Mania (Fever Dreams Collection #1)

3. Maeve

Chapter 3

Maeve

I return inside the hotel not long after.

Standing in the middle of my room, I stare at nothing, lost in thought.

It’s a small space, just big enough for a queen-sized bed near the French balcony doors, the faded varnish of the bed frame matching the armoire near the bathroom. Something about the decor feels outdated, the wallpaper dull and lifeless.

Even with the balcony doors open, there’s barely a breeze. The metal fan drones loudly in the corner of the room; the hotel doesn’t offer air-conditioning. I’m not used to this kind of heat, it prickles uncomfortably on my skin, even this early in the day.

I haven’t moved, still holding the room key in my hands. I can’t shake my weariness. I feel turned around, unable to process even the simplest of actions.

There’s a rap at the door, and I jump at the sound.

“Housekeeping!”

I swallow hard, my heart drumming at a much faster rate than it should as my anxiety settles into my body like an unwelcome guest.

“I’m okay for today, thank you,” I rasp, my feet glued to the floor.

I listen to the receding footsteps, the same sing-song of Housekeeping! echoing somewhere down the hall.

My gaze lands back on the bed, unfocused and adrift. My mind unwittingly pulls me back to the graveyard and the memories attached to it. They call to me like the voice of someone drowning, dragged by the wind and sea.

I finally decide on a cold shower.

The lobby is the loftiest space in the hotel with its high ceilings and large open space for guests to sit. The furniture is outdated even here, and it gives me the vague sense that I’ve somehow time-traveled to decades past.

Walking up to the reception, I wait for an employee to appear, drumming my fingers on the wood of the desk; after a minute of idling, I grow impatient and ring the service bell.

I wait some more.

I move to ring the bell again when I hear a voice behind me.

“In need of assistance, Miss Fortune?”

My nerves are still so fragile that my heart jumps into my throat as I swivel around to find the same man from the graveyard peering down at me, brown eyes slightly narrowed.

“Oh! I’m sorry …” I stutter out, “Do you work here?”

I had assumed earlier that he was just a guest like me.

He nods once, tilting his head slightly to the side as he does so.

I shift on my feet, rubbing my hand over my nape before speaking again. “I asked the waitress earlier if there were any jobs available in town and she told me to ask for Mr. Ambrose at the reception desk. Do you know where to find him?”

His face stays impassive, a small smattering of freckles across his nose, as he continues to study me.

Unease begins to spread under my skin, and I’m about to bolt when he finally speaks. It’s slow and methodical. “Let’s have a seat.” His hand sweeps to the side, pointing to two chairs near the fireplace.

It takes me the time to sit down to realize who I’m speaking to.

“You’re Mr. Ambrose?” My voice is weak, feeling like an idiot for even asking.

“I own this hotel, yes,” he says, his gaze perusing me curiously once again.

“Oh.” My throat goes dry, unable to calm my nerves. I don’t know what I was expecting. Certainly not someone as young as him. He must be in his early thirties. Then, my mind snags on a detail. “You know my name.”

His pale brows dip.

I clamber to explain. “I just mean that you didn’t seem to know I was a guest earlier when we spoke outside.”

His expression grows more confused. “Outside?”

My chest constricts. Wariness pinpricks across my nape.

“Earlier this morning?” I press, “In the graveyard?”

His expression shutters, but he quickly looks away. He hums, tapping his ringed index finger on the armchair before finally focusing back on me.

“Night receptionist.”

“What?” I mutter, feeling slightly whiplashed.

His lips thin as if annoyed.

“You said you were looking for employment, correct? ”

“Right,” I quickly answer, shifting in my seat, the leather cushion sticking to the backs of my thighs. “Yes, I am.”

A hotel staff member appears with a pitcher of sweet tea and pours us two glasses. The ice cubes rattle in liquid while Mr. Ambrose continues to fix me with his gaze.

Leave.

The voice is cold like a shiver down my spine. I can’t discern if it’s my common sense beckoning me … or something else. But there’s another voice, a whisper, just as clear.

Stay. Stay. Stay.

“Well?”

My gaze snaps back to Mr. Ambrose. My mind lags, slow and thick like trying to run through mud, until I realize he’s waiting for an answer.

“Night receptionist,” I repeat. “I can do that.”

“Great,” he says, running a hand through his pale blond hair. “When can you start?”

I quickly consider my options and decide that staying occupied might be the best course of action if I want to keep the haunting memories at bay.

“Tonight?”

“Very well then,” he responds as he stands up. “Your shift begins at midnight.”

He leaves the sitting area with barely another glance my way, the sweet tea untouched and sweating on the table between us.