Headlights(82)

Beyond the flower arrangement is a front checkin desk, the same green wallpaper and dark wood, and to our left a witchy-looking girl manning a séance table. Fireplaces on both sides of the lobby glow, guests and shadows huddled near them in leather chairs.

There are mirrors everywhere. On either side of the lobby, facing in toward each other. Behind and surrounding the stairwell. On every wall. I take a breath, keep my focus.

Hannah Lawrence next to me. Mirrors all around. Every muscle in my body tense.

The guy at the front desk lifts his head as we approach. “Cold out there, huh?” he asks.

Hannah looks around, might be considering running. But where? Where could she possibly run from me now that I know?

Nowhere. Never again. I have no idea what happens next, but I know that whatever it is, this ends here. One way or another.

Hannah Lawrence, who tricked me. Who somehow knew about the Happy Inn, who somehow … coerced all the killers? Why not? Didn’t she fucking easily manipulate me? Didn’t she fool me completely? Still, or because of it … I step closer to her. She steps back, and I stay tuned in to her every movement.

“Do you have any rooms available?” I ask the man at the front desk. His eyes trail down to my bloody napkin-covered hand, then back up, flick to Hannah and her nose plug.

“Without a reservation?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Hannah shifts, and I tell myself not to look directly at her, even as every part of me is focused on her. And hasn’t it been this whole time? Haven’t I known on some level that I have been obsessed with her, caught in her snare from the moment I first heard her name? Told myself some fantasy that she and I were wrapped up in— “Ohhhhh, shoot. Well … lemme just see here.” He winces, makes a big show of widening his eyes and then lowering his brows in concentration, looking at a sheet of paper. “Wi-Fi’s down. Been this way for a few hours, gotta consult this sheet. But this is peak season, ya know. Well, one of ’em. I mean, we’re really a year-round establishment, but we’re really booked up here, I’m just not sure…”

“We’ll take whatever you have,” I say.

I see Hannah flinch at this. Hannah, who has the gall to act like she doesn’t trust me. To act like I am the untrustworthy one when she has been— “Gee, guys, I’m really sorry. It looks like we don’t—”

“Excuse me?” A tense voice, behind us. I turn, prepare myself to grab Hannah if I have to, if she bolts anywhere. That feeling when Tillman stood over her, the rage I felt at anyone laying hands on her, touching her, the way I wanted to protect her. Tillman, who had her apprehended. I freed a suspect, one who actually deserved to be in custody. Fuck.

But the girl who spoke behind us, one half of a young couple. She looks terrified. “Hi,” she says, pushing ahead of us. “We’re checking out early.”

“Oh, was everything all right with your stay?” the man who’s been helping us asks.

“You know, he wanted to do this whole haunted room thing,” she says, pointing at her boyfriend. “And look, I love Stephen King. I do. I love the book AND the movie! AND the miniseries! I love ’em! But that room … that’s not … and all the people coming up and taking photos with our door while we’re just trapped inside with this, like, ghost. We just—we have to go.”

I glance around, understanding dawning. This is that hotel. The one Stephen King stayed in and got the idea for a book. Of course it fucking is. I knew that it was somewhere in Colorado. I tense further, ignore the shadow that brushes by behind us, Hannah stiffening as it passes. Once again, these pieces of my life laid out in front of me. John Denver Sanctuary in Aspen, the motel.

But Hannah couldn’t have meant for us to come here, could she? I was the one driving, she hasn’t said a word since just outside of Yampa. Father Sky certainly didn’t have a hand in us driving here specifically. No, I think this one was all me. And my dumb fucking luck.

The woman drops the key to the counter, and her boyfriend shrugs in an embarrassed apology. But he looks a little shaken up too. Hannah takes half a step away from me, and I move closer to her. She adjusts her nose plug, puts her hand up over her mouth and nose, again that look as if she’s in pain.

She doesn’t get to do that anymore. I won’t feel sorry for her. Not now.

How much of this is an act? Everything, maybe. All of it. And me, so fucking stupid.

“Well,” the bellman says, “looks like it’s your lucky day! This never happens! Wow, when I tell you this room is booked up months, sometimes years, in advance! If I could just write down some of your info—”

“I left my ID at home, could I maybe just pay cash? Sorry, been a rough day.”

He watches us a moment, takes us in. “Sometimes these rooms have a way of picking the right guests. Certainly was true one time in 217.” He winks. “I think in this instance, we can make it work.”

I write down a fake name, address, and email. Hand over the cash.

“What’s up with all the mirrors?” I ask.

“Oh. You should really take one of our tours, there’s so much to learn! F.O. Stanley’s wife, Flora, she was very interested in the paranormal, hosted séances here, collected special items. She believed that by placing mirrors facing each other, she could create portals into other realms. So this whole place very well might be just that! A kind of portal!”