Shudder Inn

By A.R. Wise

What if you could have one last, perfect day with a loved one who died? Would you do it? That's the gift Isabella Rothchild can give to people through lucid dreams. In the dreams, she helps guide clients to memories of their cherished loved ones, and gives them the chance to spend one final day with them. She wanted to help people, but the road to hell's paved with good intentions.

Isabella and her sister, Ashlyn, are being cared for by a bed and breakfast owner named Amy Rothchild, and Amy's selling Isabella's services to clients desperate to see their loved ones again. They move into a new home, which the girls quickly dub Shudder Inn. It was meant to be an idyllic get away for clients, but something dark has twisted the soul of the place. There's more to the inn than they first believe, and soon Isabella begins to have trouble distinguishing dream from reality. There are secrets buried in the walls of the inn, and Isabella's power begins to draw them out. No one's safe once the dream turns into a nightmare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.R. Wise
• Release date: Aug 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370773466

A.R. Wise

I am a podcaster, movie and music lover, owner of the Talkingship website, and long time secret writer. I decided to sit down and force myself to finally put together a story and get it into people's hands. That happened with the release of my first novella, Deadlocked, on November 9th, 2011. For updates on my writing, news about upcoming projects, and to see a ludicrous amount of other fantastic things, head over to http://talkingship.com/wp/

Book preview

PART ONE

The Bitter Pill

I believe in everything until it’s disproved. So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it’s in your mind. Who’s to say that dreams and nightmares aren’t as real as the here and now?

John Lennon

Prologue – Graves

Isabella Rothchild controlled the dream, but let it happen exactly as it should. She watched from across the field as a fifty-year-old client named Claire Harcourt waited alone in the thick cluster of wild flowers. The hills seemed to stretch for miles, and were dusted with the pure white petals and brilliant yellow centers of endless daisies. As idyllic a setting as any for what was about to happen.

Izzy was an interloper here, but a necessary one, as out of place in her baggy, dark clothes as a dead tree would be. A goth aesthetic invading serenity, like a smear of black on an otherwise perfect painting. She kept her distance, preferring to be a guardian instead of a participant in what was about to happen.

She eavesdropped on the reunion.

Hi Claire-bear, said a man’s voice.

A tall, thin man in overalls came over the hill. He had a fishing pole draped over his shoulder, and a dingy baseball cap on his sweaty head. A red handkerchief hung from his pocket, flitting in the breeze.

Claire’s voice was nearly choked into silence by a mix of intense sorrow, desperation, and joy. Dad.

He set his tackle box down as his daughter ran to him. The reality of the dream almost shifted, and Claire nearly reverted to a childlike state before cementing herself at her current age. It wasn’t uncommon for dreamers to experience radical shifts in age, especially when seeing a parent again.

It’d been two years since Claire Harcourt’s father died of lung cancer, yet here he was, eager to hold his daughter again. They nearly crashed into one another as Claire thrust herself into his embrace, squeezing hard enough to make him laugh before asking her to ease up. She spent some time touching his face, and asked how he felt. Claire was in awe, and needed time to comprehend the reunion. This was common for Isabella’s clients. They often felt as if they’d bought a one-day pass into heaven, despite Izzy’s assurance that this was all in their heads.

This was what Isabella Rothchild offered her clients. One perfect day with a lost loved one. A priceless reunion - for a reasonable price.

Claire and her father spent the day together, talking, laughing, and sharing stories of good times they would always cherish. He took her fishing down at a creek while Isabella watched from a distance – a silent sentry, there to keep the dream on course.

Sometimes the dreamers dragged nightmares in their wake, and were susceptible to their pull. Isabella was there to keep that from happening.

Dusk approached, signaling the end of Claire’s perfect day. Her father mentioned it was almost time, and Claire agreed. They parted at the stream after a long, final embrace. He promised, I’ll see you again, kid. Don’t know where, don’t know when… his song drifted to a sorrowed silence.

I love you, Dad.

Isabella met Claire at the bank of the trickling stream, where the sticks and leaves were collected against the edge of a beaver dam. The gently lapping waters added to the serenity of the final parting, and Claire tried to smile despite the tears.

Thanks for this, said Claire as she took Isabella’s hands.

It’s time to go, said Izzy.

I know, but let’s just watch him for a minute. She looked out at her father as he made his way along the rocky bank, whistling as he went. Before disappearing into a thicket of woods, he turned to offer one last wave.

Claire kissed her hand and waved back. After he was gone, she tearfully said, Okay, I’m ready.

Isabella squeezed her hand, felt the sensation of silk between them, and said, Wake up.

With that, the dreamer vanished, and the scape began to break. The trickling water slowed, and the breeze died away. Izzy was about to awake herself as well, but then a shape in the water caught her eye.

Deep beneath the surface, near the dam, was a partially hidden, pale body. Lavender floated past, and then the dream faded to black, stealing her chance to make sense of what she’d seen.

* * *

Sleeping pills, a bottle of wine, and a hot bath. Rebecca Graves dipped her toe in, disturbing the rose petals floating on the surface. The water was too hot, but she endured the pain as if she deserved it. Finally, it was too much, and she took her foot out before turning down the heat as the bath continued to fill.

The receipt for the pills sat crumbled on the sink, unfurling like the crushed body of an insect refusing to die.

She poured more of the crimson pinot noir, emptying the bottle just before the contents exceeded the glass. Rebecca took a drink and picked up the sleeping pills. Before she finished her sip, she purposefully tipped the pill bottle over and spilled the contents on the laminate countertop between dual sinks. There weren’t many left. She fingered them as if playing a game of checkers. She pinched one, and brought it to her lips.

One, swallowed dry, and then another. Reach for a third. How many was this now? There’d been twenty when she started. They had a bitter taste, no doubt designed that way to keep children from eating them like candy.

One half of the dual vanity was cleaned of the various sundries that’d been there a week ago. Their evidence was still visible, like the clean ring of space where a can of shaving cream had been. There was only a single toothbrush in the holder where three weeks ago there’d been two.

Steam from the bath had fogged the mirror, but she could still see her vibrant purple hair despite the haze. She squinted and reached out her thumb to clear two eye holes in the mask of steam, and then lined herself up so that her green eyes were reflected through them. Bloodshot, tired eyes, staring out from a person she couldn’t possibly recognize anymore.

As if by accident, her wine was empty. There were still pills to take, and the wine helped mask the bitter taste.

We can remedy that, she said as she held the glass upside down and let the crimson drip to the floor. The convergence of wine and pills in her belly made her woozy.

Rebecca moved through her apartment as if already a ghost, her open terrycloth robe sliding across the wood floor behind her like a gown. There was a regality to her stride, her brashness a gift of the alcohol – or maybe the pills. The apartment felt foreign despite how she’d lived there for years. The furniture was still in place, although half the clothes in the closet and dresser were gone. The king-size bed was unmade on one side. Her ex had taken the television that’d been in the living room, and Rebecca replaced it with a 24 x 36 canvas she’d splashed with red and black paint in a fit of anger she’d attempted to turn into inspiration. The result was less artistic than it was cathartic.

There was just one bottle of wine left. It was a merlot, which was normally too bold for her. Tonight it would do just fine. She stabbed the corkscrew in, but the cork broke halfway through the process of pulling it out. Rebecca grimaced and cursed, but then smiled at the absurdity.

Really? she asked as she started to unscrew the broken cork from the screw. Halfway through the act, she tossed the corkscrew into the sink, not bothering to finish the job. She opened the drawer that held her knives, and dug past the larger varieties to find one that’d fit inside the bottle. She stabbed a paring knife into the neck of the bottle, forcing the cork down into the wine.

As she placed the blade back in the drawer, she saw something her ex had forgotten. It was a Kramer by Zwilling, 6" chef’s knife, hewn from meteorite. The blade was as exquisite as it was expensive. It sparkled with hues of grey and silver that rippled like the top of a disturbed pond. The blade had cost several hundred dollars. It’d been a gift for her boyfriend-at-the-time, after he graduated from the Escoffier School of Culinary Arts in Boulder, Colorado.

She examined the blade for a long time, as if the ripples within could hypnotize her. ‘He left it on purpose,’ she thought. ‘Fucker.’ She stabbed the knife down into a butcher’s block, causing it to stick with the handle up, an act of wanton disregard for the tool. Her disrespect of the blade would’ve horrified her ex had he been there to witness it.

Rebecca returned to the bathroom, and when she poured the wine it glugged out chaotically as the shorn cork spun inside.

Her phone rang, rattling on the edge of the vanity. Rebecca stared at the word ‘Mom’ on the phone’s screen, but didn’t answer. Soon the call went to voicemail, and Rebecca took a few more pills. There were only a few left.

The end was beginning. It started with a long blink, as if she didn’t have the strength to open her eyes again. Next, she noticed every breath took longer – took more effort. Her legs were uncertain pillars, wavering beneath a weight they couldn’t possibly support.

She sat heavily on the bath’s edge. Wine spilled down her chin, and dripped to her chest. She haphazardly swiped it away, staining the edge of her white robe.

Without good reason, she purposefully tipped the glass. Merlot poured into the hot bath, and a bloody purple bloomed and then spread with the force of the water rushing in from the tap. Soon the color had melded with the bath, and the rose petals were swimming atop a sea of pink.

Her phone buzzed an alert that she had a message.

Momma, she said with tears in her eyes. She rose from the side of the tub. Her glass fell. It shattered on the tile, and she looked down regretfully at it, but didn’t bother cleaning it up. She got the phone and played the message.

‘Rebecca,’ her mother said, her concern evident in her tone. ‘This is your mother.’ She would always say that in her messages, as if Rebecca would mistake her for someone else. ‘I got your message, and honey… I… You’ve got me worried. Are you okay? Please call me. You know how I am. I’m not going to stop worrying until I hear from you, so you’re better off just calling me. Okay? I know you’re sad about Dan, and how things went, but none of that’s your fault. He’s an idiot. You know I always thought he was kind of dumb. He was cute, and he sure could cook, but it takes more to be a good man than a cute face and a barbeque brisket. Am I right?’ She paused and took a breath. ‘You can’t beat yourself up about what happened. Okay, honey? Listen, we’re here for you if you need us. You know that. I hope you know that. All right, I’m going to go. I love you. Call me.’ There was a pause, and then a quick, but sad, ‘Bye.’

No glass left, Rebecca drank wine from the bottle. Her stomach began a violent churning she expected to last through her final minutes of consciousness. Tears came fast now. Her nose started to run. She tried to line up her eyes with the holes she’d cleared in the fog on the mirror, but the spots were gone.

She started to sing a classic rock song, This is the end… The sickness brewing in her belly refused to allow levity. She burped and covered her mouth, afraid she might vomit up the solution she’d settled on to ease the agony she’d endured these past few weeks.

She slammed the bottle down on the vanity, and the noise pounded concurrently with a knock at the door. Rebecca froze, uncertain if she’d really heard it, or if the noise had been an echo of her action.

Again, there was a knock. Just one, as loud as a coffin lid slamming shut. Then another. The extended time between the knocks unsettled her.

Rebecca tied the belt of her robe, hiding her nude body before walking towards the bathroom door. She nearly stepped on the broken wine glass.

There was another loud, heavy thump on the door.

I’m coming.

Rebecca ran through the bedroom, and then the living room to get to the front door. She peered through the eyehole, but there was no one there. She opened the door, but left the chain on. Through the gap she asked, Hello?

No one answered.

Izzy, Ash, is that you?

Still no answer.

She closed the door to allow her to remove the chain, and then opened the door wide. She stepped out into the hall of the apartments, her naked feet on the scratchy, thin carpet. There was no one down either long stretches of dimly lit hall.

She closed the door slowly, more confused than frightened. Had she imagined the knocking? What sort of side effects came with suicide by sleeping pills? Hallucinations?

It’s just a Red Reeder, she said with a shake of her head as she headed back to the bathroom. That’s all it is, Rebecca. Calm down. She forced a laugh, and then shrieked as she stepped on a shard of the broken wine glass. She fell forward and slammed her hand down on the edge of the tub as she awkwardly raised her wounded foot high behind her, trying not to injure herself more. Blood trickled from the tips of her toes.

Good job, dummy, She found it darkly comical that in the midst of a suicide she found herself nursing a wound. She sat at the edge of the tub, the water still running, and tried to pluck the glass from the arch of her foot. The fragile shard cracked with a piece still inside her. She eased her foot in the hot water, and then turned off the tap. Tendrils of blood rose from her wound, darker than the pink water, matching the color of the rose petals on the surface. The fleeting tendrils maintained their shape for less than a second before fading into the pink hue of the water.

She rested her foot at the bottom of the tub with her heel down and her toes up. The heat soothed her. Oddly, the pain of the cut felt calming as the hot water burned its edges. Soon her eyes closed.

So tired.

The pain ebbed.

The pills pulled at her.

We know what she did.

Rebecca opened her eyes as if emerging from a nightmare she couldn’t recall. Who’d said that? It was a man’s voice, deep and rasping. A dream like a haunting, intensely real but false in the same moment, skirting reality. She was on the precipice of endless sleep, just as she was at the edge of the tub, teetering, pained, hurting.

There were still a few blue pills on the vanity beside an overturned bottle. One of them shuddered as if by an unfelt breeze, a ghost, or hallucination. She stared at the pill, waiting for it to move again.

A thundering knock at the door caused her to yelp and place her hands over her chest. The knock had been loud enough to vibrate the floor, and now both pills moved. They wobbled on their circular edges.

God damn it! She stood with an unsteady leg while raising the other out of the water. The heat had pushed the glass further out of her wound, making it easier for her to pinch and pull it free. Blood quickly flowed.

Another knock, as loud as the last.

I’m coming, she pulled a hand towel from a ring on the wall and hastily wrapped it around her foot. On her way through the bedroom, the hand towel unfurled and fell away. She stopped to put it back on, but then there was another knock, even louder than the first two.

What did it matter if she tracked blood through the house? She wouldn’t have to clean it.

She didn’t bother wrapping the towel around her foot a second time, and headed for the living room. She paused at the kitchen, near the front door of her apartment, and picked up the phone from its base on the counter. She dialed 9, and then 1. She left her thumb on the ‘1’, waiting to press it if she needed to.

Rebecca was about to open the door without spying through the peephole, but then thought better of it and hastily looked. There was no one visible in the hall.

She made sure the chain was on, and opened the door. As expected, the Red Reeders had fled.

Next time I’m calling the police, she yelled out into the eerily long, empty hall. The buzz of the lights were her only reply. Izzy, Ash, I’m not kidding… her voice broke, as if the façade had finally cracked and her sorrow was freed.

The pain her suicide would cause her students and her parents was her only regret.

She started to slam the door, but then stopped before contact. She pushed it gently shut. If they were out there, she didn’t want them to think she was mad. Izzy had suffered enough.

Rebecca leaned on the door, and then slumped to the floor. She wept, and for the first time since settling on her suicide solution, regret shook her resolve.

There was another voice in the room with her, quiet and tinny. …nature of your emergency.

She looked at the phone in her hand, and realized she’d accidentally hit the final ‘1’.

Hello, she said as she brought the phone to her ear.

A woman replied, Hello, this is the Bluebird County 9-1-1. What’s the nature of your emergency.

Oh, nothing really. Probably nothing. I mean… Yeah, probably nothing. The sleeping pills clouded her thoughts, and made it a struggle to communicate. The room felt like it was shifting beneath her, transforming or breathing, warping from an excess of alcohol and a stomach full of pills slowly melting and absorbing into her bloodstream.

Ma’am, what’s the reason you called? asked the operator, stern and commanding.

It’s some, uh… Just some Red Reeders. I shouldn’t have called. It’s just some Red Reeders. That’s all.

What’s a Red Reeder?

Rebecca chuckled. I take it you’re not from around here.

Excuse me?

You must not be from around here, said Rebecca. If you don’t know what a Red Reeder is then you… She stopped, self-conscious about the way she was repeating things. She felt like a teenage stoner, certain everyone knew exactly what afflicted her. Do you know what ding-dong-ditch is? Where kids knock on your door or ring your doorbell and then run away.

Oh sure, said the woman, her tone kinder now. Down south where I’m from they call it something else. Something I can’t exactly repeat.

Right, said Rebecca as she pulled her foot up into her lap as if doing a yoga pose. Blood stained her robe. They call it Red Reeding here. It’s an old urban legend about a guy named Reed who went around knocking on people’s doors and then running around to the back of the house. He’d break in and hide. Then, when everyone was asleep, he’d steal one of their kitchen knives and kill them with it. He’d paint his face with their blood. Hence Red Reed.

I think I remember hearing about that, said the operator. Did someone Red Reed you tonight?

Yes.

Would you like us to send a squad car out there to…

No, no, said Rebecca quickly, eager to stop that from happening. If it was Izzy and Ash, she didn’t want to risk getting them in trouble. Furthermore, by the time the police arrived she would certainly be in no shape to speak to them. It wouldn’t be long before…

Ma’am?

Had Rebecca drifted to sleep? The operator’s sudden, forceful ‘Ma’am’ hinted that Rebecca hadn’t answered.

No, I’m fine. I mean… Sure.

Sure what? Would you like me to send someone?

Rebecca was crying, and couldn’t hide the fact.

What’s wrong? Are you okay?

I’m… No, I guess I’m not really. Rebecca shook her head. I’m not okay. I took… Oh fuck me. Jesus, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.

Ma’am, I’m going to send an officer out for a wellness check. You don’t have to answer me. If something’s happening, we can help. I see there’s been a history of domestic abuse at your address. If there’s someone there threatening you then…

No, it’s not that. I did it.

Did what?

I did it to myself. I took some pills.

What sort of pills?

Sleeping pills.

Okay, ma’am, listen carefully. I’m sending police and an ambulance to your address. How many pills did you take?

I don’t know. I think, like, seventeen.

How long ago did you take them?

Not long. Ten minutes. Fifteen? I’m not sure.

I need you to do me a favor. Okay? I need you to try and force yourself to throw up. Can you do that for me?

Rebecca felt the need to explain or apologize. I didn’t mean for this to… Jesus. There’s so much blood. She lamented her blood-soaked robe.

Did you cut yourself?

No. I mean yes, but not on purpose. I cut my foot on…

There was another single, loud knock at the door behind her. She felt the vibration in her spine.

What was that? asked the operator, but Rebecca didn’t respond.

She rose and opened the door in a fury, certain she was about to catch Izzy and Ash in the act.

Got you! she said as the door opened wide.

There was no one in the hall.

Ma’am? asked the operator, her voice distant.

Then came the breathing, heavy and loud, emanating from the bedroom or the bloodied bathroom beyond. She stared through the length of the apartment, and saw a shadow rising from the light in the bathroom, looming dark in the attached bedroom.

She couldn’t move, even as the operator screamed her name.

A figure appeared, emerging from the bathroom and into the bedroom, a straight shot from the front door. His face a mask of red, broken only by his wide eyes and gleaming smile. A visage of madness, as evil as anything the devil could conjure.

Rebecca was frozen in fear as the meteorite hewn blade in Red Reed’s hand flashed.

He charged, his long arms loping and his back hunched like a werewolf in mid-transformation. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and it looked as if he’d been in a vicious fight. The still bleeding wound on his cheek added to the terror he inspired.

Rebecca broke her temporary daze at the sight of him, screamed, and fled into the hall. The operator continued to ask if she was okay, but Rebecca Graves barely made it through the threshold of her apartment’s front door before Red Reed reached her. The phone fell to the floor as the operator begged for a response.

Red Reed finished the job Rebecca Graves had started.

ONE MONTH EARLIER

Chapter One – How We Get Our Demons Out

Welcome to the Graveyard, said Rebecca Graves from behind her desk. Are you here for art club?

Clearly he wasn’t. Darren Cline was one of the most popular boys in school. Being Hollywood handsome in a backwater town in central Indiana awarded him a status that rivaled royalty. He wasn’t the sort of student who spent time afterschool doing anything that didn’t involve a ball, a cheerleader, a beer, or preferably all three.

No, said the soiled baseball player. Sweat glistened on his tan forehead. I’m here for, uh, Isabella Rothchild. He looked at one of only two students in the room.

Izzy looked up from her clay sculpture.

That’s you, right? asked Darren, uncertain of her name but assuming it must be her. His social life was too full to remember the name of the wallflowers, especially not the ones with crippling social anxiety.

Yes, she said.

Your sister’s waiting for you out by the field, said Darren.

Tell her she has to come in, said Mrs. Graves. I can’t let Izzy go without a signature.

Darren looked equally confused and annoyed. How come?

Izzy felt her ears flush with embarrassment.

None of your business, said Mrs. Graves as she cocked her head to the side and offered a cross smirk. That’s how come.

All right, said Darren with a put-upon roll of his eyes. He left, eager to get back to whatever testosterone-fueled extracurricular activity jocks outside of Izzy’s purview enjoyed.

The other student at art club was Orwell Washington, a slight boy who looked younger than he was, a victim of late puberty. Orwell was determined to get perfect grades again, continuing a trend he’d kept up since grade school, and he needed Izzy’s help with an art project. He was driven by a need for excellence in all endeavors, and had been watching Izzy work. He had a blank-faced intensity reminiscent of a camera, as if his brain was recording every nuance of Izzy’s effortless talent.

I thought your guardian was supposed to pick you up at five, said Mrs. Graves before looking at the giant, round clock. It wasn’t even four.

So did I, said Izzy, her voice little more than a whisper.

Orwell’s curiosity was evident by the way he looked nervously back and forth between Izzy and the teacher. He hadn’t known Izzy was at art club as a punishment.

I got in trouble with the cops, she said to him, her ears still burning. It was stupid. I’m on probation now, so I can’t leave without an adult. She knew that if she didn’t tell him the truth, his imagination would create a grand lie about what she’d done. That wasn’t such a bad thing. A little mystery could do her reputation some good.

She twisted the armature of her wire monster, bending its fourth arm so the claw faced forward. She always loved sculpting claws, and she’d adorned this creation with wicked talons that curled into menacing, sharp tips. Half the demon was covered in clay, and the other half was exposed like a Terminator without its skin. The demonic creation was an amalgamation of a caterpillar, a crustacean, and a commanding officer, completing Mrs. Graves’ assignment of taking three terms with the same letter and designing an alien life form around them.

Orwell’s original intention had been to create an alien pantomiming a member of the KKK, but he’d been advised against it. Sadly, the KKK had seen a resurgence of popularity in parts of central Indiana, including Cricket Hill, evidenced by the racist graffiti scrawled along alley walls throughout town. After scrapping the KKK figure he’d been working on, Orwell asked Izzy if she could help him with something new. That’s how he ended up as the second person in Mrs. Graves’ woefully attended art club.

I got in trouble too, said Orwell.

Izzy found the admission comical, and couldn’t stifle a laugh of disbelief. The thought of Orwell doing anything untoward was humorous. What’d you do?

You know the stoplight at the corner of Wells and Draft?

Izzy nodded.

I timed the yellow light before and after they installed the traffic camera. I proved that they shortened the length of the yellow.

Wait, what? asked Mrs. Graves. She’d been eavesdropping. They shortened the yellow?

Orwell nodded. By a full second.

No kidding?

And I went to the police station to complain. I asked them to show me how many tickets they’d issued since that camera got installed.

Did they show you? asked the teacher as she walked away from her desk to the long table where Izzy and Orwell sat.

No. They took my notes and said they’d look into it. Then, by the time I got home, the cops were already there. My dad went ballistic. I’ve never been in that much trouble in my whole life.

In trouble for what? asked Mrs. Graves.

For… you know. Orwell thought the reason should be clear, even though he wasn’t sure why. Getting the cops called on me.

But you didn’t do anything wrong, said Izzy.

Try telling my dad that.

That’s… Mrs. Graves stopped. You know what? I should keep my mouth shut. She rustled her purple hair, and then sat heavily across the table from her students.

I don’t have to keep my mouth shut, said Izzy. It sounds like your dad’s an assho…

Izzy, said Mrs. Graves harshly.

Sorry, but it’s true. Orwell’s got to be one of the best kids ever. Have you ever gotten anything but A’s?

I might this semester, said Orwell. I’ve got to get pictures of wildlife around town and identify them by tomorrow for Mr. Bell’s class or I’m going to go down a grade.

Just take pictures of some squirrels, said Izzy.

Orwell looked at her as if she should know how ridiculous that idea was. I think I can do better than that.

How’s the sculpture coming? asked Mrs. Graves.

Good, said Izzy.

It’s better than good, said Orwell. You’re really talented. I could watch you work all day.

Thanks, said Izzy. The admiration made her uncomfortable.

Can you spin it around for me? asked the