Spellbound

Original Edition: Five

My cell phone sang a chipper ringtone, summoning me to wake up and start my day.

The cocktail from the Reynard's bar last night helped ease my tension after the mysterious drink buyer disappeared. But the alcohol did little to slow my racing mind. I had returned to my room and dredged up every reasonable explanation for where he could have gone. And just as the first sunrays lit the sky, I finally told myself that I was overthinking the entire thing and fell asleep.

I hit the snooze button and released a sigh. There was nothing like working through a busy day with minimal sleep. But I'd be damned if Hunter got here before I was up.

Before I could even swing my legs over the side of the bed and get up, my phone pinged with a text message.

"Ugh, Hunter, I'm coming," I grumbled, but when I unlocked my phone screen, I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.

Raven.

Hey, idiot. Need my help yet?

I shot my middle finger at my phone and threw it face down on the bed. There was no way I was answering that. My cousin must be the rudest person on the face of the planet.

While my coffee brewed in the single cup machine, I shimmied into a pair of leggings and dressed it up with a green Reynard polo shirt. Throwing my hair into a ponytail, I headed downstairs with my cup of coffee.

"Good morning, Miss Fox," Larry said from behind the front desk.

"Gemma. Please, call me Gemma."

"Of course," he said, pulling an envelope from under the leather-bound guest registrar. "I found this in the key drop box this morning. It looks like our guests were extremely happy with their experience here last night."

I took the letter from him and opened it up. A room shared by two friends were pleased with all the bumps in the night they heard and the never-ending conversation between two male voices that kept them up. They both signed the bottom of the note and left their room number. It was just down the hall from mine.

"I'm glad they enjoyed their stay. It's nice to know someone likes having their sleep interrupted all night." I handed the letter back to Larry. "When my brother gets here, will you let him know I'm on the back porch?"

Larry smiled and nodded, tucking the note from the hotel guest into a drawer. "Will do." I turned to go, but before I reached the door to the porch, Larry spoke up again. "Miss—I mean, Gemma, when you're ready, I'll be glad to give you the key to your aunt's suite. It's the nicest room in the hotel, and since you'll be living here full-time from now on, it's only fair that you have it. No rush, though. I know it has to be painful."

I felt a pang in my gut and tears sprang to my eyes when I thought about going through Aunt Hazel's belongings. But I pushed the tears away, took a sip of my coffee and said over the rim of the mug, "Thanks, Larry. I will let you know."

I pushed open the door to the screened-in porch and settled in one of the rocking chairs to finish my coffee. Living in Aunt Hazel's suite was something I knew I'd end up doing, but the thought of it did make me sad. In fact, it would be the very first time I'd ever seen it; she was quirky in a lot of ways, one of which was her love of privacy. She never wanted anyone to see where she lived, and I never really understood why.

A thought crashed into my mind and I sat up straight. Maybe she had things in there she felt were necessary to keep private...like blueprints of the hotel...that showed where a certain secret room might be. A room that wasn't supposed to exist. If I could debunk just one of my experiences in the last twenty-four hours, maybe I'd sleep better at night.

As hard as it would be to go through all her possessions, it really did need to be done, blueprints or no blueprints. Plus, the fact that no one knew how to access the room in question was not only bizarre, but an actual safety concern. What if there were a fire in there? Or some sort of leak?

I jumped up, nearly spilling my coffee, and burst back into the lobby.

"Larry?" I asked, setting my mug down on the counter.

"Yes ma'am?"

"I think I'm ready to see Aunt Hazel's room now."

Larry bent and twirled the combination dial on the safe. It opened with a clank and he pulled out an ornate skeleton key. "She was adamant that you were the only person I ever give this key to." he said, dropping it into my palm. "This way."

He led me to the elevator. The moment the door slid shut and Larry punched the protruding round button for the fourth floor, I remembered why I avoided it and always took the stairs. The machine was added to the building in the 1800s and its mechanisms wailed and grinded as it gradually made its way up. I gripped the wall like it would save me if the cables broke and we plummeted back to the ground floor.

"She's held strong for two hundred years and won't let us down now," Larry said, knocking the wall just above the buttons.

I nervously laughed and anticipated the moment I could disembark from the death trap.

Larry led me to a room that stood alone at the very end of a long hallway. "This is it. I'll leave you to it."

"Thank you," I said, sliding the key into the lock as he walked away.

With a deep breath, I swung the door open and just as quickly had the urge to shut it again. "Oh Hazel, you were one more stack of papers from ending up on Hoarders," I murmured, my eyes bouncing around the room, taking in the environment that my aunt called home.

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The living space was furnished with antiques—a rolled arm sofa and matching armchairs, a dark walnut secretary set against one wall, and across the room was an enormous Victorian style dining table that seated eight. And papers—piles of papers and books everywhere.

The room was overwhelming and the thought of organizing it terrifying. It would take me weeks to get through everything she left behind. Shaking off my worry, I toured the rest of the suite. The kitchen was impeccably clean, like she used it regularly. It had the same ancient feel to it as the living room, but as I looked closer at the appliances, I realized they were modern impersonations. The single bathroom housed a massive clawfoot tub and a separate open shower. But it was Hazel's bedroom that took my breath away. It was clean, the four-post bed made, complete with a little reading nook in front of a wood-burning furnace. I ran my fingers along the tall dresser and looked inside the empty walk-in closet.

"Where had you been staying before you died, Aunt Hazel?" I whispered.

I stepped out the door and returned to the front room. I stopped dead in my tracks as I took in the living room from this new angle. When I entered Hazel's suite, I hadn't given much attention to the fireplace the couch faced. It was beautiful, hand-carved with an ornate floral baroque design on each side, but it was the painted portrait above the mantel that sent my heart racing.

The subjects of the painting—two teenage boys—were identical: dark brown hair, plump lips, tan skin, and defined jaws. The only difference between them was the shade of their jewel-toned eyes. One boy sprawled casually in a high-backed chair, and the other stood beside him with his arm propped on the back. They couldn't have been more than fourteen years old. And though I'd never seen this painting in my life, I'd seen these identical boys before.

They were the ones I saw playing in the Reynard's hallways when I was a child.