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

A bell on a door jingled behind her, and Sarah turned around to find a small man, bundled up in a jacket that looked far too big on him, stepping out of the tax accountant’s office.

He kept his back turned toward her as he locked up, and when he turned around and spotted Sarah, he froze.

The man was old, his face shriveled up like a raisin. A pair of thin-framed, round glasses magnified his eyeballs beyond their normal size. He blinked twice and then pocketed his keys.

“Who are you?” His tone held more accusation than curiosity.

“A new neighbor,” Sarah answered, throwing the same indignant tone back at him. “Who are you?”

Raisin Face threw his hands in the air, shaking his head as he walked away. He waddled toward a rusted Cadillac El Dorado and struggled with opening the door. He put one leg inside and then stopped, looking at Sarah through those thick lenses. “I find anything broken tomorrow morning, I’ll know who to tell the authorities did it, understand?” He lowered himself into his driver seat and slammed the door shut.

The El Dorado squealed when it started, and its dirty headlights flashed Sarah as the old man backed out of the parking spot and headed toward the highway, giving her a dirty look as he passed.

“Don’t mind him.”

Sarah jumped, spinning around to find a man standing behind her.

“Old man Dunst doesn’t like anything that he can’t enter into a spreadsheet.” He smiled warmly, hands in the pockets of his jeans as he walked toward her. His hair was grey and peppered with spots of white, which gave the impression of old age, but the face that was underneath was smooth and taut. A few wrinkles appeared at the corners of his mouth and eyes. He was tall with broad shoulders, and he wore a long-sleeved black-and-red flannel shirt that was open and untucked, showing a white T-shirt underneath.

“Good to know,” Sarah said, taking a few steps back to keep a comfortable distance between herself and the newcomer as he moved closer.

“Pat.” He removed his right hand from his pocket and extended it, but when Sarah didn’t take it, he returned it. “I don’t have any ID on me, but, uh…” He gestured across the street.

Sarah glanced to the other buildings across the street, finding a larger building with the name “Pat’s Tavern” painted above the door in bold white letters.

“Best watering hole in town,” Pat said.

“Not much competition,” Sarah said.

Pat laughed. “No, there isn’t. You the new help up at the Bell house?”

“I wouldn’t necessarily call it a house,” Sarah answered, glancing past Pat and toward the five-story structure.

“Well, I was just about to head over and open up if you’d like to have a drink. I don’t mean to brag, but I happen to be in cahoots with the owner. Could probably get you something on the house.” He added an exaggerated wink.

“Are you always this awkward, or is it just when you’re meeting new people?”

“Always,” Pat answered. “But after a while, people just stop noticing it as much. Like a mole they found on their back three years ago that just keeps growing.”

Sarah laughed, relaxing a bit as she lowered her guard. It had been a while since she could afford a drink, and she wasn’t about to turn down a free one. She nodded and then followed Pat across the road and into his tavern.

He flicked the lights on, illuminating an open space lined with square tables and chairs, a jukebox at the far end radiating neon yellows, pinks, and blues.

While Sarah examined the décor, Pat rolled up his sleeves and stepped behind the bar. “So, what’ll you have?”

“Whiskey,” Sarah answered, her eyes locked on the variety of hunting trophies along the wall. Most of them were deer, but Sarah stopped on a massive grizzly bear head.

The bear’s mouth was open, the long, yellowed teeth exposed and sharp as daggers. Judging from the head’s size, the grizzly must have been huge. The head was half the size of Sarah.

“Stood ten feet tall,” Pat said. “The paws on the bear were as wide as my chest.” He dropped some ice into a glass and then poured in a generous amount of whiskey. “Took three men to carry it back.”

“It was killed in the woods around here?” Sarah asked, turning around.

“Yes, ma’am.” Pat placed a square white napkin on the bar as a coaster for the glass. “We tried to get those Guinness World Record folks to come and look at it, but I never got a response. I read somewhere once about a polar bear around the same size, and it was marked as the biggest bear ever recorded.” He shook his head. “Shame we couldn’t get them to come up here. Might have been able to get some traffic coming into town.”

Sarah sat down on the stool closest to the drink. “You guys look like you could have used it.”

Pat’s face slackened, his expression grave. “Been slow lately.”

Sarah took a sip of her drink. The liquor flooded her veins, warming her cheeks and nose, which turned a light shade of red.

“Why not move?” Sarah asked. “Sell the bar?”

Pat smiled, and reached for a dirty glass that he wiped down with a rag. “It didn’t always use to be like this here. Once upon a time this town was a beacon for anyone wanting to make a fortune.” He gestured to the stuffed bear. “Bell was founded by a trapper over one hundred and fifty years ago. Back then the forests were overflowing with game. Deer, bears, beavers, if it crawled in the forest, we had it. Allister Bell recognized that and bought up every acre of land he could afford, and some he couldn’t. And anyone that wanted to hunt, or fish, or live on this land had to pay for it.”

“So what happened?” Sarah asked.

“A lot of things,” Pat answered. “But the nail in the coffin