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He parks the car, and we get out. He’s staring at me with the oddest expression on his face, part-hope, part-creepy, and my excitement from a moment ago fades. What am I doing here? I don’t know these people, and while the cafe girl might’ve vouched for this family, I hope I haven’t fled one dire situation to another.
Sensing my distress, Harlan comes to stand next to me. “Don’t be scared. I’ve got your back.”
I bite back my first retort, “Why? You don’t know me.” Determined to show no fear, I square my shoulders and hoist my duffel higher. “If you could show me where I’m staying, that’ll be great.”
He casts me a glance I can’t fathom before gesturing at the house. “Come this way.”
“I’m staying in there?”
“Yeah. We reserve the tents for families and couples. Singles get a room inside.”
I’m not sure whether to be relieved I’ll be ensconced safely in the house or fearful: the bedroom doors better have locks.
“Your folks don’t mind strangers living in their house?”
Though calling this mansion a house is like calling a mountain a molehill.
“They prefer it. It’s too quiet when it’s just the three of us.”
“How long have they been doing this? Letting their workers stay rather than having them live offsite?”
“Since I went to college.” He shrugs. “I guess they hated the silence when I wasn’t around and found a way to fill it.”
While their generosity is admirable, I still think it’s weird. If I was this rich and lived in a place like this, I wouldn’t want a bunch of nobodies traipsing through my house. Then again, maybe I’m selfish because I’m poor and have had to fight to protect everything I have, which isn’t much.
“I’m sure they’ll love to meet you.” Harlan opens the unlocked front door and steps aside, gesturing me in.
Taking a deep breath, I enter, and a chill ripples over my bare arms, like someone has doused me in icy water.
I balk, resisting the urge to rub my arms, as the chill spreads from my arms to my torso and lower, until my legs wobble.
Every hair on my body is standing on end, a physiological alarm alerting me that something isn’t right here.
“Everything okay?” His fingers graze the small of my back, a fleeting touch that should’ve reassured me. It doesn’t.
I should leave. Turn around, march outside and not come back. I don’t believe in places having an aura, but if I did, this one wouldn’t be good.
But I have nowhere to go, it’s late in the afternoon, and I’m exhausted from lack of sleep.
What harm can staying one night do?
Chapter5
Lucy
Entering Arcania is like stepping into one of my favorite paranormal novels, heavy on the goth. The floors are polished parquet, a sweeping double staircase made from ornate black wrought iron filigree leads to the upper story, purple velvet drapes cover the windows, and crimson chaises are dotted around the foyer. Brass sconces set high on the walls cast a dim light over everything and there’s a weird smell in the air, a hint of copper and brine that’s inadequately masked by the air diffusers dispensing a vanilla fragrance. A brocade chair is tucked behind a mahogany desk in an alcove on the right, with a surprisingly modern computer on it.
“I’ll check you in over there,” Cora says, pointing at the desk. “What do you think of Arcania?”
For a wellness retreat that specializes in digital detox, I’d expected clean lines and modern architecture, so I don’t think Cora wants to know what I really think. The overall atmosphere is cloying, the decor better suited to a hotel that promotes ghost tours. Not that I believe in them. Considering how much I miss Mom I wish I did. This seems like the perfect place to reach out to relatives beyond the grave.
“It’s got a distinct old-world charm.”
“Thanks, we love it.” Her eyes glow with fervor. “I’ve tried to preserve the history of the place here in the lobby, but you’ll find the rooms and day spa are ultra-modern.” Maintaining the history explains the gothic vibe. “Please, let’s get you settled.”
As I sit opposite Cora and she types something, presumably my name, on the keyboard, I have a chance to study her. With her unlined skin and glossy dark blonde hair lightly streaked with gray, she has an ageless quality I envy. Mom was like that too, though she’d been dying her hair auburn for as long as I can remember. I always thought the red washed her out, but she religiously touched up her color every eight weeks.
The phone rings, a mini-modern switchboard showing where the call’s coming from that’s oddly out of place with the rest of the historical stuff. Without wi-fi reception, I assume it’s the only way anyone in this place can communicate.
