Spirits Read online

  A few breaths in and out, and she stood and went to the sink. The glass tinkled against the stainless steel as she her hands. She pressed her hand against a thick roll of paper towels and left behind a red handprint. She ripped off a few sheets and pressed them against her stinging palm until the blood faded to pink against the white paper. She reached down and plucked the jagged glass from her foot. It left behind a small scrape. The blood had not yet surfaced.

  She swept up the mess and ran the back of her hand across her eyes before plodding to her bedroom.

  The room was dark, and she didn’t bother turning on the light or taking off her clothes before she launched herself into the mountain of down blankets and Egyptian cotton sheets. Her throat tasted raw, like someone stuffed chunks of uncooked steak down her gullet.

  Her eyes fluttered shut. A dull, persistent thudding made the nerves inside her eyelids pulse. Gray figures in negative waited to flicker on like a film every time she closed her eyes. Tonight, thick blackness sucked her into an empty pit.

  Tori’s eyelids were glued together with thick crusts. She strained to open them and rubbed the lashes with her fingertips. They burned in the ghastly whiteness of the room. Horizontal sunlight lined the walls. She threw back the blankets and eased herself upright. She blinked away some of the sleep. An ache ran from the back of her ear all the way down her neck and into the meat of her shoulder. She felt like she’d slept on a bed of gravel. The alarm clock on the bedside table told her it was 3:23. Holy shit. She’d slept into the afternoon.

  She pressed her feet against the cold, wood floor and lifted herself to a mostly upright position.

  The place was cold and sterile. Sought-after luxury, that’s what the brochure said when she’d toured it. And it was a solid improvement over the stuffy one-bedroom in a converted three-floor Victorian over in Caldwell. It was luxurious, all right. It impressed guests, be they clients or one-night stands. But it was not home.

  One amenity she hadn’t insisted upon was the girl. She lived in the bedroom closet; on the ceiling above her bed; in the bright, wall-sized mirror in the bathroom. She may have even been microscopic in the tiny fibers that flitted skyward when she shook out her sheets. The only escape had been working herself to the point of exhaustion. And drinking herself into a blurred stupor every night. And what now? What would stop her from seeing the young, beautiful girl she’d killed? What would stop the constant pang of guilt that ate her insides more insidiously than any amount of liquor could?

  The peach fuzz on Tori’s cheeks stood on end as she lifted onto tiptoes to grab a coffee mug. She popped a Keurig pod into the machine and pressed the button. A thin stream of chocolate-brown brew gurgled into the mug. The pungent, slightly bitter aroma steamed into her sinuses, and it eased her headache. The uneasy feeling that she was being watched settled over her like a fine dust.

  That bottle of pinot cooled at an optimal temperature in the stainless-steel fridge. She pulled open the door, the gurgle from the coffee maker mocking her, and clutched the yellow-tinted bottle. Then she rifled through a drawer for the corkscrew. She pierced the cork and twisted until the bottle was open. She didn’t bother with a glass. She chugged down about a quarter of the bottle, barely tasting the oaky notes as it gushed down her throat. It was afternoon. It’s not like she’d sunk to the rock-bottom desperation of morning drinking.

  Her nerves were steady, maybe even dulled a little, and she felt like she could make a trip.

  She thought about the Absolut locked up tight in the wet bar, but she knew she needed to be as straight as possible to drive. The night before had been a little too scary for her liking.

  She moved to the bedroom and pulled the large, red American Standard from the top shelf of her closet. It had been a companion on her endless trips, domestic and abroad.

  It would be cold, she knew. Colder even than Northern Jersey, and she dug deep into her dresser for flannel-lined jeans, fisherman sweaters, and waffle-knit shirts she could layer. Duck Head boots would probably see her through the worst of the winter. She’d go for a rugged chic look––L.L. Bean, only classier. The weather wasn’t so bad now. Highs hovered in the mid-forties most days, but she didn’t know how long she’d need to be gone. She moved faster, eschewing her standard care with folding. Soon, she tossed crumpled cashmere into the bag in close proximity to bra hooks and Velcro.

  There was the matter of her lease, but she couldn’t worry about that now. She’d figure that out once she arrived. She zipped the American Standard and swung it around on its wobbly wheels.

  Her family was in New Hampshire, but going home felt like a bigger failure than getting fired. A forty-five-year-old woman moving back in with Mom and Dad was just about the most crushing kind of defeat she could envision.

  The happiest times of her life were spent summering in Cape May, walking in the sunshine, the coconut smell of suntan lotion soothing every worry, the easy breezes lulling her to sleep under crisp, cool sheets. The Bay City Rollers sang about Saturday Night then, and Dad wore rose-colored aviators that took up about a third of his face. His mustache occupied another third. Mom looked like Olivia Newton-John with her feathered blonde locks and shorts that barely covered her thighs, paired always with crocheted bikini tops and platform sandals.

  Memories of the place brought her peace, so much that the knot that had taken up permanent residence between her shoulder blades released. The dull ache in her head eased a bit, and she could envision quiet, off-season days at the beach, huddled against a bonfire, reading a good book and forgetting about the horrors that plagued her mind.

  She wheeled the American Tourister to the door and let herself out.

  Yeah. Cape May. It might not be the same in the off-season, but it held a lot of promise. All she had here was a vague sense of dread and an itch beneath her skin that shuttled her to the car and onto the highway.

  CHAPTER 6

  Beachfront inns and cheap motor lodges in pastel blues and pinks along Beach Drive were outlined against a dimming sky. None of the No Vacancy signs were lit. The grungy, cheap motels held little appeal to her, especially since she’d be staying for a while.

  She instinctively checked the driver’s side rearview and grimaced at the sight of the flopping cables and wires. At the end of Beach, she sat idling and watching the waves break against the black rocks.

  The gazebo at the pier stood like a hulking monster in the twilight. She spun the Volvo around at the dead end and jammed it into park. There stood a rusty, grimy payphone, perhaps the last one in the world. A glass coffin encasing it was coated with sand, greasy handprints, and gang graffiti probably etched by some suburban spoiled brat on vacation with his family. She rolled down the window and heard the ocean breathing in and out in the otherwise silent evening. She stepped out and walked to the gazebo, careful to mind the bottle caps and cigarette butts. It was much cooler now, and she tucked her fists into the sleeves of her blazer.

  The wooden structure jutted out into the heaving water. Spray leapt up from the depths below. She found a bench at the end, hovering just over the water, and curled herself into the fetal position, knees jutting into her chin. Ice-cold mist flittered against her hair. She shivered, but she didn’t mind it. It made her feel sober and awake.

  The tremor that typically ran from her fingertips to her elbow was still for now, but it would be back. It always came back, usually around 4 p.m., when she’d taken all the shit she could possibly handle and her boss was shoveling on another pile. Only she wouldn’t have to deal with Rollie’s shit anymore.

  She plucked her phone out of her purse and powered it on. An endless barrage of bings assaulted her ears right away.

  Tori? What happened? Where’d you go?

  Hey, girl. Rollie told me you got fired! WTF? Call me!

  Hey, it’s Jess. Could you please answer your damned phone? I’ve been trying to call you all night. I heard you got fired. Let’s meet up at the CH and talk. I’ll buy you some unemploymen-tinis.


  She frowned. So, word had gotten around. Her whole team knew. They weren’t really concerned; her shit-canning would just provide some low-level gossip for the vultures that had been hovering over her desk for the past year. The knot tensed up again between her shoulder blades, and she clicked the phone back off, reared her arm back, and chucked it into the spray below. She felt better instantly.

  She eased her way back to the Volvo, opened it, and slid behind the wheel. Static crackled on the radio, so she flicked it off. She turned the wheel all the way around and maneuvered back onto Beach.

  A B&B with a purple awning caught her eye, so she turned onto Perry Street. There were no cars at any of the meters, so she pulled headfirst into a spot, fed the meter a couple of quarters, and walked up the wooden steps to the purple-painted front porch.

  A violet sign with thick gold lettering identified the building as Seaside House. It wasn’t exactly true. Perhaps some of the upper floors may have an ocean view, but it was situated well off of the Beach.

  A set of wicker rocking chairs swayed in the breeze, and a flag embroidered with orange, yellow, and red leaves fluttered as she jogged upstairs.

  The front door was open beyond the screen door. It creaked as she pulled it and stepped inside.

  The interior looked like most of the B&Bs in Cape May. It was probably owned by some elderly lady who’d inherited the place from a long-deceased relative. A curio cabinet lined with Victorian-era family photographs arched up to the ceiling. The foyer smelled like mildew and wet dog, and she considered for a moment finding another place. She shuffled backwards on the purple wool rug when she heard someone stomp against the wooden floor.

  “Hello? Anybody here?”

  More wooden stomps came from the recesses of the place. There was a large, oak desk just off the foyer littered with papers and beachy knickknacks. The stomps drew closer.

  A dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties strutted to the desk.

  “Hi there! May I help you?”

  “Are you the owner?” Tori asked, a little surprised to find such a young woman inside this matronly, stuffy place.

  “That would be me,” the woman said brightly. “Amelia Warren. And you are?”

  “Victoria Garrett. Well, Tori. My friends call me Tori.”

  Amelia Warren extended her hand, and Tori shook it.

  “Well, nice to meet you. Welcome to the Seaside. Did you have a reservation?”

  “No. But I’ll probably be staying for a few months. Do you think you might be able to accommodate me?”

  Amelia’s sunny disposition faded for a moment, and her lips curled at the edges.

  “Well, that all depends. How many months are we talking here? Come Spring Break, I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “Oh, I hope to be gone long before next spring. Maybe through the winter?”

  Amelia nodded.

  “Okay. I think we can work with that. Our off-season rate is $175 a night. I can give you a bit of a break. Maybe $150 a night?”

  Tori gritted her teeth.

  “I am presently …”

  What was the phrase her father used when he’d come home loaded on Wild Turkey after losing yet another job?

  “at my liberty. Do you think you might be able to get it down even more? I’ll help you out around the place all winter long. I can clean and cook.”

  Amelia sighed deeply.

  “To be honest with you, it’d be nice to have some help around the place. Gets lonely here in the offseason. My husband died last year, and the place hasn’t been the same. How ‘bout we say $200 a week, and you help me out?”

  Tori nodded.

  “I think that would work.” She paused a moment and said, “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your husband?”

  Amelia looked way too young to be a widow, and the revelation troubled Tori.

  “Cancer.”

  The younger woman smiled, but sorrow loomed in her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Amelia cleared her throat and dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips.

  “So, let’s get you set up. The honeymoon suite is empty, and I suspect it will be for the remainder of the winter. It’ll give you the most space. It’s also the only room with a private bath. I think you’ll love it.”

  She shuffled beneath the desk for keys. The key fob was imprinted with the number 300. The key itself was an antique skeleton key, and it delighted Tori.

  “That’s so cool!” she said, realizing at once she must’ve sounded like some stupid teenager.

  Amelia giggled, and Tori felt like she’d made a friend––a real one and not one of the fake, gossipy assholes that populated the marketing world. She’d missed the feeling.

  “Let me show you up. Do you have luggage?”

  “Only one suitcase, but I’ll grab it later.”

  “All right. Follow me up then. Be careful on those stairs. The place could use some work. Maybe you could lend a hand with some of it if you’re handy at all.”

  Tori spent most of her college years fixing up her apartment. She knew her way around a hammer and a drill. She brushed past a flap of torn yellow wallpaper on the first-floor landing.

  “Sure. Sounds like a fun project.”

  The sky was indigo, and streetlamps glowed through the wide picture window at the front of the house.

  Three flights up and down a long hallway, Amelia jingled the keys as she unlocked the door.

  “Might be a little musty. If it gets above forty tomorrow, you might be well-served to open up the windows and air it out a bit.”

  The suite occupied about half of the third floor, and Tori was in love. A maple four-poster bed with a gauzy canopy overlooked the ocean. It was probably the only room in the entire house with a full ocean view. A large cherry wood armoire was opened against the far wall, inviting her to hang her sweaters and hoodies. Seashell picture frames in silver and pewter housed more photos of Victorians, all posed stoically, frowns wrought upon their faces.

  “Are you okay?” Amelia asked.

  Tori noticed her arms were shaking below the elbow. She pressed a hand against her left arm to steady it, but the other arm shook just as violently. Her head throbbed, and cold sweat poured from her temples. She swiped it away with her vibrating palm, and she realized she wanted––no, needed a drink. She nodded her head and sucked in a breath.

  “I’m okay.”

  She walked over to the bank of windows facing the ocean and tried to force open the clasp locking them. It wouldn’t budge. Her fingers felt thick and clumsy against the metal.

  Amelia was across the room in a few long strides, and she reached around Tori, flipped the locks open, and hefted the thick frames up.

  The salt air fluttered the thin cotton curtains like ghosts swirling in. A pain deep in her eye socket blurred the white cloth, and for a moment, spirits rose up, and Tori staggered backward. Vague features formed in the creases of the curtains, and she could just make out the face of the girl she’d killed. Her skin prickled.

  “I think I may go get my luggage now,” Tori said, her eyes fixed on the flapping cloth.

  That’s all it was––cloth. She was being stupid. It was a child’s fantasy of a sheet ghost that could do no more harm than the fabric itself.

  Amelia smiled and backed out.

  “Of course. If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs until about eight.”

  A jarring desire to get out overwhelmed Tori, but she waited until Amelia’s footfalls on the stairs faded into the recesses of the house. The wind subsided, and the curtains fell. Sweat saturated the collar of her blazer, and a dry, angry thirst overcame her.

  She clonked down the stairs and breezed past Amelia’s desk into the chill outside. She hefted the suitcase from the Volvo’s trunk, hauled it into the house, and struggled against its weight back up the steps.

  Inside the intimate sanctuary of the honeymoon suite, she unzipped the bag and busied herself, rifling through designer swe
aters and expensive jeans. Panic gnawed at the back of her neck, coupled with the pressure of someone staring behind her. She wanted to look; she felt a lot like a child who hears an alien noise in the night and pulls the blankets closer in the hopes the threat will pass. The silk of a chemise brushed her hand, and it soothed her for a moment. Just enough time to lull her into believing it was all in her head. She turned. The sunken eyes of Victorian ancestors stared from the pewter frames that lined the dresser. Their lips were pressed permanently into stiff, disapproving scowls.

  Tori’s hands shook as she picked a cashmere sweater from her suitcase and hung it in the armoire. It was a different sensation from the tremors that typically shook her whole body. Her brows pressed together at the center. The contents of her stomach churned. The urgency to get out grew.

  Her ears perked, seeking out the slightest noise from downstairs. Dust flitted up from the furniture and sprayed across the sunlit room as she moved. The curtains swayed, and the wind felt good on her skin.

  When she heard Amelia stomp to another part of the house, she edged out of the bedroom and stood at the top of the stairs. Ruffling noises followed, as if someone was shaking out sheets. Her foot creaked against the first step, and she braced her weight against the thick, wooden handrail. The other steps groaned and cracked until she reached the second landing. There, she sucked in her breath and listened again. The clinking of glasses emanated from somewhere in the back of the house, and she continued, each step ratting her out. Maybe Amelia wouldn’t care that she needed a drink now more than she ever had before. Maybe it was her own embarrassment. But a horrible, growing maw opened within her, and she had to feed it.

  She made it to the front door and gently closed the screen behind her. Her knees wobbled on the porch steps, and her fingers felt numb. She fished her keys out of her purse and got into the car.

  She sat behind the wheel, contemplating where she could go. Her hands quavered. Her throat felt like wads of cotton worked up from her guts. The road ahead blurred. She hadn’t touched a drop since she left Montclair, but she felt drunk already.