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Gemma Fox has...
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Everything worth seeing in Spelling, Connecticut sat along its one main road that had a single stop sign. The redbrick storefronts with their enormous windows advertised palm readings and seances. Tourists flocked to the paranormal hotspots 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 supposedly an entire family that caught a mysterious infection in the 1800s died holding each other in the living room, and the town's staple point, the Hotel Reynard.
The colonial hotel contained seventy-two guest rooms and sat on the very edge of three 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 from the property. At all hours of the day, those hoping to run into the hotel's resident ghosts roamed around with their cameras at the ready. Even a couple of those ghost hunting shows featured the Hotel Reynard. It was some spooky shit...if you believed in that sort of thing.
When I was a kid, I always longed to see something otherworldly in the eerily quiet hallways of the hotel, but everything I saw and heard could always be easily explained away. Hazel used to try to convince me that the sounds that woke me in the night were the spirits of those trapped in the walls.
But as I grew older, my superstition waned, and my mind closed to the possibility as the years passed.
"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 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."
"Or maybe this place isn't all that creepy when you don't believe in spirits."
Hunter and I rounded the hotel, following the path to the back. A white wraparound porch housed several rocking chairs and two swings, overlooking the lapping 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.
I shuddered, and my gaze journeyed up to the yellowing planks of wood that covered the exterior walls. 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.
