Dark Hollows

LAURA AISLING

The dread of last night comes crashing back, tenfold. My mind was not playing tricks on me. It wasn’t a coincidence.

That wasn’t Laura Aisling. It can’t be, because Laura Aisling is dead, and I thought I was the only one who knew that.

So this means someone knows my secret.

Chapter 2 (#uc998425c-763a-51a1-9b41-6aaf72a162cf)

“Yes, I know the account was deleted this morning. I’m trying to figure out who she was.”

“I don’t understand. Was there a problem with her payment?”

“No. That’s not—”

“Was there damage to your property?”

“No.”

“Then, I don’t see the—”

“You said the account was created two months ago. She made one reservation request. My place. Right?”

“Let me see … Yes. That appears to be correct.”

“And then, when she left my place this morning, she deleted the account?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m saying that I’m trying to figure out who the hell Rebecca Lowden really was. I’ve tried online searches, and I can’t find anything about her. Nothing on Facebook or LinkedIn, nothing on Google. It’s like she never existed.”

“Sir, at Be Our Guest, we strongly discourage any attempt to contact a guest outside of your transaction on our site. Besides, I’m still not seeing the problem. It is unusual, but I don’t see anything to be concerned about. I’m sorry that you might not get the review, but your property is one of our most popular spots. I can see that you’ve already had two reservation requests yesterday for December.”

“That’s not the point.”

This has been my entire morning. I immediately tried to find out who Rebecca Lowden was on my own so that I wouldn’t have to contact Be Our Guest and I could avoid these questions, but my search came up empty. So here I am, arguing on the phone with a rep from Be Our Guest.

“I’m still trying to understand this,” the representative continues. “You’re saying that there was no damage to your property?”

“No, dammit. I told you that already—”

“Did you try contacting her through her contact info?”

“Yes. The number is disconnected, and I’m not crossing my fingers on the email I sent.”

“Okay. Yes, I admit, that’s odd.”

“Do you?” I reply with maximum snark. “Do you admit that?”

“Sir—”

“Look, she deleted the account, but you guys still have her information, right? You have a copy of her driver’s license?” I know they do. Owners and renters alike have to submit to a background check when they sign up. I had to email a scanned copy of my license to set up my account. So did she.

“Yes.”

“Do you have it pulled up, right now?”

“Sir, I’m not going to give you any information from her—”

“I don’t want you to, but do me a favor and do a search for the address on her driver’s license. I want to know if the address is real.”

“Mr Reese, that would be highly irregular.”

“I’m not asking you to tell me where she lives. Just tell me if it’s a real address. If it is, I’ll hang up, and you and I can go about our day.”

He sighs. “One moment …”

I hear the clicking of his keyboard through the phone. It stops, as does his breath.

“You still with me?” I ask.

“Well … yes, there does seem to be an issue with the address.”

“Where did it put you; the middle of the ocean?”

“It might just be a problem with the—”

I shake my head. “It’s gotta be a fake ID.”

“Well, that is a possibility. I’ll be sure to make a note of it in the—”

“Let me ask you something: just how thorough are those background checks you do over there at Be Our Guest? I know they cost money. You guys cutting corners?”

“Mr Reese,” he answers with a new note of concern in his voice, “I’ll pass this along to my supervisor, and they’ll get back to you once we’ve resolved the issue.”

“Like you said, the account’s deleted, so there’s nothing you can really resolve, but sure, you let me know.”

I hang up the phone.

Whoever Rebecca Lowden is or was, she went to great lengths to mess with me, and I want to know why.

*

There’s another couple checking in this afternoon. I’ve got a few hours until they arrive, and since she didn’t touch anything, the cottage is ready to go. I rip the pages out of the guestbook, and burn them in the fire pit, destroying the only tangible evidence I have of her existence.

I need to think. I need a trip to The Sanctuary.

Behind the cottage is a path leading into the woods. About half a mile in, over some ridges and across a stream, is a dense area of pine trees. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why it’s there. When I first came across it while scouting the property, I thought it might be a man-made pine farm that had been forgotten, but the trees aren’t in rows. It’s just a fluke, I guess.