Sea Shore Inn

Welcome to the Sea Sore Inn, the sign taunts. It pisses me off. The kids from Salem State stole the H three weeks ago. Marlo still hasn't bothered to fix it.

I dust the counter. The dust plume scatters into the air. It seems to accumulate within seconds of me cleaning. So irritating. A couple strolls by the bay window. They're bundled in fall coats. I wave; they don’t even look up from their phones. The Castilleja’s red flares line the walkway leading to the front door. I hope they notice. The curtain billows with the sea breeze. My easel outside tips, clattering onto the sidewalk. It advertises our special: two nights for the price of one. Breakfast on the house if you experience a ghost.

We’ve given out a lot of free breakfasts. Not one ghost story I’ve heard so far is believable. Seven of the twelve rooms stand empty. Seems a haunted hotel in Salem isn’t special when every inn sells the same gimmick.

I itemize the maid cart and check that everything is stocked. Martha usually flips the rooms by three. I check the chocolates in the cart. She claims she leaves one on every pillow, but her pocket sags by shift’s end.

A man stomps up the steps. He’s a local, still wearing a T-shirt in November. I smooth my skirt. My heels tap against the rim of my bar stool in an anxious rhythm. Sweat pools on his brow, streaking his shirt and ruddy skin. I wave; he grumbles through the door. Likely on a bar crawl. His pungent body odor socks me between the eyes. Blinking back tears, I watch him maul the spigot of the crystal water dispenser perched on its lion-foot pedestal. Lemons bob as water floods the cup. He turns the handle too hard; it squeaks in protest.

I let him chug. The last thing I need is a choking scene. I busy myself with the log book. The cup barely misses my feet as it bounces off the trash can. No Celtic draft pick with that arm, I mumble to myself.

I give him my peppiest goodbye, “Have a good one!”

He’s gone. I slump behind the desk. His stench could drive away the rest. At least he only assaulted our refreshments.

The vacuum blasts, tearing through my thoughts. Martha shuffles by, audiobook blaring—no wonder she jumps whenever we cross paths. The sound rattles my bones. I twitch. Water drips from the rock fountain in the back. I step outside; sea air fills my lungs. I grope my pocket for my carton of Trues. A no-smoking sign plastered against the white picket fence admonishes me. Since the Thompsons took over, the whole place has gone on a health kick. The kitchen staff making smoothies at six a.m. now rattles me awake.

I come back; Morgan’s at the desk. Early. She doesn’t bother to tell me. I don’t bother greeting her. She embodies a Craigslist Missed Connections user with cliché My Chemical Romance tattoos up and down her arms and pink hair. She carries tapes of her music like she wasn't born in 2000. She doesn’t lift her eyes from her phone. I slap my book closed. She jumps. Good. She’s a bitch—slamming doors in my face, flicking off lights when I’m in the room. We're only four years apart, but you'd never guess it from the way she acts. I might take it personally, except she’s just as rude to Martha.

The bell on the front door clangs as it swings open. He swaggers in with a duffle bag, baseball cap, and stubble shadowing his chin. A baggy hoodie floats around his thin frame. He’s got blue eyes deep enough you could swim in them. I’m flushed. He grins. I sweep my bangs out of my eyes.

Morgan cuts me off. “Welcome to Sea Shore Inn. How can I help you?” She’s noticed my interest. Bitch.

“Yeah, need a room for a night.” A guitar case leans against his ripped jeans. Black Converses peek out beneath his hem.

Morgan twirls her bracelet. Her lips pop as she speaks. “You a singer or something?”

His elbow rests against the desk. “I mean sort of.” His chiseled jawline presses against his shoulder.

I turn around and reach toward the key rack for room key 5. My fingers slip over the brass key, and it tumbles from the hook onto the floor. I stoop quickly to grab it. My head hits the cupboard.

Neither he nor Morgan looks back. “Cool, well we’ve got lots of space; I just need your name and a $20 deposit.” Morgan gracefully fetches the key from the floor. My head is throbbing.

“Yeah,” he hands her cash. “Tyler.”

My voice pitches at the end with annoyance. “Right this way.”

"In for a show?" asks Morgan, her septum piercing wiggling as she wrinkles her nose. I mock her silently behind her back. Tyler doesn’t seem to notice.

"Nah." He trails her like a dog.

I guide them to room five, feeling like a chaperone. The hall lights flicker as we walk. Old knob-and-tube wiring that will never be brought up to code as long as scary sells.

He flips his hat back to admire ominous paintings of men spearing sea monsters in angry waves. A lesser-known history of Salem and its codfish empire throughout the 1600s.

“This place is haunted by a fisherman or something?” He scratches his finger across the glass.

Morgan rolls her eyes. “No idiot, this place used to be a fish market.”

I clear my throat. They pause to exchange a look. Martha steps out of room 3. Her cart knicks Tyler in the hip.

“Gosh!” she screams.

Her lack of spatial awareness is astonishing. She leans right, hitting the wall. Most likely off balance from the stolen guest chocolate weighing her down.

We all squeeze past her and the cart. Morgan leads the way. I close the door to room three. Martha jumps. She needs to take those damn headphones off.

Tyler turns my way, finally. His eyes light up. A slight curve in his lip. But he seems to look right through me. Morgan opens room 5. The lights hum on. A whiff of mildew taints the air from the bathroom. Tyler tosses his duffel on the bed. The TV speaks. Honestly, the most haunting thing in the whole place. Sometimes the woman’s voice shouts out welcomes in completely vacant rooms. Morgan switches on the fake candles. They flicker with a gentle cadence in the window. It has a faint purple hue.

On the bed, he pulls out his guitar, "You got a minute?"

Morgan cuddles into the chair cross-legged, "I can stay for one song."

Against my best interests, I find a spot on the TV console's ledge.

Morgan mocks. “Wonderwall?”

He rolls his eyes, “Give me some credit.”

His fingers find a cord. The pic hits against the stings. He starts to play. I side-eye Morgan, but she’s completely entranced. We don't usually get younger guests unless there’s a big show, Halloween or the off-season. I hate the off-season. After Halloween, Salem becomes a ghost town again.

He strums. It’s Simon and Garfunkel, A River Over Troubled Water. I hum along; Morgan likely doesn’t know this one.

It’s only four, but it's already dark. Something about the cold forces people inside. Forces people to be alone with their thoughts and their vices. Of late, Salem has been struggling with new demons that come off ships or in baggies from the city. I should know.

He finishes the song.

Morgan gives him two dorky thumbs up. “I've got to head back.” She follows me out.

Tyler chuckles. He lets his jacket fall off his arms. Dark track marks line the inner side of each arm. A tight rubber band dangles from his bicep. He lies back on the bed, his lips blue.

We walk down the hall in silence. She turns toward me. “Do you think he knows?”

I shake my head. “He’ll know by morning.”

She leans against the wall. “He’s cute. I hate when they’re cute.”

I bite my lip. It was the same way I felt when she walked in that first night for a shift. “Yeah.” I've been here twelve years, unable to make that final step.

The wind whistles outside. Morgan picks at her palm. “I hope he wasn’t alone when it happened.”

I pull her close. "He's got us for now."

It didn’t get easier. At least I'm never alone. Sea Shore Inn always keeps room 5 open for the ghosts passing through to their final destination.