Beach Thriller(5)

Gail took a whiff, but if she smelled anything, she wasn’t dissuaded. “Could be, but nothing a dehumidifier can’t take care of.”

Eventually, Gail had seen enough. Placing several flyers and business cards on the fireplace mantel, she departed, promising to find Holly a handyman. Chester emerged from the kitchen when he heard the real estate agent drive off. Holly figured he was glad to see her go. But she knew Gail would be back.

At least she wasn’t living in the boonies. All the major conveniences were just a walk or a phone click away—including DoorDash.

Holly ate her dinner, a fried haddock sandwich, while sitting in her grandfather’s rocking chair, admiring a watercolor her mother had painted years ago. It was a scene of the beach, looking down from their front lawn. The two tiny figures playing in the sand—one in a yellow T-shirt, the other in a pink beach dress—represented Anna and Holly.

Holly didn’t have any memories of her father, and her mother never found anybody else after he died. It was always Mom and Grandpa here. His ubiquitous pipe still graced the mantel above the fireplace, next to Gail’s flyers.

After dinner, Holly had just enough energy to retrieve her suitcase from the car and undo the plastic on the queen-sized bed in her mother’s room, which she planned to make her own. She left a window open, inviting the sea air to wash over her. She had only one blanket, which was more than enough for her and Chester, who lay curled at her feet, keeping them warm.

Holly always had supremely cold appendages. Max Egan, her college sweetheart and first true love, would hold her hand and ask, “When did you pass?” He’d wink, then press a kiss to her chilly cheek.

Max was the kindest, most sensitive man she had ever known. While other boys were swilling beers at frat parties, Max preferred going to the indie cinema or discovering cool bands in underground clubs. He was a connoisseur of ramen noodles, a fan of art openings, and amazing in bed. She would have married him—but trauma had other plans. Through no fault of his own, Max was forever associated with the worst day of Holly’s life. Now another woman shared Max’s bed and his children, and Holly suspected she had been searching for him (and writing about him) ever since.

Holly drifted off to sleep, bittersweet memories pulling her into a world of chaotic dreams. Eventually she fell into a deeper void, where all thoughts, troubles, and emotions dropped away, her mind finally finding much-needed rest.

She awoke with a jolt. Her eyes sprang open, adrenaline coursing through her, shocking her back to consciousness. Had she heard something overhead? There it was again—a thump or a bump, certainly too loud to be a mouse.

She held her breath, her heart pounding. This was why she hadn’t wanted to come back. It wasn’t just memories haunting her, it was entities.

This wasn’t the first strange occurrence Holly had encountered in the cottage. In the initial weeks after Anna had died, she would sometimes hear unexplained noises and see flashes of things that shouldn’t have been there. She’d told herself it was grief playing tricks on her mind.

Carol, however, thought otherwise—and for that reason, refused to rent or sell the house out from under her dead daughter’s spirit. Of course, this came from a woman who later developed dementia with bouts of psychosis.

“Are you there, Anna?” Holly said into the dark.

No answer, not even a thump.

Great. Now Holly had a new worry to add to her long list of troubles: going crazy, just like her mother.





Chapter 4

Holly




The glaring sun woke Holly with the grace of a bagpipe band. She squeezed her eyes shut, pulling the blanket up over her head. Reminder: Install shades as soon as possible.

Holly was up and at ’em at first light, even though she had only slept a few hours. Still, it was a relief not to hear sirens and horns—sounds of the city—blaring outside her window.

It wasn’t until Holly went downstairs, Chester padding alongside, that she realized her mistake. She hadn’t packed coffee, tea, or any caffeinated beverage. After feeding her cat and calling the exterminator (it had been an animal in the attic, she assured herself), but before dealing with anything as mundane as unpacking or cleaning, Holly made her way toward the boardwalk on foot, wondering whether her favorite coffee shop would still be in business.

She took the beach path, following the shoreline. Through the summer haze, the shops and restaurants were visible in the distance. It was a picture-perfect day—just like that brochure described. Boats of all kinds bobbed across the choppy water. The ocean and sky met at the limit of Holly’s vision, a seamless connection between sea and air. The clouds were sparse, but the seagulls were not.

She paused at the water’s edge, then waded out slowly, rolling up her pant legs as the ocean swallowed her ankles. This was one thing her Brooklyn neighborhood couldn’t provide. The ocean had always been a balm for Holly’s soul. Yet even with the wind and waves, the sounds of children at play, she couldn’t entirely shake a nagging sense of foreboding.

Refreshing as the water was, it was no substitute for caffeine. Holly trudged across the dry sand to a long pier that protruded out into the ocean. At low tide, she and Anna used to explore beneath the pier’s sturdy pilings, careful to avoid any rusty nails sticking out of the wood, while pretending the structure was the remnants of a shipwreck. It was amazing how the smell of the ocean infused into the wood could conjure up such sharp, vivid memories.