The Guest House Hauntings Boxset Hazel Holmes (easy novels to read TXT) 📖

hairs on her arms stood up, and little pins pricked the base of her skull, triggering a tingling sensation down her spine. She tried to avert her gaze, but she couldn’t.

The darkness in the closet crawled forward, spreading into the room. Maggie retreated, watching it cover the floor, the bed, the dresser, moving closer to her. She shuddered when her back pressed against the window.

Maggie shut her eyes, fists clenched, as a numbing cold soaked through her clothes and into her skin. Her heart rate slowed, and the blood in her veins transformed into a thick slush like the dirty ice found on the side of the road a few days after a snow storm.

It spread to her fingers and toes, her skin turning a light shade of blue as her nails frosted over. It numbed her tongue, silencing her screams of pain as it crept into her brain and shoved her consciousness into the corner of her own mind. She watched helplessly as it took control of her body and turned her to face the window.

Unprovoked, Maggie unlocked the window’s latch, pushed it open. She placed her palms against the windowsill and climbed on top of it. She pushed herself up and onto the window’s ledge, her toes dangling over the side. She stared into the quiet night of the sky, but never looked down.

Maggie closed her eyes and smiled as a falsetto voice whispered, “You’re one step away. One step from the freedom you seek.”

“Yes,” Maggie whispered to herself. “I want to be free.”

The cold that consumed her awoke memories of summers during high school, the wild nights with friends, boys, and the thrill of adventure. The cold connected those thoughts with the idea of falling, and the nostalgia offered the final push over the edge.

Maggie leaned forward, falling slowly at first, still smiling. But past the point of no return, she opened her eyes, the smile gone as the ground rushed at her. She screamed, the bloodcurdling elation of fear reaching a crescendo that ended with the heavy splat of her body against the concrete.

58

The inside of the semi truck’s cab was littered with fast-food wrappers and crushed beer cans. Any time Sarah moved her feet, the trash would shuffle and draw the attention of the truck driver who had picked her up outside of Springfield, Massachusetts. She didn’t like his stare. She’d seen it all her life from men like him.

It was the dead gaze of hunger, a longing to satisfy his sexual appetite by way of the cute little blonde. But despite the driver’s hungry eyes, he didn’t touch her. And for a girl in her position, it was the best that she could have hoped for.

Sarah had dressed for the cold, but her wardrobe was limited. She wore a grey beanie that concealed most of her short blond hair, and a matching colored scarf that swallowed her neck. Jeans, boots, and a thick Carhartt jacket that was two sizes too big rounded out the rest of her attire. She rarely found clothes that fit, her petite frame always swallowed up in even the smallest sizes.

The rest of her belongings were zipped up in her backpack, which she kept on her lap, both arms wrapped around it. When you barely had anything left, you made sure to keep it close.

The cab’s windows were dirty and frosted over from the cold, which offered her blue eyes a distorted view of the scenic country roads. Fall was nearly done, and those colorful leaves that so many flocked to watch change in the northern parts of Maine had fallen and turned black along the roadside as the country teetered on the cusp of winter.

However, Sarah hadn’t come all this way for the changing seasons. It wasn’t a luxury she could afford even if she wanted too. All she wanted was to keep moving, but when the truck started to slow down, she knew that she was running out of space.

The inside of the cab rumbled as the driver pulled off the road, and then the brakes on the eighteen-wheeler squealed all the way to a stop.

“Well, here ya go.” The trucker grunted as he shifted the big stick into neutral. His stomach pressed against the steering wheel even when he was leaned all the way back. He gestured to the welcome sign outside of Bell, Maine. Population: one hundred twelve. “This is the last stop before the Canadian border.”

Sarah leaned her face closer to the window until she felt the chill coming off the glass. She didn’t want to stop here. But with no passport, this was the end of the line.

“Do you have family here? Someone that you can stay with?” The trucker scratched his beard and then pushed his baseball cap higher on his head, exposing his receding hairline. He squinted at Sarah’s silence. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Thanks for the ride.” Sarah opened the door, slid off the seat, and landed onto the asphalt. She heaved the door closed without a goodbye, slid her arms through the straps of her backpack, and skirted the shoulder of the two-lane road into town.

The semi lingered for a moment, and Sarah was afraid that the trucker might try and follow her, but she exhaled with relief when the big diesel drove off.

It wasn’t until the noise of the truck’s engine disappeared that she finally turned around, finding the road empty save for the scattered leaves that had been flattened into the asphalt.

Sarah adjusted her pack and then stared at her boots. The leaves beneath her feet were so dead they’d lost their crunch. Winter had already started its purge of life. One of the many reasons she hated the cold.

Sarah wiped her nose, which burned red from the cold and constant run of phlegm. Matching red marks appeared on her cheeks, striking in contrast with her pale skin.

She tugged at her left sleeve and stared down at her hand. The cold, dry air had