Chapter One- version 5/2/22

​

            A blood-curdling scream bounces off the bricks of the historic Jamison Inn. I spin to face the road, hoping my eyes adjust to the unlit street. Raindrops sprinkle on the ground and sting my bare arms. There is nothing. At least nothing that I can see, but that doesn't necessarily mean there is nothing.

            I can't say I wasn't warned. Mrs. Jenkins gave me a stern talking before she left for the night. But honestly, I didn't want to hear about the morbid lore of Jamison Inn; I came to sign papers, and that was it. Of course, the papers weren't ready. Dad can't seem to do anything right, even in death.

            I don't spook easily, but there is something about this fucking building that raises the hair on the back of my neck. It could be the ivy that crawls up the brick or white paint chipping away from the porch. Maybe some of what Mrs. Jenkins said lingers in my brain, but I refuse to allow the thoughts to fester.

            Pulling out my phone, I check the time only to see the dark screen; dead, of course.

            A gust of cool, wet wind presses against me. I move toward my car and hit the unlock button on my fab, which flashes the headlights. The illumination casts its light on a shadow that wisps away as soon as the light hits it. My stomach turns as I rub my eyes and dart to the car. Not today, demons, not today.

            I slam the door as a sense of familiarity and calm settles over me as the smell of my pineapple air freshener hits my nostrils. My car is my home, after all. Well, I guess it might as well be. The box-sized apartment in Chicago is technically where my bed is, but sleep is the only thing I use it for.

            I suppose if someone were to walk in and see the minimalistic furniture and decide to open the refrigerator and see it full of condiments and beer, they would assume a single man lived there, but that is how I like to live. I don't plant roots; I don't need to. I'd rather be moving than solitary. Being in one place too long is a spell for heartbreak and disappointment.

            Plugging my phone in, I wait for the battery to flash on the screen so I know it is charging. But it doesn't.

            "What the fuck…." I mutter.

            Regardless of how many times I plug it in and out and blow into the charging port, the dark screen stares back at me. I take a deep breath and let out a sharp exhale. I'm fucked. How would I get out of here to Chicago without the robotic instructions from the GPS? I depend on my phone for everything.

            "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" I scream, slamming my hands against my steering wheel. Stuck in the middle of nowhere because I lack a sense of direction.

            A flickering of headlights bounces in my rearview mirror. My defense mechanism takes charge as perspiration dampens my skin. City living prepares me for the worst of the worst. I've been mugged once, and it wouldn't happen again.

            The headlights move closer as screeching breaks call through the cool night. Heart racing, I watch the truck roll to a stop mere inches from my bumper. Rain rattles on my windows and blurs my view.

           I can't see for shit.

          A gust of wind shakes my car, creating a high-pitched whistle that rings through my car, a reminder of the woman's scream only moments earlier. Yep, the driver of the truck is the cause for that woman's scream, I conclude.

         Flipping my console open, I rummage through the loose papers and napkins until I feel the cool metal between my fingers. Pepper spray is so tiny, yet so powerful, and a must for a single woman, such as myself. That and a swift kick in the balls will have any bad man crying as he cradles his crotch. A smile curls over my teeth. Whatever this truck brings, I know I can handle it.

            A car door opens, audibly in need of some WD40. Shouldn't the people who live out here have that stuff on hand? I mean, middle of nowhere farm country, they should. Maybe that is presumptuous of me, but I have lived everywhere, including the backcountry.

            Walking toward me, a tall, dark shadow figure of a man darkens my driver's window. My internal pep talk softens to a whisper as I shrink in my seat. Spraying a man with pepper spray and kicking him in the balls is easier thought than done.

This must be a man, I conclude. If it is a woman, she is a tall woman. Not that I haven't seen a tall woman before, but the broad shoulders lead me to believe this frame belongs to a man.

            My heart drops in my stomach when I realize I hadn't locked my doors after I jumped in the car. What the hell is wrong with me?

Not being murdered 101, lock your damn doors.

I click my locks, unafraid if it offends the stranger encroaching in my personal space.

            I narrow my eyes at the figure as he stands there like a damn idiot. What the hell is he doing? Is he trying to scare me? Because if so….it is starting to work. I could start the car and drive off, but with my luck, this psycho would just jump in his truck and run me off the road. My small four-cylinder sedan is no match for the monster of a truck behind me, squeaky doors and all.

            I could be thinking faster than he is moving. I tend to skip ahead to what could happen, then what is actually happening. Maybe he just walked up, and I have had these thoughts bombarding me for mere seconds. He is wearing a hood that shadows his face, the hood is to disguise his murderous face, I assume.

            As my thoughts and fears flood every corner of my mind, he lifts his hood. Well, if he is a murderer, I'm dead. Any true crime fan knows that if a murderer shows his face, you are as good as gone. But I didn't expect to see such a good-looking man behind a shrouded hood. The man's dark hair curls as rain drips from his brow. Maybe it is the sharp jawline, or his nose that is just a little bit too big, or his piercing green eyes that I can see through the clouded window, but there is just something about him.

            And that is how they get you, isn't it? Charming, handsome, psychotic. I reel in my internal longing for attention from a handsome stranger, and I clutch my pepper spray. I am a force to be reckoned with, even when flustered.

            "I have pepper spray!" I scream much too loudly as heat flushes my face.

            He cocks an eyebrow. A perfect eyebrow. Not too thick, not too thin, doesn't meet in the middle like mine do without a proper waxing. A perfect fucking arched eyebrow.

            "Roll your window down," his deep thick honey-like voice calls through the closed window. Fuck. Even his voice is sexy.

            "No," I say, much too quiet now. Always too loud or too quiet. At least, that is what my mom would say.

            He taps on this window with a quick eye roll. "Listen, lady, I don't know where you are from, but I am just trying to help,"

            Lady. What the hell. I just turned thirty and feel old enough as it is. And he looks around the same age as me. And "just trying to help"? What about that scream I heard? What about the way he conveniently rolls up just as I get into my car? I hold up my pepper spray and raise my eyebrows, and he nods in acknowledgment of my wielded weapon.

            "Just roll it down an inch so I can hear you," he says as he softens his eye.

            Right now would be the time to drive off. I could even knock him over with my car as I sped off. Yet logic sets in. I am screwed if I don't find someone to help me. I don't have a block to charge my phone in the Inn, and I don't have a map to find my way home.

            I reluctantly roll down the window a sliver. The scent of sharp aftershave a mint gum corrupts my sense and logic. A handsome man is one thing, a man who smells good, another. He pleases all my senses, and I melt, unconsciously dropping my hands and relaxing my grip on the tiny pink can of pepper spray.

            "Are you Samantha Hendrix?"

            I like the way he says my name; I wouldn't say I like that he knows it. I clasp the pepper spray and hold it to my chest.

            "Who's asking?" I say as I narrow my eyes. He leans over, rests his elbows on my car, and leans into the sliver of the open car window.

            "Martha Jenkin's son," he says.

            That doesn't tell me anything other than he knows Martha Jenkin and that she is the caretaker for Jamison Inn. Anyone in these parts must know that.

            "So, should I just call you Mr. Jenkins or Martha's son? Or did she give you the first name?" I say with a smug smile. The tight muscles of my legs and arms relax as the fear and panic wane. Maybe it is his smile or the smell of peppermint gum, but I believe he is who he says he is. That doesn't mean I won't be difficult.

            "My last name isn't Jenkins."

            "Well, Martha Jenkin's son, what the hell are you doing here?" I point at him accusatory.

            "Just stopping to see if you needed help." He takes a sharp inhale and pushes off the car. "I can leave…."

            Oh no, he can play games too.           

            "Wait, I actually need help," I say, dropping the pepper spray into the passenger seat and lifting my hands.

            He leans back to the window and whispers into the car.

            "Sure, don't act like you need help," he says as he backs away from the car, arching that perfect eyebrow.

            "Like you know what it's like to be a woman, approached by a strange man, in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere…." I say, trying to defend my attitude. I'm desperate. Otherwise, I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of watching me squirm. The glint in his eye tells me he enjoys it.

            "I don't know, that is right, but if you don't want my help, I'll be on my way," he says.

            "No! Wait…" I bend down and pull my phone up to the window. "I, well, fuck… my phone won't charge, and I don't know my way back into the city. Can you direct me to a gas station at least, and I will pick up a map?"

I feel the desperation seeping from my pore and running down my face. He smiles and showcases a perfect row of white teeth. Yep, even his teeth are sexy. How the hell are teeth that mesmerizing?

            "You can't find your way home without your phone?" he says.

            "No," I scrunch my face, waiting for the insults I deserve. I should know my way back home, but I don't.

            He sighs and leans into the window again. I inhale his scent and memorize it.

            "Just head up past Cedar Street and take a left for a few miles. You'll see Henry's. He stays open til' midnight. He'll get you your map." He straightens his stance and pulls his hood back over his head.

            "Thank you, Martha Jenkin's son." I tease with a smile.

            "You are welcome, Samantha Hendrix." He replies with a flick of his hand as he walks back to his truck.

            Lowering my forehead into my hands, I exhale and squeeze my eyes shut. Thank god for Martha Jenkin's son. I have a two-hour drive back home, and without his directions, I might have been lost in the backwoods overnight, only to turn around and head back next weekend to get the paperwork done hopefully.

            Lifting my head, I watch my perfect stranger's truck back up and turn around; his taillights shrink into the night, leaving only the green glow of my dashboard. His scent still lingers—the perfume of pineapple air freshener, rain, and aftershave tingles on my skin.

            I smile, shake my head, and put my keys into the ignition. My heart drops, my gut sinks and tears well in my eyes. Click, click, click…the battery is dead. I know it is the battery because I was told three weeks ago that my battery needed replacing when my neighbor jumped it for me.

But Dad had to go and die and fuck up my whole world. The responsibilities on my to-do list were pushed aside to deal with the mass amounts of debt and property he left to me, his only daughter, whom he never met.

            "Come back, Martha Jenkin's son…." I whisper to myself, pleading with the universe to intervene.

            I try my keys again, and my dashboard lights up for a moment as the keys click in the ignition, taunting me.

"Fuck!" I scream, realizing that blood-curdling scream from earlier might be from a woman in a situation as frustrating as my own.

             Why the fuck didn't I try to start the car before the handsome and mysterious stranger left?

I turn my gaze to Jamison Inn. White shutters rap against the red brick with each gust of rain-carrying wind. The three-story Victorian must have been a beauty in its heyday. It appears Dad didn't spend a single penny on maintenance. Loose bricks lay on the earth around the foundation, slightly leaning to one side. When I met with Mrs. Jenkins, I ventured only as far as the foyer, and though she kept the interior clean, there were glaring issues that needed to be addressed for the home to be functional. Of course, Dad passed on a crumbling old building to his beloved daughter to deal with.

             Pulling my purse from the floorboard, I pull out the skeleton key. If I were into pretty things, I might be more impressed with the grandeur of a single key. The antique key was brass and decorative with curls and etchings. When it was handed to me at the reading of the will, I was dumbfounded, thinking it must be the key to a castle. That was until I checked satellite images of the address the key belonged to.

 

            Well, twelve rooms to myself, in a supposed haunted Inn, in the middle of Iowa. What could go wrong?