still half asleep. We’d slept—what—three hours? Two
and a half? It didn’t matter, though. We weren’t going back to sleep. We
weren’t going to be allowed to go back to sleep. I might have been perturbed by
that, but I was too darn tired. My entire body ached gently, sweetly, a
reminder of my first night as a married woman. I turned toward Josh, smiling,
flushing, enjoying the sight of his naked chest and shoulders. I especially
liked the line of hair that meandered down his belly toward “Twinkie and the
bon-bons”, as we’d dubbed his cock and balls the night before. During the fourth
time we’d made love. Or had it been the fifth?
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi yourself.” Josh looked at me that way. He
grinned. Leaned in to me and nuzzled my neck. “How about a quickie?”
The door rattled sharply. “Hey!”
Startled, Josh and I flew away from each other and stared
wide-eyed at the door.
“No time for that!” yelled Zora from the other side. “You’re
already late!”
Had the woman been listening? We burst out laughing. “Okay,
Zora,” I said, “we’re coming. Really we are.”
Josh drew me into a tight hug, kissed me, then let me go.
“Just as well. I’m starving!”
Ten minutes later, we descended the stairs. How could the inn
be so much bigger than I remembered? The stairs were wider, more gracious than
I’d realized, like those in an elegant old southern mansion. The banisters and
handrails were carved from luscious dark wood. At each landing, halls headed
off into other parts of the inn. I longed to explore, but as Zora had
mentioned, people were waiting for us. A series of narrow tapestries hung on the
wall beside the stairs, beautiful things, artworks almost, made of tiny silk
tufts. I peered closely, admiring the exquisite work and wondering how many
hundreds of hours it took to make such precious things—until Josh tugged
impatiently at my arm. “Come on ,” he said.
Sighing, I followed him down the stairs. “So beautiful, so
beautiful. It makes me want to paint. Those colors! I’m so glad you brought my
case.”
“Good. I smell bacon.”
“And coffee,” I said, sniffing.
We went down to the landing—the second one—and started down
another flight of stairs. We passed a round window with a stained-glass image
of a lighthouse built into it. “Look at this,” I said, pausing. “It’s clever.
The sun streaming through the window makes it look like the lighthouse is really
working.”
Josh stopped walking. But he wasn’t looking at the window.
“Angie,” he said quietly.
I turned around.
“Do you…feel that?”
“Feel what?”
His eyes narrowed. “Something in the air. Like the hairs on
the back of my head are standing on end. Like something is breathing down my
neck.”
I stared at him, worried, my hand clutching the smooth
railing. Josh slowly turned in a circle, rubbing frantically at the back of his
neck and raking his fingers through his hair. He peered into the ceiling high
above us and leaned to look over the railing and craned his neck to search the
corners. I did too. What had my husband so spooked? I believed him—this place
was weird enough that I’d believe almost anything—but there was nothing out of
the ordinary. Nothing that I could see, anyway.
He shuddered. “I don’t like it. It’s…cold. Clammy.”
“Ugh. Sorry. I don’t feel anything.”
He took the stairs two at a time to the next landing. He
waited for me to catch up. “It’s gone. There’s nothing here. Whatever it was,
we’ve passed through it.”
We looked up the stairs toward the stained-glass lighthouse.
I’d been right. The sun did shine through the window, through the prism built
into the top of the lighthouse, reflecting a bright dot of shimmering light
onto the wall next to where we’d been standing. It was pretty. I thought I
might like to drag my painting supplies to the landing—later, after we ate—and
make a study of this section of the staircase.
and a half? It didn’t matter, though. We weren’t going back to sleep. We
weren’t going to be allowed to go back to sleep. I might have been perturbed by
that, but I was too darn tired. My entire body ached gently, sweetly, a
reminder of my first night as a married woman. I turned toward Josh, smiling,
flushing, enjoying the sight of his naked chest and shoulders. I especially
liked the line of hair that meandered down his belly toward “Twinkie and the
bon-bons”, as we’d dubbed his cock and balls the night before. During the fourth
time we’d made love. Or had it been the fifth?
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi yourself.” Josh looked at me that way. He
grinned. Leaned in to me and nuzzled my neck. “How about a quickie?”
The door rattled sharply. “Hey!”
Startled, Josh and I flew away from each other and stared
wide-eyed at the door.
“No time for that!” yelled Zora from the other side. “You’re
already late!”
Had the woman been listening? We burst out laughing. “Okay,
Zora,” I said, “we’re coming. Really we are.”
Josh drew me into a tight hug, kissed me, then let me go.
“Just as well. I’m starving!”
Ten minutes later, we descended the stairs. How could the inn
be so much bigger than I remembered? The stairs were wider, more gracious than
I’d realized, like those in an elegant old southern mansion. The banisters and
handrails were carved from luscious dark wood. At each landing, halls headed
off into other parts of the inn. I longed to explore, but as Zora had
mentioned, people were waiting for us. A series of narrow tapestries hung on the
wall beside the stairs, beautiful things, artworks almost, made of tiny silk
tufts. I peered closely, admiring the exquisite work and wondering how many
hundreds of hours it took to make such precious things—until Josh tugged
impatiently at my arm. “Come on ,” he said.
Sighing, I followed him down the stairs. “So beautiful, so
beautiful. It makes me want to paint. Those colors! I’m so glad you brought my
case.”
“Good. I smell bacon.”
“And coffee,” I said, sniffing.
We went down to the landing—the second one—and started down
another flight of stairs. We passed a round window with a stained-glass image
of a lighthouse built into it. “Look at this,” I said, pausing. “It’s clever.
The sun streaming through the window makes it look like the lighthouse is really
working.”
Josh stopped walking. But he wasn’t looking at the window.
“Angie,” he said quietly.
I turned around.
“Do you…feel that?”
“Feel what?”
His eyes narrowed. “Something in the air. Like the hairs on
the back of my head are standing on end. Like something is breathing down my
neck.”
I stared at him, worried, my hand clutching the smooth
railing. Josh slowly turned in a circle, rubbing frantically at the back of his
neck and raking his fingers through his hair. He peered into the ceiling high
above us and leaned to look over the railing and craned his neck to search the
corners. I did too. What had my husband so spooked? I believed him—this place
was weird enough that I’d believe almost anything—but there was nothing out of
the ordinary. Nothing that I could see, anyway.
He shuddered. “I don’t like it. It’s…cold. Clammy.”
“Ugh. Sorry. I don’t feel anything.”
He took the stairs two at a time to the next landing. He
waited for me to catch up. “It’s gone. There’s nothing here. Whatever it was,
we’ve passed through it.”
We looked up the stairs toward the stained-glass lighthouse.
I’d been right. The sun did shine through the window, through the prism built
into the top of the lighthouse, reflecting a bright dot of shimmering light
onto the wall next to where we’d been standing. It was pretty. I thought I
might like to drag my painting supplies to the landing—later, after we ate—and
make a study of this section of the staircase.
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