Dark Hollows. Steve Frech

said about other places, and you can tell who’s going to be a problem by their reviews. They’re the people who are determined to have a bad time, no matter what. That’s my rule—three reviews to prove that you are a reasonable person. It’s my most sacred rule.

      And tonight, I’m breaking it.

      Two months ago, I received a request from a woman named Rebecca Lowden to stay in the cottage for one night, only. I was going to reject the reservation request when I saw that she had no previous reviews, but I always check the reservation request to see where they heard about me to stay informed about where Be Our Guest is advertising. I clicked on her request, which took me to her profile page. She was undeniably beautiful, with brunette hair and blue eyes, but it was her bio that caught me.

      In the bio sections, Be Our Guest encourages you to list things, like your hobbies, favorite books, and favorite movies. As one of her favorite books, she listed A Christmas Carol. And in the “favorite movies” section? Dead Again, which is in my top five. Also, she had grown up in a town not too far from where I grew up.

      So, out of simple curiosity, I broke my rule and accepted the reservation.

      *

      I pull the sheets and towels from the dryer, and head back to the cottage. I make the bed, pulling the sheets tight and tucking the corners securely under the mattress. I never made my bed until the cottage. Now, I can’t sleep in a bed that’s not made. I hang fresh towels in the bathroom, and stack the rest on the top shelf in the hall closet.

      And with that, I’m done. The cottage is ready to go. Check-in time is three o’clock and right now, it’s noon. She could be here in three hours, or she might not arrive until tonight, but it’s a safe guess that she’ll be here closer to three. Most people treat arrangements like this as though they’re arriving at someone’s house, rather than a hotel. So, like I said, she’ll probably be here closer to three. I kind of want to be here when she arrives.

      Again, it’s only curiosity. Don’t look at me like that.

      I put the key in the lockbox next to the front door, and reset the passcode for the four digits I sent Rebecca in the confirmation email.

      I have to head to Groundworks in a few hours, but until then, I can kill time in the hopes of meeting her.

      I head back to the main house, and walk into my office on the first floor. The floorboards in the hall squeak in a familiar sound that I’ve grown to relish. It reminds me of the sense of responsibility for the aged house. It’s seen the very end of a Civil War, a World War, a Great Depression, another World War, the Seventies, the turn of the millennium, and I’m the one to make sure it sees the next milestone. I spin into the swivel chair at the desk and fire up the computer.

      I check my emails and see that Sandy Bellhurst, the manager I hired to help me at Groundworks, has sent me the receipts from yesterday. I enter them into my accounting software and take care of some more emails. When I’m done, I look over to the door and see Murphy’s half in and half out of the room.

      “What? Are you hungry, again?”

      Murphy’s tail starts wagging so furiously, it causes his butt to oscillate.

      “All right. Fine.”

      He turns and runs to the kitchen. I get up and follow.

      I feed Murphy a little more food from the bag in the pantry. I heard somewhere that you should give dogs a little food at a time rather than full meals to keep them from getting overweight. It’s healthier and I want Murphy at my side for as long as I can keep him.

      After I feed him, I set up on the porch. I think about taking Murphy on a walk to The Sanctuary, but decide to play it cool and drop into a chair with a paperback to enjoy the autumn afternoon in case Rebecca arrives early.

      It’s really beautiful. The breeze carries the scent of dead leaves from the forest to the porch. The colors are at their peak. The cotton-ball clouds race through the sky overhead. It’s that perfect temperature where I need a jacket, but not a coat. There’s only a few more days until Halloween, which is The Hollows’ time to shine.

      Murphy comes out, pushing open the unlatched screen door with his nose, and plops down with a contented sigh next to my chair.

      Rebecca Lowden can take her time.

      I’m perfectly fine.

      *

      Hours later, I’m still on the porch, but I need to get going.

      I’m meeting at Groundworks with a rep from Alliance Capital. It’s a company that’s interested in turning Groundworks into a franchise.

      Murphy’s still here on the porch with me, thrashing around on his back, trying to get an itch on his spine. He snorts as he writhes back and forth. I decide it’s a great pic, and take out my phone. I get out of my chair and crouch down near his head. Still on his back, he looks at me as if to ask, “What the hell are you doing?”

      I get low, right by his nose, and snap a photo. I know right away I can’t use it for the Be Our Guest website because the cottage is framed between his open hind legs. It’s hysterical, but probably not appropriate. Also, as I hit the shutter button, a Ford Focus pulls into frame, and parks next to the cottage. I take another picture, for my own collection, and tuck the phone into my pocket. Murphy rolls over, taking note of the new arrival.

      I stand up and move to the steps, ready to greet Rebecca Lowden, but stop. It’s not her. It can’t be. Someone has taken a wrong turn. The woman getting out of the Focus has red hair. Rebecca is a brunette.

      Murphy takes off towards her. I follow. He pulls up a few yards short, and strikes a submissive pose. She crouches down, and pats her knees in encouragement.

      Wait. I’m wrong. It is Rebecca Lowden. She’s dyed her hair a deep red.

      Murphy gets closer and playfully rolls onto his back for a tummy rub. She obliges.

      I keep walking forward. Yes, it is indeed Rebecca Lowden. She’s still a knockout, but that red hair isn’t working for her.

      “Hi,” she says to me, while patting Murphy’s stomach. “Are you Jacob?”

      “Yep. You Rebecca?”

      “That’s me.”

      “Sorry. I didn’t recognize you with the hair. It’s different from your profile pic.”

      She stands. “Yeah. Just something I’m trying.”

      Murphy gets up, and spins his hindquarters into her for a butt-scratch.

      “And you must be Murphy!” she says in baby talk, running her nails across his hips. Murphy is in heaven. “Sorry I’m late.”

      “No, no. You’re not late. You can check in whenever you want. The key is in the lockbox next to the door.”

      “Great. Thank you.”

      “I’d offer to show you around, but Murphy and I have to run into town for a little business meeting.”

      She lightheartedly slaps Murphy’s butt. “No worries.”

      “I don’t know what your plans are, but there’s coffee and wine in the cottage, and stuff to make s’mores. If you want to use the fire pit, there are some logs around the back.”

      “Great.”

      “If there’s anything else you need, you’ve got my number, right?”

      “Yep.”

      There’s this weird pause where I feel like she’s waiting for me to leave.

      “Okay,” I say. “Come on, Murph.”

      He hesitates, but then comes to my side, and follows me to the truck. I glance over my shoulder and watch as she goes to the lockbox and punches in the code.

      By the time Murphy and I reach the truck, she’s already