Mania (Fever Dreams Collection #1)

2. Maeve

Chapter 2

Maeve

The coffee has gone cold.

I’ve only taken a few sips since the waitress brought me a fresh cup over an hour ago.

It was stale even then.

I stare at the lipstick stain I left on the porcelain rim.

Fiddle with the napkin on the table.

The hotel restaurant is quiet this morning— quieter. I’ve only seen a handful of guests since I checked into this place.

I left my life behind and chose as far away as possible to relocate. I packed up the 1977 El Camino my father left me in his will and hit the road. Taking my finger to the old map of the United States I found lodged behind a box of tissues in the glove box, fate guiding me to the middle of nowhere.

I filled up the gas tank and headed east.

After driving for twenty hours straight with barely any stops, I stumbled upon the Ambrose Hotel on the northern edge of a small city I had never heard of. The weathered hotel sign appeared like a mirage on the side of the road, compelling me to stop and finally rest.

So I did.

The six-story building was no grandiose architectural feat, but quaint enough that it made me want to stay the night. That was three days ago.

I peer out of the restaurant window, my fingers curling around the cup of coffee just to have something to hold. My eyes linger on the small dilapidated church a few yards away, tucked into the dense forest surrounding it. I can’t see much of it from this angle, but there is a graveyard attached to it. My skin breaks out in goosebumps.

When I woke up this morning, I was almost able to convince myself that last night was all a dream … except for the dirt under my nails. I scrubbed them clean with a bar of soap, hunched over the small bathroom sink while my stomach churned at the distressing memories.

How did I get there?

Did I sleepwalk?

The questions ran cold in my veins.

“Need a refill, honey?”

I startle, the cup clinking against the saucer as I swivel my head back to peer up at the waitress. She has one hand on her hip, the coffee pot in the other as she waits for me to answer. I have no intention of drinking any more coffee, but something about saying no feels rude. I smile, it’s weak at best, and nod.

“Would you happen to know of any job vacancies in town?” I ask while she pours the coffee. I know I can live off my savings for a few weeks, or maybe even a month if I’m careful, but eventually my small nest egg will run out.

She hums as if thinking before straightening up. “Mr. Ambrose might have something for you,” she says with a smile.

“Ambrose?” I reply. “Like the hotel?”

“The one and only, dear. Ask for him at the front desk, I’m sure he’s around. ”

I thank her, and she walks away. Staring at the swinging doors through which she disappeared, I consider returning to my room.

To hide.

A chill comes over me, and my attention falls back on the church and half-hidden graveyard.

I let the coffee grow cold again instead.

The sound of cicadas seems to intensify the closer I get to the churchyard. It’s late summer, the weather sticky and humid, the heat sinking into my skin. Sweat rolls down my back under my tank top, and a few strands of hair loose from my bun stick to the back of my neck. The gravel crunches under my feet as I walk the small path leading to the graveyard.

I can’t shake this feeling.

I need to see it for myself. A reminder that last night did happen.

My chest constricts when I round the corner of the church, and the rows of tombstones appear, guarded by a busted old wooden fence.

The sensation of being buried alive returns, still so fresh in my mind. Every molecule in my body seems to remember how it felt to wake up entombed.

It only takes a few steps into the rows of tombstones for the dread lingering heavy in my stomach to travel up my throat and turn into bile.

The singing cicadas grow louder as my breathing shallows.

I turn on the spot, looking around me and across the graveyard, my rising anxiety making my eyesight tremble as I squint from the blinding late morning sun.

How is this possible?

I stop in my tracks when I catch a golden glint from the corner of my eyes. Swiveling around to face it, I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down.

I narrow my eyes.

My heart sinks.

It’s a bell.

On a tombstone near the end of the graveyard.

The one closest to the forest.

I stalk toward it in hurried steps but slow down when I get close, an unnameable fear now coiling itself around me.

Fighting against my apprehensions, I crouch down and read the inscription on the stone.

Eloise Bellechance. Beloved daughter. 1825-1845.

“You’re trespassing.”

I yelp, springing up to stand.

A man watches me from a few steps away, standing near the back of the church. Pale blond hair combed neatly to the side and dressed casually in a white t-shirt and black trousers.

The loud chirp of the cicadas must have covered the sound of his approaching steps.

“I — uh — I’m a guest here,” I answer as a way of explaining my presence.

His brown eyes stay pinned to me as he takes a drag of his cigarette. “Haven’t had a new guest in quite some time,” he remarks.

I wring my hands. The silence lingers.

I clear my throat. “Been here long?” I ask, not sure what else to say.

His gaze slides toward the forest, the branches and leaves swaying in the weak summer breeze. He takes another drag of his cigarette before his attention returns to me. “Far too long.” He pitches his cigarette butt to the ground with his thumb and index finger before crushing it under the toe of his saddle shoe. “You shouldn’t linger here,” he mutters.

Turning around, he disappears around the corner of the abandoned church before I have the chance to ask him if he meant the graveyard or the hotel.