see except boxes of memories she’d rather ignore.
The ladder lowered with the creak of old hinges. Holly peered into the dark. Shadows leaked out, vanishing into the hallway light, but the space above loomed like a black maw waiting to swallow her whole.
Up she went, her breath sputtering as she felt around for a pull chain, fearing an animal might pounce at any moment.
Eventually she found it and was surprised when the bulb worked.
She couldn’t say when the light had been changed last. She needed a moment for her vision to adjust, rejoicing in the good news that nothing had bitten her face.
She began searching for signs of animal activity: droppings, nests made of old newspaper or insulation, claw marks on the floor.
While she didn’t see any rodents, possums, or raccoons there were plenty of markers of her personal history: boxes galore, accompanied by furniture that was too old and beat-up to use, but as familiar to her as yesterday.
She would need to clear this space out at some point.
The floor consisted of plywood boards resting on two-by-fours that ran north to south. She could move with ease, but had to watch out for the uncovered areas with pink insulation or else she’d risk putting her foot through the ceiling.
The wall facing Holly had a portal window covered in grime.
The space smelled like an old barn filled with heated hay and wood chips.
It was certainly an inviting place for an animal to take refuge.
But where was the creature hiding? In front of her stood a tall, wide bookcase stocked with dusty books.
One book was on the floor nearby, its cover facing the ceiling. Had it somehow fallen? Holly wondered.
Even in the hazy light, Holly could read the spines. The bookcase held all the mysteries she loved from her childhood—the Nancy Drews, the Baby-Sitters Club, and most of the Goosebumps series. Could this cunning critter have knocked a book off the shelf?
Holly moved across the room, holding her pen in front of her like a dagger.
The space between the bookcase and the wall was large enough to hide a Rodent of Unusual Size.
(Thank you, Princess Bride.) Her eyes fell on an old broom propped up in a corner.
She snatched it, a far better weapon than a writing utensil.
She advanced, holding the broom handle in front of her like a lance. A distinct rustling behind the bookcase stopped her dead. A tense shiver rippled through her. Got you, she thought, sure she had pinpointed the location of the invading species.
But before she could peer behind the shelves, another noise stopped her. Holly froze. Her chest constricted, her fingers and toes went numb. It wasn’t a scrape, a scurry, or a hiss that she heard.
It was a sneeze.
Ghosts didn’t sneeze, and it was way too loud for a mouse.
She ran through the possibilities—a thief, a drug addict, a rapist, or a killer?
A scream erupted from her throat, raw and untamed, full of pure terror.
Her instinct was to run—fast—but before she could retreat, a figure scrambled out from behind the bookcase.
She clutched the broom in her trembling hands. Fuck. Why couldn’t it have been a squirrel?