Gridlocked Guesthouse (Locked House Hauntings Book 1) Read online

  "I can't find a..." She couldn't find the word. Plug. No, that was the pronged cord part. The... inserty thing. The... frightened face on the wall. Wallface. "Um." She tried to come up with the word. Face plate? No, the...

  "You need an outlet?" Tiffany held back an obvious laugh. "Okay, did you try right behind you on the counter?"

  Turning red, Beth fumbled behind her and set the crockpot back where it started. She slowly plugged it in, hoping her skin would relax before she had to turn around. Beth just couldn't get it together at a party. She took too long, and Tiffany started talking again.

  "You ever been to one of these before?" Tiffany said, glancing up at Beth before carefully pouring another glass of punch. She was almost done and hadn't spilled a drop yet.

  Beth felt like an idiot. "Done what?"

  "A murder weekend," Tiffany said. "Didn't Rachel tell you what we were doing?" There was a solid hint of confusion in her tone.

  "I... yes, I mean, the party. Yes. I thought you meant plug in a crockpot." And once she said it, she was sure she sounded like an idiot. "I mean, I thought you said, have you ever done that before, plugged in a crockpot. I just thought you were making fun of me. I..." Her words were breathless and Tiffany let out a sudden roar of laughter.

  "You are hilariously nervous." She pointed the ladle at her. "That's gonna make for a mighty fun weekend. You're definitely getting two cups of this." She handed the girl a full glass of champagne punch and Beth sipped it immediately, trying to hide her second round of flushing.

  Rachel clapped her hands brightly together. "Let's go liquor up the men." She grabbed a tray from Tiffany, and the girl followed behind her with a second tray. Beth carried nothing but her own cup as she timidly walked back to the room. Before she stepped into the safe room, she caught a glimpse of the twins hanging and dangling. She turned her head quickly and looked at the chandelier. Nothing there. Damn nerves.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "So what's with Tiffany? I thought she was dating John still, but it seems like she's giving him the cold shoulder." Beezer stared at the skinny blond chick while she handed out glasses of punch. Her perfect smooth stomach was shown off by her tight little crop top.

  "Why the hell do you think I'd know?" Mike said, "I'm not an expert in who Tiffany is currently dating. Besides, do you really think she'd wanna date John and then date you John?"

  "I'll have her screaming 'Beezer' before she remembers John is my first name." Both men let out a quiet chuckle before they looked up and Tiffany was standing awkwardly close, holding out two glasses of punch.

  "I wouldn't scream 'Beezer' even if you paid me."

  She was grinning comically before Beezer retorted, "I bet that wouldn't be the first time you were paid."

  She shoved him roughly as she walked past, his drink sloshing onto his jeans. "Bitch, can't you take a joke?"

  She didn't reply, but her hips seemed to swing smugly. I hate to say it, but Beezer would not be getting laid any time soon. A few moments later, Rachel clapped her hands together like she normally did when she wanted to be the center of attention.

  It was time to start dinner. There were exactly ten chairs at the dining room table, so the twins Mikaela and Zane stood and ate their pulled pork sandwiches loitering around the table like a couple of idiots, if you ask me.

  You might be thinking to yourself, but there are thirteen of them! And yes, that would be accurate. But the two lovebirds, Lucy and Rafael, shared a seat as though they literally couldn't be disconnected.

  Dinner was quiet and serious, but there was no pronouncement or murders, despite everyone's expectation that one of them would drop dead any minute.

  Wasn't that how these types of murder weekends go? Thirteen come in alive, and only one survives if you can't solve the mystery fast enough.

  Either way, that wasn't how this weekend was set to go. Beezer said, "Anyone else shocked Rachel isn't talking?"

  The group let out a chuckle but then went back to the silence. There was something about the guesthouse that made everyone feel a bit timid to talk. Maybe the ominous stories of the deaths of the Jamison family. Maybe it was just that this particular group wasn't particularly friendly yet. Beth, for one, had gotten too nervous to continue to try to talk, simply staring at the other guests eating nervously and wondering if they were watching her.

  They all waited, in their odd, quiet murmurs, whispering funny thoughts to one another until Rachel finally started clearing the table. Lucy jumped up to help and soon most of the ladies were lifting plates from the men as if it was their lot in life to clean tables while men spout about how much better they are. Beezer even had the gall to push his plate forward into the table, forcing Lucy to positively beg him to hand it to her. Some people might not be so offended by such a slight, but I certainly noticed it.

  I pay better attention than most, which was why I decided to write down what happened those two long nights at the guesthouse. Without my words, you'd only have heard what the papers said and most certainly they have gotten it all wrong.

  Sometimes I think that reporters try to dry out the story and wring from it all interesting details and truth. It might not seem important that the ladies did the cleaning and the men did the sitting on their asses, but I assure you, it set the tone for me for the night.

  Ricky and Rachel stood and clapped their hands in excitement. Ricky was almost as excited as Rachel, which might seem like a feat to you, and it truly was. Two very enthusiastic young leaders of the group started the process of setting the candles around the table.

  Beezer made owl noises and a few fake screams before Mike finally smacked him in the chest and told him to knock it off. Jenny put her two adorable little goats on the table and they both stood there bleating uncomfortably. Surely they didn't understand why they'd be standing on a dining room table full of candles any more than the rest of us understood it.

  Lucy sat herself back with her boyfriend. Zane begged Beth to let him sit with her, and Beth nervously agreed. He took the entire seat, picking up the girl and setting her on his lap. She was pink as a tomato for the entire séance. I'm not sure if she'd ever sat on a man that long before.

  Mikaela managed to squeeze in with Tiffany. Rachael sat at the foot of the table, as expected, with Ricky at the head. All eyes were on him as he lifted a glass into the air. At some point whilst clearing, the ladies managed to fill everyone's glasses with yet another round of booze. As if they needed more.

  And so it began. The haunting.

  "Everyone lift your glasses and recite with me. We will find out what happened with the Jamisons, so help me God."

  Everyone did as told and repeated in unison, "We will find out what happened to the Jamisons, so help me God."

  As if God was here.

  "We shall find out the truth or die trying."

  And again, like little robots, they repeated, "We shall find out the truth or die trying."

  If you note my disdain for the whole affair, you are, in fact, correct. I think talking in unison makes people weak and unwilling to think for themselves. It's a horrid practice and you should pay close attention; unison talking is the devil's work because despite what I said about God earlier, I do believe the devil pays attention to this place.

  And with that, they began, lighting candles (in unison--they really brought this upon themselves) and all closed their eyes and held hands.

  Rachel let out a very long and drawn out orgasmic yell, and Beezer and at least Ben and perhaps even Mike seemed to smirk at it. I don't think she meant it to sound so sexual, but there it was; she moaned in a very sexual way. Beth, still sitting on Zane, seemed absolutely beside herself with embarrassment but kept her eyes shut tight.

  There was a loud, horrendous thudding noise and all ten sets of eyes popped open in shock. Believe me, it was quite a startling noise. The goat on the right end of the table, near Ricky, had stiffened suddenly, perhaps frightened by the particularly long and sharp moan from Rachel, and it had
tipped over. The noise of its body smacking into the table was what startled everyone.

  It even startled the other goat, which also promptly tensed up and fell over. Beezer let out what could have been a funny laugh, but then a breeze shot into the room and all the candles were out in a quick wink. The room was pitch black. Nobody could see anything. Beth was suddenly grateful for the warm body of Zane underneath her. She seemed so frightened, it was natural to relax into such a firm body. A few moments later into the dark, Rachel cried, "Jamisons, are you here?" The squeal of a chair responded, or at least that was what I thought it was. Surely Mike or one of the other men had shifted in their seat and the wood let out a little scream from underneath their weight.

  Ricky shouted into the dark, "If any of the Jamisons could shed light on what happened in this house, we are ready and willing to listen. Speak the truth and we will tell your story. We will bear witness to the crimes committed here."

  A match sparked and, for a moment, it was easy to see Ben's face. His hand wrapped around the match, keeping it safe from a breeze while he re-lit his candle.

  Soon, thirteen candles were lit, as the flame was passed silently around the room. They listened for ghosts, wild uncertain eyes scanning the room. By the time the last flame was lit, all of the faces in the room were visible. The only face still lingering slightly in the shadows was Rafael. He was still underneath a bright-eyed Lucy, and his face was in the shadows.

  "Give us a sign if you are listening," Rachel said.

  Immediately, there was a loud thumping on the ground.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Immediately, there was a loud thumping on the ground, from beneath the table. Even I knew it was Beezer thumping his big fat boot on the ground. Rachael let out a hiss. "Knock it off, asshole."

  And the room grew into a cold, bright silence.

  Rachel tried again. "Give us a sign if you are listening."

  This time, Beezer stayed quiet like he was supposed to and the goats suddenly both bleated at the same time. It was enough to make everyone jump, and Beth let out a nervous giggle.

  Ricky boomed in his pleased voice, "Are you using the goats to communicate with us?"

  There was another loud bleat from the two young goats.

  Then for a second time, a large rush of wind blew all the candles out. After a few moments, Ben lit another match. His face glowed in the light for a moment, and slowly, he passed the flame from one candle to the next until, again, thirteen candles were lit.

  Twelve pretty faces glowed in the firelight, but Lucy let out a scream as she turned to her beloved. Rafael was dead.

  "Dammit! I wanted to go first." Beezer let out a whiny pout as they turned the lights on.

  "Come now, we have to see what the ghost was trying to tell us," Rachel said, trying to guide the group so they would start looking for clues.

  "How did you make the goats bleat on command like that?" Tiffany whispered to Jenny.

  Jenny smiled wryly, like she was hiding a secret. But if she was being honest, she would have said that she had no idea; the goats weren't trained to bleat and who the hell knows why that happened. That was what she would have said. I would have said I knew what happened. But nobody listens to me.

  Anyways, Beezer was mad that he wasn't first, but he couldn't act to save a life, and Rafael was a beautiful corpse. He had sedated himself. That was how committed he was to the role; he drugged his own damn punch. And Lucy, who still had no idea what was happening, kept screaming hysterically looking at his soft pale face.

  "You've really killed him!" Her squeaky voice was cracking and sobs quickly followed.

  "Not us, one of the Jamisons. You have to decide which ghosts killed him, Amelia, Richard, the twins, or the boy. You have thirty minutes to find some clues or someone else will die."

  She turned over a large sand timer and the sand starting pouring from one end to the other. Rachel certainly had a flair for the dramatic.

  The twelve remaining guests began to scramble, though let's be honest since Ricky and Rachel were the hosts, they did not in fact put in effort in to the scramble, simply watching the other ones scramble. Lucy stood, horrified, and unable to move. She still stared at the slack face of her beloved.

  Beezer was staring at the goats with Jenny, who didn't seem in any particular rush to find any clues. Beth timidly was watching the scene, looking at the chairs and the table. The table was long and wooden. On it sat thirteen half melted candles. The goats stood at one end while Jenny cooed over them.

  John and Ben stood back from the scene, both quietly observing. Tiffany lifted candles, and checked the few cups still on the table after the toast.

  Zane was quietly, but very obviously watching Beth. He hadn't been feeling smitten with her before she sat on his lap for the last hour, but now she was certainly on his radar.

  Mikaela crawled under the table, clearly convinced there would be a clue. Her bottom was sparkling in the air as she crawled. Gorgeous sequins. But Mike was the one who finally found it. Being the tallest of the group--closer to seven feet than six feet--he calmly reached over to the chandelier and pulled down a scrap of paper.

  "Anybody wanna guess what this says before we find out which ghost killed poor Rafael?" he said calmly.

  "Hang on a minute," Mikaela said, climbing out from under the table and holding another scrap of paper.

  Beth reached out and plucked a scrap from Rafael's pocket. "And this?"

  Rachel had a strong frown of disappointment. Clearly she was expecting it to take a lot longer to find the scraps she had worked so hard to hide. The sand timer hadn't even run a third of its sand yet.

  Ricky clapped his hand on her back and whispered into her ear, "Don't worry; the next one will take hours." She gave him a halfhearted grin.

  It was true, the next one would take hours. In fact that was where the fun would start to begin.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I just realized that despite all the words I have been writing about the events on that weekend, I haven't introduced myself. I'm a Scorpio. And I don't actually know what everyone is thinking. If I say, "Beth thought to herself that it seemed like a great idea to spend the weekend in a house full of ghosts and murder," then I don't know what I am talking about.

  I'm just trying to breathe some depth into this story for you. I don't want to tell you what happened in such a cold, calculated way like the newspapers. I hate those things. They say in a big, cold, breathless title, "Guesthouse carnage continued after murder mystery weekend goes terribly wrong." So if I get some of the details of what each person felt wrong, please spare me the nasty reviews. I already know I'm not omniscient. I'm just...

  Curious.

  And this is certainly the kind of story you should be wondering about. The next bit is my favorite, right before things got scary, but right after the party started.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was around one thirty or two in the morning. It was late, like real fucking late. I'm sorry I cursed. I don't like to be up that late; it's terribly unladylike. Darkness breeds horror the same way flies breed maggots onto a perfectly good corpse.

  I'm getting ahead of myself.

  Lucy was still fretting that Rafael hadn't woken up yet. He was still slumped in his chair. That was a man dedicated to his role. She slowly pressed her lips to his, feeling the soft warmth of his mouth, and he just limply lay in the chair.

  "Are you okay?" she whispered. And he couldn't reply. He was off his rocker. The lights were off at the farmhouse, so to speak. "Guys, do you think he's okay?" She looked up and said this in a half-frightened whisper to the room, but nobody was with her anymore. Everyone had moved to the safe room and were holding up the three scraps of paper.

  Beth stared at the paper in her hand. It was a really freakishly odd clue. Rachel should have spent some more time on the first few clues. She had gotten better at the process later, the further the story she built went, but the problem was by the time the final clues should have b
een revealed, nobody was still playing. So my apologies in advance that these three scraps of paper are so embarrassingly bad.

  I think part of the plan was to end up with thirteen extremely paranoid, sleep deprived people. For Rachel fully intended everyone to stay up late--even at this already late hour--and play the game. But since they were all still young, it could be they didn't mind the idea of staying up.

  Beth's scrap of paper was just the color blue. I don't mean that it was the word blue--it was, in fact, just a paint chip from a hardware store, carefully chosen, and cut into the shape of a heart.

  Mike's clue was also a paint chip; his was cut into an octagon. The color couldn't quite be described as white; it was more like the milky color of melted vanilla bean ice cream. If she had left the tags on the paint chip, this color would have been named "Old Fashioned Mayonnaise," which is a lofty way of saying a shade of white.

  I prefer the ice cream.

  Mikaela's note from under the table was scrawled in ink on a piece of thin leathery fabric. The edges had been singed like a proper pirate note. It was worn, rubbed on something over and over until half the letters were missing and the note said,

  "The twins took their first victim.

  If you're quicker the rest will live.

  You have until six to find the next clues

  or two more of you will be slaughtered."

  Now, I've filled in the missing letters so it's easier to read, but if you'd prefer, I can leave them out next time and you can struggle to read it just like the ten of them did. Beezer immediately jumped in with, "Seriously, Rachel, you didn't even rhyme it?"

  And a moment of literary mockery happened. Mikaela said, "You could have put: Double the trouble, one dead, go faster or we'll have your head."

  Zane immediately burst into perfect twin laughter. "Oh yeah, or maybe we could say, 'In six hours, you'll die, unless you can fly- through these clues like a motherfucking winner.'"