right, then. Welcome to The Hollows.”
“Mmmmm, The Hollows,” she says once again, relishing in the words.
“Come on, Murphy,” I say, and start walking towards the truck. He follows, and a few moments later, we pull out of the drive and head towards town.
*
They’ve finally started bringing in the tents on the green for the Halloween celebration. Extra picnic tables have also started appearing for the face-painting, pumpkin-carving classes, and food stalls that will arrive soon. More decorations are going up along Main Street. Orange and black ribbons adorn the gas lamps, and jack-o’-lanterns are popping up in the shop windows. The Hollows does not mess around when it comes to Halloween. It prepares the same way New York might prepare for New Year’s, or Boston for St. Patrick’s Day.
Groundworks is already jumping by the time I get there. Todd and Sheila are in the weeds, trying to keep up with the ever-growing line that is almost to the door. I hop behind the counter and go into machine mode, cranking out drinks left and right. Murphy finds his bed by the register and sinks in. Just his presence soothes some of the nerves of the customers who have been waiting for their lattes, coffees, and cappuccinos.
For the next few hours, it’s turn and burn. I try to stay three steps ahead. Organize, prioritize, move, and above all, smile.
I need this.
The constant movement and concentration send the thoughts of last night and this morning further and further from my mind.
Eight o’clock rolls around.
Sheila flips the sign on the door to state that we’re closed, even though there are still people in the shop. We’ll let them finish their drinks, but no one else can come in. This leads to the nightly ritual of having to turn away some disappointed people. Most accept it and move on. Others plead. Some of them are belligerent. It’s the same every night.
When the last of the customers leave, I tell Shelia and Todd that they can head home. I’ll finish up on my own. I thank them for their hard work, and give them their paychecks. When the franchise deal works out, I’m giving them big, fat bonuses. They don’t know that, yet.
Finally, Murphy and I have the store to ourselves. I sweep and mop the floor, restock the stations, and wipe down the machines. I take the garbage to the dumpster in the parking lot out back. Once all the grunt work is done, Murphy and I go to the office. I slip into the swivel chair at the cluttered desk. I bring up the accounting software and get ready for the tedium of running the reports and processing all the credit card—
“—payments?”
“Yeah, Reggie. I got the payments,” I said, taking the envelope out of my jacket and handing it to him.
He painstakingly started to count it by the headlights of his Dodge Challenger, seemingly oblivious to the fact that if a cop drove by, he’d ask what we were doing parked on the side of the road in the woods, counting a stack of money.
“It’s all there, Reggie.”
He glared down the cigarette that was clamped in his lips at me. “Why the fuck would I trust you?”
I decided to keep my mouth shut.
As he hunched over the hood to count the cash, I caught a glimpse of the grip of the massive gun he had tucked into the waistband of his jeans, hidden under his jacket.
He finished counting.
“We happy?” I asked.
“Yeah, we happy.”
He shuffled the large stack of bills, and hit them on the hood of the car to line them up with a tap, tap—
—tap.
The tap on the shop window startles me.
Murphy barks.
I walk out of the office and into the restaurant to see a young couple standing at the door.
“Are you open?” the girl asks in exaggerated tones, as if the glass is soundproof. She also apparently can’t read the sign, or notice the fact that no one is in here.
Still, gotta keep that smile.
“Sorry. We’re closed,” I say.
They move on.
I hit the lights to make sure anyone else who can’t read knows that we’re closed.
*
When I arrive home, the lights are on in the cottage. From the porch, I can see into the living room. Linda Sherman is talking on her phone. Franklin is sitting on the couch, watching TV. I have a feeling this is reminiscent of a lot of their nights at home.
Maybe I should go down there, play the cheerful host, and see how their day went …
Nah. It’s been a long day. I’m going to bed.
*
I wake up early, shower, and brew some coffee. I look out the kitchen window and see the Shermans are packing up the car. I’ll go ask them about their stay and wish them safe travels.
I step onto the porch. Murphy’s right there beside me. I walk past the truck and make another mental note about fixing that stupid taillight.
Linda sees me, waves, and starts walking towards me. She’s excited. Even from this distance, I see Franklin roll his eyes and begin to follow. The walking takes a little bit of effort for her, so I go to meet her halfway. She must be really excited, because her limp is less pronounced than yesterday.
“Good morning!” she calls.
“Good morning, Mrs Sherman. How was your stay?”
“Wonderful! Such a perfect little town.”
“Did you do some exploring?”
“We sure did. We saw so many old houses, and we stopped by the ‘Hanging Tree’ in the church cemetery. So creepy.”
“Great,” I say because apparently “creepy” is good.
Why is she looking at me so strangely? Like we have some sort of inside joke?
I glance over to Franklin. He looks tired and, if I’m not mistaken, apologetic. She’s still waiting.
“Well, how does our little town compare to Salem?” I ask. “Did you see any ghosts?”
“Not in town,” she replies with a wink, and waits.
“I … I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“I said not in town.”
“So … you’re saying you did see a ghost?”
She nods, downright giddy, but says nothing.
“I’m
