Page 55

With Thanksgiving approaching, Blake has reminded me that we can decorate, and Levi has promised to take a turkey out of the freezer. I’m not sure if Dov will join us. I guess it’ll depend on how he’s feeling. It might be too much for him. Even though he’s around more in the day now, I note how his nocturnal visits to me have dropped off. I can only assume it’s because he’s no longer able to drug my water, and whatever kink kept him visiting me when I was barely conscious doesn’t have the same effect when I’m only sleeping and am easier to wake. Instead, we’ve taken to meeting in the dining hall and curling up on the easy chair with a book while he reads to me. Sometimes he pushes his thumb into my mouth, other times he just strokes my hair while I doze. It doesn’t feel as sexual as it did when he was coming into my room, and I wonder if his feelings toward me have changed. Perhaps he sees me as more of a little sister now?

“Ready?” Blake asks me, a heavy flashlight in one hand.

“Yes, ready.”

I tell myself I’ll be safe with Blake at my side. Nothing scares him, as far as I can tell. I could let him do it by himself, but he seems excited at the prospect of us doing it together.

He must pick up on my hesitation. “I can just go alone if you want. Bring the boxes up to you for you to go through.”

“No, I want to come.”

I don’t really want to go back into the basement after what happened with the laundry chute and my missing sheets, but I haven’t completely given up on the idea of finding out more about the hotel’s history, to see if anything bad happened here that might explain what goes on during winter. I haven’t mentioned it to Blake, though. He gets defensive of Windridge Hall. I don’t think he really wants anything to change. He has everything he needs here—his sons and me. I’m not sure he really experiences much bad stuff himself, or just like Dov, he embraces it.

I seem to be the only one who is plagued by ghostly figures, shadows where they shouldn’t be, and the sense I’m not alone.

Together, we take the stairs down into the basement. The door off to the right is to the laundry room. To the left leads to a catacomb of low-ceilinged rooms and corridors that run right beneath the hotel.

Yeah, it’s fucking spooky down here, and I’m glad I’m not alone.

Blake pauses in one of the rooms. “I think they’re in here, somewhere.”

He pulls an old cord light, and a bare bulb illuminates overhead. The space is far larger than I’d anticipated.

I peer around, unsure where to start. Propped against the red brick walls is stored furniture covered with protective sheets. There are countless cardboard boxes full of God only knows what, plus wooden crates and old steamer trunks. Racks of wine bottles, the dates and names of which are covered in a layer of dust, make up another wall. The wine looks like it hasn’t been touched in decades.

“Not big wine drinkers, then?” I observe.

Blake throws a look over his shoulder as he bends to one of the boxes. “I prefer spirits.”

“Some of these bottles are probably worth a pretty penny. A collector would pay a small fortune for them.”

He arches an eyebrow. “I’m not having a whole horde of wine collectors traipsing over this place.”

No, he wouldn’t. He’s a private person. I can’t even picture him with tourists here, staying in one of the many rooms. He’d told me they occasionally rented rooms out to hikers, but now I wonder if that was just another lie to cover up Dov’s presence.

“The decorations are in one of these boxes somewhere,” he says. “Better get looking.”

I do, peeking inside boxes, trying to make out what’s inside. I’m wary of cobwebs and critters. I don’t want to scream and make a fool of myself in front of Blake.

Blake stops at a large, wooden chest. He unhooks the metal clasp and opens the lid. Inside are stacks of framed pictures. He takes out a couple and hands one to me. I stare down at the image behind the glass. It’s like getting a glimpse into the past. It’s a picture of how the hotel had once been, brand new and shiny, no sign of peeling paint or rotting window frames. Even in black and white, it’s clear the place was beautiful.

“Wow, it’s gorgeous. It doesn’t look like a hotel, though,” I observe.

“That’s because it wasn’t.”

“This was a family home originally?”

It’s nearly impossible to imagine one family needing all this space, but then I realize it’s become a family home once again, except we’re now the family who live here. At least, Blake and his sons are. I’m just some interloper who got trapped here.

Blake goes back to rifling through the boxes. “Yes, here.”

He hands me another picture. It’s a black and white photograph of a family in old-fashioned clothes. It features a couple in their early forties, and five children who are aged from pre-teen to late teenage years.

“Who were these people?” I ask.

“They were the ones who originally built the hotel.”

I check the surname written beneath the photograph. Buchanan. It screams old money.