Spellbound

CHAPTER TWO

Spelling, Connecticut, had one main road with a single stop sign, but everything I loved most occupied that street. The redbrick storefronts with their enormous windows advertised palm readings and séances. Tourists flocked to the paranormal hot spots in the town—the bar where the spirit of a young man who was shot for cheating during a game of cards roamed the back hallway, the town museum where an entire family supposedly caught a mysterious infection and died holding each other in the living room, and the town's main feature: the Reynard Hotel.

The colonial hotel contained seventy-two guest rooms and sat on the very edge of seven acres, facing the street. The brick steps at the front led to double doors haloed by lilies etched into the stained glass. Deep-green shutters framed each of the countless windows, and on the second floor was a balcony that overlooked the town's shops. In the top center of the building stood the famous bell tower, which was depicted on Spelling's tourist brochures and welcome sign. The hotel—my hotel—was what kept this small community alive.

Hunter pulled his truck into a parking space on the side of the lot and turned off the engine. We sat in silence watching people come and go. At all hours of the day, those hoping to run into the hotel's resident ghosts roamed around with their cameras at the ready. The Reynard had even appeared in a couple of those ghost-hunting shows on TV. It was some spooky shit, and people came here chasing the thrill of it.

"This place has always attracted the weirdos, hasn't it?" Hunter asked.

I quirked my mouth and shrugged. "They're just curious. But weren't we the same way that first summer Mom and Dad brought us here?"

"You more than me," he said, opening his door and jumping out. "It was like you wanted to be creeped out by this place."

"I was creeped out by this place. I experienced my fair share of freaky shit over the years, and so did you. You just reasoned it away with the excuse that the hotel is old, but some things can't be explained."

"Here we go, you're already starting to sound like good ole Hazel."

I brushed off his snide remark and followed him to the entrance at the back of the hotel. A white wraparound porch housed several rocking chairs and two swings, overlooking a pool that looked like something out of The Great Gatsby. White stone statues with lifeless gazes stood on pedestals, guarding the calm blue waters. I never looked at them for long, fearing they would unexpectedly turn their heads or form real eyes.

A curtain shifted on the top floor just under the bell tower, and a face half cast in shadows peered down at me. I jerked my gaze away and counted the rows of windows leading back to the ground—five.

I looked up again, but the figure was gone.

"Hey, Hunt, I thought no one was supposed to be able to get into the bell tower."

"Yeah, they closed it off when they put in the speaker system and disabled the bells."

I was no better than an eager tourist wanting to come away with a ghostly tale. I was letting my mind play tricks on me and turning what could have just been a breeze rustling the curtains into something real. Perhaps it was my guilt eating away at me.

It ate me up inside to know that Aunt Hazel had died alone in this place, but she had held back the truth, denying us the chance to be there for her. That didn't ease my guilt in the least, though. It was something I'd never forgive myself for. Nights out drinking with friends or binge-watching the newest television craze could have waited. I should have visited her more often.

We reached the steps to the porch, and Hunter wiggled the loose railing before stomping a foot on the first step and finding it safe to bear our weight. "I swear Hazel was keeping this place standing with superglue and duct tape."