A look of pride came over his face, as though he’d been the one to dig that first shovel of dirt. “1872. In fact, right where you’re standing was where the original boardinghouse kitchen was.”
He smiled then, the kind of smile that makes you want to invest in toothpaste and sunshine. I found myself unable to resist offering my own pearly whites back in response. If all the employees took as much pride in Bryant Mountain House as the bellman, we were in better shape than I thought.
I followed him toward the checkin desk, noticing his black wingtips, his crisply ironed tan chinos paired with a forest-green fleece with the resort name emblazoned on the back. Little bit of a mishmash for an employee uniform, but on a rainy afternoon like this, I certainly wasn’t going to stand on formality.
“Hello, Trish, this is Ms. Bixby, checking in.”
“Of course,” a pretty blonde behind the desk chirped, and just as I went to pick up my tote bag, the bellman reached for it at the same time. I don’t know which one of us tipped it over, but the entire contents of my bag spilled out all over the carpet.
“Must be something in the air today, sorry about that, let me help you,” he said, kneeling next to me as I began stuffing everything back in—notebooks, pencils, iPad, wallet, my planner . . . hey wait, where was my planner? I looked left and there was the bellman, studying my planner with a strange look on his face.
I coughed pointedly, and his eyes snapped up to mine.
“Here you go,” he said, smoothing the engraved cover and handing it back.
“Thanks. I’d lose my head if this ever went missing,” I said with a laugh, popping it back into my bag. Not just my head but anything and everything about whatever job I was currently working on. Filled to bursting with newspaper clippings, photographs, red-lined spreadsheets, and handwritten notes, my planner was the single most important item in my tote bag. Setting aside the practical aspect, it was also sentimental to me. Barbara had given it to me the day I went out on my own, working a job in Colorado.
“Here you go, kiddo, this’ll help keep all those plates in the air a bit longer,” she’d said, handing me the leather-bound planner. Embossed on the front cover was my name in silver letters.
“Barbara, you spoil me,” I replied, running my fingers over my name. “Thank you, it’s very sweet.”
“I’m protecting my investment.” She laughed. “It’s in my best interest that you stay focused out there on the road.”
And on the road I’d been ever since, planner of grand ideas by my side.
Speaking of by my side, my bellman was studying my face with an appraising expression. I couldn’t help but do the same.
Now that we were out of the rain, I could really see him. Auburn hair, closely cropped but threatening to wave and curl given the chance. Tall, slim build, sharply cut cheekbones and a strongly chiseled jawline. A sprinkling of freckles across his nose and sun-kissed cheekbones hinted at someone who enjoyed the outdoors, even in the wintertime.
He wore tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, the tones mimicking the reddish-blond hues in his hair, and his eyes were the deepest blue I’d ever seen, almost ink-like. Eyes that searched mine as though looking for something, and then widened when he found whatever it was he was looking for.
The left corner of his mouth turned up, and he flashed me an easy grin.
“Ready to go upstairs?”
“Sure?” I replied, realizing as he grinned again he knew exactly how cheeky he was being. I rolled my eyes, slinging my tote over my shoulder and silently berating myself for flirting with a bellman not five minutes after arriving.
Never. Get. Involved. That was a rule that was as firm as the buns this guy likely had under those perfectly ironed chinos.
Pocketing the honest to goodness actual gold key to my room, I resisted the urge to give him my own cheeky grin. “Lead the way.”
It was quiet, so very quiet when we reached the sixth floor and made our way down the hallway. It was almost too quiet. The hotel, like many old hotels, had been added on to over the years, creating a bit of a rabbit-warren feeling. A few steps up at the end of this hall, a turn at the end of that one, another few steps back down, the hallway went on forever!
“Good lord, I’m going to need a map to get back to the lobby,” I said, after our fourth turn. “Why’d they stick me all the way down here?”
He looked casually back at me over his shoulder. “They gave you one of the best rooms in this wing. Very private.”
I’d heard nothing coming from any of the rooms I’d passed. No TVs, no radios, no conversation. But I’d heard each and every step I made, creaking and squeaking as the old wooden floors beneath the floral runner announced to any and all that someone was coming. “Private. Great.”
This place was old school, and everything about it said it’d been here a long time. The ceilings were at least ten feet high, and above each door was a transom, harkening back to the days before air-conditioning. Each window was dark, no lights on inside. There was literally no one else staying on this floor. The walls were covered in damask pink floral wallpaper with about two feet of dark cherry wainscoting, details that were lovely if a bit dated. And hung in a perfectly straight line down the hallway were photographs of the hotel’s heyday, black and white and filled with pictures of unsmiling people holding tennis rackets and croquet mallets.
It wasn’t that they weren’t happy, it was that in old-timey photographs people had to hold these poses sometimes for ten minutes or more, and who the hell wanted to smile that long? Logically, I knew this. But in the back of my mind as I walked down the hallway all I could see staring back at me were long-dead, angry-looking people.
Now. Let me just say. For the record. I don’t spook easy. I don’t scream at scary movies, I don’t hide when things go bump in the night. But this hallway . . .
Remember in The Shining when Danny goes riding his Big Wheel around and around the hallways at the Overlook Hotel? Yeah. That.
Why Are the Hallways so Effing Creepy was going straight to the top of my to-do list when I had my first sit-down with the Bryant family.
“Come on.” He laughed, noticing my reticence. “It’s not too much farther.”
Finally we arrived at my room, number 668.
“Oh, you’re joking, right?” I chuckled in disbelief. The spooky hallway, the twists and turns, the dead guys in the pictures. “Why not just put me in six-six-six and be done with it?”
“Oh no, no one stays in room six-six-six,” he said gravely, shaking his head as he reached for my key. Clicking the door open, he looked back over his shoulder at me. “Except for a certain bestselling writer who specializes in horror novels, typically based in Maine . . . you might’ve heard of him?”