A Tall Glass of Holy Water

In a town only slightly larger than my thumb, where the foliage is in a perpetual state of color and crispness, where everyone minds everyone's business but their own, weird stuff happens. Which is why, when a guest suggested their room was haunted, I considered it. Something had felt funny ever since the family from Massachusetts checked into Room 4.

Maintenance and guest services I can handle, but a haunting? God, who do you even call for something like that? (pun intended.) That’s why I’m here, precariously balancing my open mug as I climb the cathedral stairs, opening the high-as-heaven doors to the town's chapel.

Noise—sound—has a different sensation in here, like when you’re underwater, and you can’t tell if what you’re hearing is the water around you or your own heartbeat thundering in your ears.

Light sifts through the technicolor stained glass lining the sanctuary. It’s otherworldly. Even the floating dust creates an ethereal shimmer. My gaze follows the line of patterned tile deeper toward the stage, landing on the dense, red velvet curtains draped stiffly along the backside of the chapel.

"A bit risky, isn’t that?" A sonorous voice shakes the hall.

Gloom spills into the room, the stained glass turning dull, as if the sun itself flickered out. The hall takes on a sudden chill. That’s when I notice the drapes, and their blood-red color starts to sway.

“God, is that you?” The quiver in my voice surprises me. I shouldn’t be here.

I spin to retreat, but my path of escape is blocked by a large man-shaped figure, dressed in the color of shadows and depths.

“Good Lord!” I shout, checking my shirt and shoes for spilled coffee.

“I believe so,” he deadpans. “But I was referring to the mug with no lid."

His eyes flick to the No Food or Drinks in Sanctuary sign plastered to the right of the entrance.

I gulp, sizing him up while my heart returns from its descent into my digestive system; he was quite the man to take in.

"I like to live life on the edge,” My gaze lingers on the white square on his collar. “What about you?"

He smirks. "Occasionally."

Oh, cute reverend has a sense of humor. 

“Can I help you?” he asks, all hint of mischief dissolving.

"I have an odd request."

His eyebrows shot up. “Prayer requests can be submitted anonymously if you’d prefer.”

“Oh! No, I think my inn is haunted. It's probably nothing, but that would really kill my 5-star rating. Are you able to...help?"

"Like an exorcism?"

"Nope! Not that! We will not be using that word in the same sentence as my inn. Let’s say…investigation."

He pauses, looking at me intently.

"The Stoney Brook Inn?" he asks.

I nod, sipping my coffee with a grin.

"Lead the way,” he says, a hand extending gracefully toward the door.

____

"This is why you think your inn is haunted?" the reverend sighs.

We’re at the base of the staircase, my arm raised toward the light bulb, proving defiant against my aggressive light-switch flicking.

"It’s not just that!" I stomp to the top of the stairs, the reverend in tow. “People have been hearing angry footsteps at random times of day.”

“And it's not coincidentally when you’re on them?”

I retaliate with eye daggers aimed at him.

The reverend has the decency to look remorseful.

“Another thing! This window,” I point to the one inside Room 2. “It’s wide open when I get here every morning, and no one around knows how it gets open.”

He cranes his head into the room, but his toes never cross the line of the threshold. And is he smelling the room?

“Are all the rooms the same?” he asks, pointing to the desk across from the door.

“Mostly, except this one has a fireplace; the ash smell kinda lingers. This room has two beds, and my guests usually prefer a one-bed-at-the-inn situation.”

The reference flies over the reverend’s head.

He turns again to the light fixture at the top of the stairs, attention lingering in the frilly mirror hung on the wall—probably checking his hair—then down to the floor, across the long paisley runner, and toward the door of Room One. His mouth opens to speak but instead re-checks the light, then the mirror, then the floor under Room One.

He points to the closed door. “Is this one rented?”

“A long-term guest. I’m not at liberty to name names.” I raise the back of my hand to my mouth. “But it’s a famous author,” I whisper. “Very picky and nocturnal. Works only at night and by candlelight. He was very specific on the reservation.”

Deadpan, the reverend zips his lips with his fingers, gaze flicking to the bottom of the door once more before saying, “What else do you have for me to investigate?”

As if answering for me, a prick scratches at the length of my spine. A quick glance at the reverend tells me he’s felt the exact same thing. Our expressions grow uneasy as we peer over our shoulders down the dimly lit hallway.

A woman floats down the hall, light as air on her feet and plump as a human gumdrop—a live woman. She is my grandmother and business partner. But she stops dead in her tracks at the tall drink of Holy water in her hallway.

She was not discreet in the sly look she gave me.

“To whom do I owe the pleasure?” she says, her hand rising delicately toward the reverend.

“Samuel,” he says, taking her hand with a dip of his head.

“Oh, I know. No news is news long in this town, honey,” she says, as if generously imparting her wisdom to a newcomer.

“And you must be Mae,” he replies, relishing in the way Mae’s eyes widen. “No news is news long in this town.”

I could have sworn he winked at her.

Mae gives me another look as she whips out her fan, cooling down her blushing face.

My eyes roll at her brazenness. "He's here to look into our ghost situation."

“Oh, good! While you're at it, check the attic. The couple in Room Three is hearing scratching on their ceiling all throughout the night.”

“Shall we have a look?” he asks, his tone full of ease despite the way he rubs at his sleeve.

I gulp and solemnly lead us down the hall toward the attic’s entrance.

He unfurls the ladder without even needing to use his tiptoes. Tall jerk. He gestures toward it, as if to say, "Ladies first".

What a gentleman.

But his smirk says, "You first.”

Gentleman, my ass.

I clamber up the rickety ladder, wood squealing a warning with each step.

Inky darkness consumes all of my senses until I feel the string for the overhead light and pull it.

“See, there is nothing here,” the reverend says, his head barely poking through the hole, pausing on the first step.

"Scared of a little dust, Rev?"

He doesn't answer. Which is somehow worse than any response. He eventually climbs up, ducking his head in the shallow space.

Up here you could hear the low growl of the wind. Among that, every few seconds was a short and sharp screech.

“What’s that sound?” he stutters, his tone the only break in his calm resolve. I notice the way he rubs his sleeve again, which makes my mouth go dry.

“That's just the wind on the fire escape,” I point, though even I can barely make it out through the dirty window.

“I see you’re on top of the window cleaning,” he adds, kneeling down to trace the floorboards, noticing something I can’t see from where I stand.

“Excuse you, I clean every—"

Why bother? He’s not listening, his attention fixed on the low window and the smudge marks I apparently neglected. But with his back turned, temptation gets the best of me.

"Ya know, ghosts prefer the dark….”

The last thing I see is the whites of his wide eyes as I tug the string, pulling with it all the light from the room.

The darkness that follows is dense. The silence, hilarious. I hate that I can’t see him panic—

A cool breeze puffs at my neck, blowing my hair across my face, as something knocks into my ankle. A shriek explodes from my lungs, and I yank at the string.

With the light back on, I find myself nose to nose with the cute reverend, which becomes less embarrassing as a blush blooms across his cheeks. His lips taut at either end, eyes sparkling with a secret.

And then he bursts into laughter.

"That was you?!" I almost hit the man. But God probably wouldn't like me hurting one of his employees, so I stuck my tongue out instead.

"I should have known from the smell that it was your breath, and the horrible tug on my leg! What a pathetic attempt."

"It’s successful if you measure by the results—wait, I didn't tug on your leg." His laughter cuts off, but then a sneeze erupts from his chest.

My eyes roll, and I head toward the stairs and tug at the string, leaving him to pad along on hand and knee to find his way back down.

____

“So, what’s the prognosis, Doc?” I ask, leaning up against our check-in desk.

The reverend grimaces. “It’s not looking good for your 5-star rating.”

“Give me the good news first.”

“There is none. Your inn is suffering from a well-meaning but paranoid owner."

I begin to object, my mouth wide, but I stop at his raised finger.

And that smirk.

"The mystery of the light bulb burnouts lies behind door number one.” He knocks at the door of Room One before I can stop him.

“The light reflects in this mirror, hits the polished hardwood, and bothers our guest when he’s at the desk.”

A man who looks like he’d been wrestling a bear in his sleep answers the door.

The reverend leans against the doorway. "Isn’t that right, Mr. Marbles?"

Mr. Marbles winces at the light and grumbles. "It gets into my eyes, I can't write in these conditions!" He slams the door behind him.

The reverend’s long arm extends, rotating the dead bulb into the socket, and after a few squeaks it shines.

I can feel my jaw hyperextend. “Do you know how many light bulbs I've bought?! How did you know who was staying there?”

“You told me. Nocturnal, particular, and works by candlelight. He writes himself into his books. Plus—the innkeeper character is a spitting image of you. Lessica of the Peeble Creek Inn.”

I make a scene of gasping. “I’ll nab him later for copyright infringement.”

"Okay, but what about the mysteriously open window?"

The reverend shakes his head and calls over to Mae, who is folding towels on a nearby table. “Hey Mae, do you have an extra cigarette I could bum off you? I could really use a smoke.”

My eyebrows knit together. Is now really the best time for a smoke break? 

Mae stills, turning slowly, looking at her shoes. “How did you know?”

“My mom used to hang out the window to smoke. I got a nose for it.” He taps a finger to the tip of his nose.

"You’re smoking again?" I stomp around the corner.

“Why’d we have to get the hot priest involved in the first place? There’s no ghosts!”

“Oh, there’s a ghost, alright,” he says, meeting my gaze, no trace of a smirk on his face. I do not like this one bit.

He erupts in another sneeze, and when he looks up, there is a glimmer in his eyes. "What's your pet policy here?"

“We don’t allow pets. Don’t change the subject!”

Movement at the top of the stairs catches the reverend’s attention and then mine. A cat the color of midnight prances down, one step at a time, ending around my legs. It felt remarkably like the ghost in the attic. The reverend picks up the cat and hands it to me. "You might want to return this to the family in Room Four with the fire escape that connects to the attic window."

“How…”

“I’ve been in dire need of a Benadryl since I set foot in your inn. I’m quite allergic,” he admits, scratching at his arm, which looks quite red beneath his sleeve.

“The footsteps!”

“Are from the fire escape, smuggling this one here into the attic while Mae makes up the beds.”

“And the scratches!”

The reverend checks the pink collar around its neck. “That would also be Salem, quite unhappy to be left in the dark attic with the other ghosts.”

I pass the cat to Mae, and she takes it upstairs to inform the Jones family of our discovery.

"Thank you for your help."

He seemed bashful for the first time since I nearly spilled coffee on him. “You would have figured it out. Lessica always does.”

He took my expression to mean I wasn’t satisfied with his humility.

“Happy to be of service,” he states, and his stare bores into me again, the hint of debating something. “Speaking of, are you busy on Sunday?”