It looms over me with ashen grey walls – like all life and color melted away long ago leaving only the ghost of a house behind. Goosebumps creep along my arms the longer I stare up at the foreboding presence, the hair on my arms standing on end.
“Grab your suitcase Marie,” I tear my eyes away from what can only be described as a castle with its tall walls, turrets, and stony facade before turning to my dad. Obviously we were not getting the same vibes from this monstrous “bed and breakfast”.
“Yeah, I’m not going in there.” My declaration echoes off the walls in the still abandoned courtyard. Honestly, I didn’t care what kind of deal my dad got on Groupon. It wasn’t happening. My immediate reaction is to pull out my warm phone that is firmly lodged in my bra, call mom, and tell her to come and get me – I don’t care what the custody arrangement says. Not even the courts could make me stay in this haunted mansion.
“Marie,” The warning tone in his voice makes me narrow my eyes. Meanwhile, my step mother bustles past us, my suitcase already in her grip rolling erratically behind her on the uneven ground, rolling her eyes before shooting me a sympathetic look which only makes me grit my teeth. That’s me “Difficult Marie”.
My mom’s voice whispers softly in the back of my mind. “It’s just for the summer Marie, and not even the entire summer really – your father loves you, he wants to spend the time with you.” “One last epic adventure before college” (her words, not mine). Because even though I graduated from high school I’m still technically 17. Legally a minor for the next two months, and rather than bowing to the inevitable, my father has a death grip on my last 2 months of childhood. Refusing to budge even an inch and relinquish his legal rights before I leave half way across the country for my new life. He knows the expiration date of our relationship is looming to a close and this “epic” adventure is his last chance to breathe life into the dying embers of our failed father daughter relationship.
And I know. I know that I sound like a brat. That I’m being difficult. Typical difficult Marie. Whose father didn’t even bother to know her until 4 years ago. And only because Ashley – my father’s new(ish) wife – made an ultimatum that any child of theirs was not going to be the “do over” kid. That if he wanted to tie the knot that he better attempt to repair the relationship with his pre-existing kid before their new one came along. That she came from a broken family and she wouldn’t tolerate that. Honestly? I have a lot of respect for her ability to stand up to him about that. Even though I was happier before my summer started being stolen away from me. The sad fact of the matter is that I actually like Ashley way more than my dad and I don’t understand why she even married him in the first place.
Then the reason totters past me following after her mother like a lost duckling pig tails bouncing wildly and I remember. Four years old and ready to conquer the world. Sweet little Ellie. Always amiable and excited, no matter the adventure her parents drag us to.
But no one seems to realize that this place does not pass the vibe check. For some reason in this courtyard the sun is a pale imitation of what it once was mere minutes ago while we were driving up here. Its weak rays are no match for the gloom that seems to pervade this place.
No, they just seemed to think I was being difficult.
Again.
I inhale deeply before letting a sharp sigh escape my lips. It was just one week, and then I’d be sinking my toes into the gritty white sand of Padre Island with waves licking their way up my stomach as I wade into the salty depths – the next stop on our “epic adventure”. Meanwhile, this stop wasn’t even on the original itinerary. Hence the fortuitous Groupon that my dad bragged about on the way up here. All because of an emergency consultation for whatever it is my dad does for a living.
“It’s just a week, right?” I rub my hands up and down my arms looking up at the high glaring windows unable to shake this uncanny urge to run back to the car.
“Yep.” hard “p”. My dad is clearly fed up with my antics. My eyes track as he bounces up and down on the balls of his feet gripping his suitcase with white knuckles. He doesn’t say it out loud. But I hear it anyway. “Stop being difficult Marie.” I gnaw on my lip feeling the pinch and scrape of teeth against dead skin peeling there until I taste the coppery tang on the tip of my tongue.
“Okay” I reach into the car and shoulder my backpack, but can’t help adding the words bursting from my bloody lips on their own accord, “But, I am doing this under great protest.”
An explosive sigh, before a begrudging, “Noted.”
Crossing the threshold of the manor once again sets the hair on my arms on end, but for a moment everything looks fine. The lobby of the Bed and Breakfast looks way more inviting than the outside does. There’s a warm glow of light and there’s this wafting scent of, I inhale deeply, cookies in the air. The previous prey-like fear I had of the place settled for a moment. My heart rate slows and I feel the ever present tension in my shoulder relax for a moment. I truly had a moment of inner peace. Or as close as a moment of inner peace that an unmanageable teenager like me can have.
But then I take a step forward and everything around me stutters like a computer glitch. Whatever instagram filter this place had on it previously flickers off and I take the new and not improved surroundings. The previously warm light becomes an uncomfortable monochromatic grey tone just like outside. The clean walls and curtains are suddenly covered in dust and cobwebs. A whining buzz fills my ears and a sharp headache begins to pound behind my eyes. The air weighs down on me as if something heavy sits on my chest. The closer I get to the check-in desk the more prevalent the feeling gets as I drag my feet closer. My wavering gaze is drawn there and everything seems to narrow in on that singular location.
Behind the desk sits the oldest, and I do mean the oldest, gremlin of a woman that I have ever seen. She’s stooped over with a clear hump lodged between her shoulder blades. Her sagging grey skin hangs limply from her frame and large bulbous dark eyes protrude from her face reminding me of a geriatric pug.
Her buggy eyes take us all in and her lips try to form some semblance of a smile. Her gapping maw twists upward, missing the mark and becoming positively ghoulish. Even from here, steps away, I can smell her fetid exhale. I had smelled death only one other time previously, years ago, and her breath reminded me of it. The previously heavy feeling melts from my chest coalescing into my stomach squirming and wiggling like maggots. The sudden urge to throw up claws its way up my throat. Wildly, I look around.
The trash can!
I make a mad dash for it. Only just making it in time. My shoulders shake as my lunch splatters violently in the bag.
“Mar-mar?” I feel the tug on the leg of my shorts, but I’m too busy surrendering every meal I had that day in the giant silver trash can. My hands are plastered to the cool metal sides as I bend over.
“Poor dear.” I hear the muffled voice of the crone, clucking sympathetically. “Is this normal for her?”
“Do you think she’s car sick Mitch?” Ashley’s voice now, growing closer to my location of shame. I don’t dare remove my head from its position until the sudden wave nausea abates. The acidically foul smell of the half digested food swims its way to the bottom – merging with the pre-existing contents. I dry heave one more time with my throat convulsing before I finally manage to inhale a lung full of stale air.
By the time my head is out Ashley and Ellie are next to me. My father, meanwhile, hasn’t left the check-in desk. He’s still talking to that crone. “She usually has a pretty strong stomach, maybe it’s just something she ate.” And then he hands her his debit card, not even bothering to look back at me once.
Sweat drips heavily at my hairline as if I had just run a mile. I jump when the back of Ashley’s warm hand meets my clammy forehead.
“Maybe you need to lie down, Marie?” she asks eye brows drawn in concern. I wobble for a moment. The last thing I wanted to do was go upstairs, but… my eyes shutter and I exhale sharply, “Maybe.” I croak nodding.
Only then does my dad look back at me with the first flutter of concern before his expression shutters. “You get your rest, I’ll take Ashley and Ellie to the lake, that way we don’t disturb you. I’m sure a few hours of sleep will have you right as rain. Maybe your jet lag is hitting you a little harder than normal.” I blink in surprise. This might be the most my dad has ever said in one sitting. Weird. I bring my hand to my mouth wiping the palm of my hand against the sealed seam of my lips. Attempting to get rid of any evidence of my sudden sharp turn. When I withdraw my hand and glancing down when I feel something wriggling there. Raising my hand back towards my eyes I see a fat white maggot lying there.
This line stands out to me “I bring my hand to my mouth wiping the palm of my hand against the sealed seam of my lips.” I want to keep reading. Great descriptive writing and figurative language!