Nothing to Fear
Nikki Stayton always had a taste for the macabre. While she was growing up, her classmates had several names for her. "Weirdo" and "oddball" were prominent among them, but the kinder people referred to her as "quirky" or "unusual." Her teachers had mixed feelings concerning her future. Some thought she would develop an artistic nature and become a writer, poet or painter. Others thought she was destined to torture animals before moving on to a career as a serial killer.
Although often misunderstood, Nikki grew up to be a perfectly normal young woman. After graduating high school, she took an interest in photography. Despite living in a world where everyone took photos and selfies with cell phones, there was still money to be made with a camera. Her career began as a freelance wedding photographer. Eventually, she got a full-time job taking baby pictures at a department store. When the area's only other professional photographer retired, she was able to acquire his lucrative contracts with three nearby school districts to take students' photographs and opened her own studio.
"Yours isn't a very glamorous job," Karen Peyser, her sister, contended.
Karen, mother of three, only accepted the position as her sister's receptionist and clerical assistant because the work schedule allowed her to be home when her children needed her.
"It's not like photographing models on the runway or for the cover of Vogue."
"Somehow, I can't see myself taking pictures of supermodels," Nikki laughed. "Besides, I make enough money to pay for what I need."
"Yeah, but you have to work with a bunch of kids. The high school ones aren't too bad, but the younger ones! I wouldn't have the patience to put up with them."
"And this from a woman with three children."
"But those are my kids, not someone else's. I can discipline them when they get out of line."
"I don't mind. It's all part of the job."
"Which brings me right back to what I said: yours isn't a very glamorous one. As your assistant, neither is mine; but at least I've got a full life outside the studio. I've got a husband and three kids. What have you got?"
"I have my art."
"Art," Karen grumbled. "Taking pictures of cemeteries is hardly art!"
"Maybe to you it's not, but to me it is."
"What you need is a husband or at least a boyfriend."
It was Nikki's turn to grumble.
"Here we go again. You and Mom both sound like broken records. Why can't either of you understand? I don't want a husband. If I wanted companionship, I'd get a dog or a cat."
"I give up," her sister said and turned away.
That would nice if it were true, Nikki thought. But in another day or two, you'll start all over again.
* * *
When Karen and her husband picked Nikki up at her apartment above the studio, the photographer crammed her suitcase into the cargo area of the minivan and sat next to her nephew in the back seat. As they drove to the airport, the three kids plied the adults with questions about Walt Disney World.
The trip to Orlando was to be ten days long, but for two of those days, Nikki planned on renting a car and driving down to Miami. She did not tell her family the reason for the side trip. Karen assumed it was a desire to see the beaches and enjoy the South Beach nightlife, neither of which appealed to the photographer. Unbeknownst to her sister, Nikki had recently developed an interest in what is commonly referred to as "dark tourism." It was a natural next step for someone who liked to photograph mortuary statues and graves of famous people.
Her bucket list of "must see" places included the catacombs of Paris, Alcatraz, Auschwitz, Pompeii and the Tower of London. So far, the only sites she had been to were Centralia, Pennsylvania, and the former DeFeo house in Amityville, which she could only view from the street outside. She intended to photograph a third dark tourism site while in Miami: Villa Casa Casuarina, the home of the late Gianni Versace.
After arriving in South Beach and checking into her 1930s art deco hotel, Nikki walked up Collins Avenue to 8th Street and then to Ocean Avenue. Passing Muscle Beach and Lummus Park on her right and hotels, bars and restaurants on her left, she walked up Ocean, her anticipation mounting with each step she took.
There it is!
At the corner of Ocean Avenue and 11th Street was the Versace mansion. A crowd of tourists stood in front of the Mediterranean-style villa, taking photos of the house and the steps where the fashion designer was gunned down by Andrew Cunanan. Many posed for selfies beside the gold Medusa heads on the black iron fence that surrounded the property. Although she was not allowed to use her camera in Gianni's, the restaurant in the mansion, Nikki had lunch there, sitting at a table only a few yards from where the murder took place.
After finishing the most overpriced hamburger she had ever eaten, she went outside and took pictures of the arched entranceway and the infamous front steps. Then she walked around the corner of the building and took several photos of the tower and balcony. Although she was disappointed in not having seen Versace's fifty-four-foot, twenty-four-carat-gold-lined swimming pool and the giant Medusa mosaic in the courtyard, she was nonetheless glad she made the trip.
The following morning, she checked out of her hotel and drove back up to Orlando where for the next eight days, she endured the sweltering Florida heat and the excruciatingly long lines at the Disney World and Universal Studios parks.
* * *
Vacations, theoretically, are meant to be a time of rest and relaxation. However, the ten-day trip to Florida had been exhausting, and Nikki looked forward to some post-vacation R&R. Since she had no photo sessions scheduled for the day, she put on her lounging outfit—flannel pants and an oversized T-shirt—and curled up on the sofa with her laptop. The first thing she did was take the memory card out of her camera and put it into her computer. Then she uploaded her photos of the Versace mansion to her website, writing descriptive captions for each one.
Within the hour, she received the first comment: GREAT PLACE! BET YOU WOULD LOVE SEEING THE LIBBY COERTEN D&B.
The sender was identified as "Dark Traveler." It was a name she was not familiar with; Libby Coerten, however, was a household name. In one of the most famous murder cases in American history, Libby was accused of murdering her father and stepmother with a hatchet. Although arrested and tried, the young woman was not convicted. Yet despite having been found "not guilty," she lived under the cloud of suspicion for the remainder of her life.
Nikki knew that the home in which the murders occurred was turned into a bed and breakfast, so she assumed that D&B was a typo. Thus, she replied to the comment: LIBBY COERTEN B&B IS ALREADY ON MY BUCKET LIST.
Within minutes of posting her reply, Dark Traveler wrote back: IT'S D&B, NOT B&B.
WHAT'S A D&B?
A DEAD AND BREAKFAST.
CUTE! Nikki answered.
There was no further response from Dark Traveler.
She recalled that in Hamburg, New Jersey, there was an old family attraction called the Gingerbread Castle. Opened in 1930, the fairy tale castle closed—if memory served her right—sometime in the Eighties. The castle passed through a series of owners, one of whom, during the Nineties, turned it into a Halloween haunted house called the Ginger-dead Castle.
Perhaps that's what this D&B thing is all about, she mused. Lots of places have special events in the month of October like Philly's Eastern State Penitentiary and the old Pennhurst State School and Hospital.
Curious, she went to the B&B's website. There was no reference to a D&B anywhere on their page, however. Of course, someone could be using the Coerten name for a commercial Halloween attraction, like the Bates Motel and Jason's Woods. So, she googled "Libby Coerten D&B," but all that came up was the Falmouth B&B.
I don't know where Dark Traveler got his information, but I can't find anything about a dead and breakfast.
Nikki did not dwell on the matter for very long. Why bother? The world was full of bizarre places to visit. Her home state of Pennsylvania was proof of that!
Wanting to make the most of her day off, she binged six of the ten episodes of a Harlan Coben limited series on Netflix. Although she reached the point of plot addiction, she took a break from watching to check her phone messages and emails. She was surprised to see the name Dark Traveler in her inbox.
The message was short and to the point: THERE REALLY IS A COERTEN D&B.
Nikki clicked the REPLY TO button and typed, WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT DO YOU WANT?
She did not ask how the sender got her email address since the answer was obvious. There was a CONTACT ME button on her webpage that linked to her email account. Dark Traveler must have been online at the time because another email appeared moments later.
I'M DARK TRAVELER. WE SHOULD GET TO KNOW ONE ANOTHER SINCE WE SHARE A COMMON INTEREST.
WHAT'S THAT? she replied.
DEATH.
There was something disturbing about seeing that one-word email. And since Nikki was alone in her apartment, she was not eager to read any more of his bizarre messages. Without logging out of her mail program, she closed the lid on her laptop. To dispel the eerie feeling the emails caused, she ordered a pepperoni pizza from Dominos and watched the last four episodes of The Five.
* * *
Her first day back to work was a busy one for the young photographer. She had four babies to photograph and one family portrait to shoot. After closing shop for the day, she drove to the laundromat to wash and dry the ten days of dirty clothing she brought back from Florida.
"I should have done this yesterday," she scolded herself, "instead of sitting on the couch watching TV all day. But what the hell? Everyone deserves to pull a Ferris Bueller every once in a while."
With the two washers doing their best to clean her clothes, Nikki texted four people who, like her, had an interest in dark tourism. Although she had never met any of them in person, they were the closest thing to friends the photographer had.
EVER HEARD OF LIBBY COERTEN D&B? she asked Dane Milverton, a young man from Tarrytown, New York, who worked at the Lyndhurst Mansion.
WHO HASN'T? MURDER HOME NOW A B&B, he answered.
NOT B&B. D&B.
Nikki then relayed the information Dark Traveler had told her.
NEVER HEARD OF IT. SOUNDS LIKE FUN.
She then had similar conversations with her other three friends, none of whom were familiar with a place or Halloween event called a dead and breakfast.
I'LL DO SOME RESEARCH, Zoe Danvers, a substitute English teacher and aspiring horror writer from New Jersey, offered.
A like offer was made by Kelsey McSorley, from Mystic, Connecticut, who owned a Celtic gift shop near Mystic Seaport.
While loading her wet clothes into the dryers, Nikki heard the Tri-Tone sound signifying an incoming text message. It was not from one of her four friends, however. It was from Dark Traveler.
How did he get my number?
Unlike her email address, her personal information was not available on her website.
WHO ARE YOU? she asked again.
I TOLD YOU. I'M DARK TRAVELER.
WHAT'S YOUR REAL NAME?
PUDDIN TANE. ASK ME AGAIN AND I'LL TELL YOU THE SAME.
It was a foolish rhyme, one Nikki had not heard since she was a child. Yet seeing it sent to her iPhone from a stranger was decidedly creepy.
I'M SERIOUS, she wrote.
SO AM I. DEAD SERIOUS.
While she was typing a reply, another message quickly followed.
DON'T FORGET THE DRYER SHEETS.
Her eyes immediately went to the unopened box of Snuggle fabric softener sheets in her laundry basket. Not even the adorable face of the cuddly Snuggle teddy bear could stop her from trembling with fear.
How can Dark Traveler know where I am or what I'm doing, unless he's watching me?
* * *
For days, Nikki lived in a suffocating atmosphere of fear. Every time she left her house, her senses went to red alert, afraid that the mysterious Dark Traveler was nearby. And each time she opened her email program or received a text alert, she prayed he was not trying to contact her. Fortunately, as the days turned to weeks, there were no further messages.
Autumn arrived in all its colorful glory. To Nikki, the season meant more than pumpkins, apple-picking and fall foliage; it meant putting in long hours at the studio. Taking the annual school photographs for three large school districts amounted to nearly eighty percent of her business, but the effort could be grueling. On the bright side, photographing literally thousands of students from kindergarten through high school, their teachers and school administrative and service staff left her little time to worry about Dark Traveler.
On the first of November, Nikki walked into her studio where Karen was busy stuffing photographic proofs and order forms into envelopes, being careful to label each one with the correct student name, grade and school.
"That was the last of them," the photographer announced wearily, lugging her camera equipment through the front door. "Not only was I able to shoot all those students who were absent on picture day, but I also got some great shots of the exterior and interior of the high school to put in the yearbook."
"You look exhausted," Karen commented, taking a break from her tedious, repetitive task to play mother hen to her kid sister. "Maybe you should take the rest of the day off, go home and get some sleep."
"I can't. I've got a one-year-old coming in at three."
"No, you don't. His mother called. The poor little guy has an upset tummy. I've rescheduled the appointment for next week."
Knowing from the look on her sister's face that another lecture was about to be delivered, Nikki decided to take Karen's advice and go home early. She was way too tired to explain for the umpteenth time that she did not need a husband or children to be happy, that there were some people who actually enjoyed living alone.
On the way back to her apartment, she stopped at Five Guys for a late lunch. Once she finished her hamburger—a task that required the use of both her hands—she took out her cell phone to check her email while she enjoyed what she considered to be the best fries on the planet. Her inbox was inundated with advertisements and electronic junk mail. As she savored each greasy, salty, ketchupy stick of fried potato, she deleted message after message after message.
Sandwiched between emails from Kohl's and Phil's Photo Supplies, was a message from Careen Byers, an EMT from Taunton, Massachusetts, and the fourth member of her Internet group of friends.
I HAVE A GREAT IDEA, Careen wrote. WHY DON'T WE ALL MEET UP AT THE LIBBY COERTEN B&B? IT HAS ONLY FIVE ROOMS. WE COULD HAVE THE WHOLE PLACE TO OURSELVES.
I'D LOVE TO, Nikki replied, BUT I WON'T HAVE THE TIME UNTIL AFTER THE HOLIDAYS.
She did not receive an answer to her email until later that evening.
THINKING OF WEEKEND OF MARCH 13 THRU 15, Careen suggested.
SOUNDS GOOD, Nikki responded.
GREAT! I'LL MAKE RESERVATIONS.
It was only when she was soaking in a hot bubble bath that Nikki realized the significance of the date. March 14 was the anniversary of the Coerten murders.
* * *
Since Taunton was less than fifty miles from the Falmouth B&B, Careen Byers was the first one to arrive. Rather than wait in her car for the others, she drove to a nearby Starbucks for coffee. Forty minutes later she received a text from Kelsey McSorley, who had driven up from Mystic.
JUST GOT HERE, he announced.
The EMT left Starbucks and drove back to the B&B. It was not long before Dane Milverton and Zoe Danvers joined them, both having left work early to beat the traffic on the always congested I-95. Nikki Stayton, who had to travel the farthest distance, was understandably the last to arrive.
"We meet at last," she said, hugging the others.
"Why don't we go inside?" Careen suggested. "Mrs. Wiggins, the owner, said she'd give us a quick tour of the place before she left."
The quick tour turned out to be an hour-long history of the house, beginning with its construction in 1862.
"Before the murders," Mrs. Wiggins said, "the house was called the Robsart Mansion after Captain Ebenezer Robsart, who had it built in 1864. Six years after moving his family into the house, his ship went down in the Atlantic. His body was never recovered."
"That was during the Civil War," Dane noted. "Was the captain serving his country at the time?"
"He might have been but not in an official capacity. He wasn't in the Navy; he owned a merchant ship."
The tour group made its way through every room on the first floor and then continued up the staircase to the second.
"This was where Mr. and Mrs. Coerten slept," Mrs. Wiggins said when she opened the door of the master bedroom.
"Is the furniture original to the house?" Zoe asked.
"Some of it is but not all. Working from old photographs, we've been able to find antiques and reproductions of pieces from 1892, the year of the murders. Just down the hall are the daughters' rooms. Sophie's is to your right, Libby's to your left. The door at the far end of the hall is to the guest bedroom."
There were three rooms in the house that all visitors wanted to see: the living room where Mr. Coerten was murdered while he napped on the sofa; the bedroom of Libby, the young woman believed to have committed the crime; and the guest bedroom where Mrs. Coerten's body was found. As the five guests examined Sophie's room, Nikki felt her anticipation rise.
"And the housekeeper slept in the attic?" Kelsey needlessly asked since he already knew the answer.
"Yes. I'll leave you all to explore that room on your own."
Across the hall in Libby's room, the owner of the house pointed out the items that actually belonged to the accused killer.
"The bed was not hers, but the armoire was. So was the night table and the mirror above the dresser. There's a case in the gift shop where we display some of Libby's personal items: a necklace, a comb, a pair of kid gloves, a reticule, and so forth. There's even a framed sampler she embroidered herself."
"I'm surprised she didn't take everything with her when she moved," Careen said.
"According to all accounts, she was so anxious to get out of the house that she left many of her belongings behind. In fact, after the murders, she never spent another night beneath this roof."
"I can't say that I blame her," Dane laughed.
"That's a strange thing for you to say," Kelsey said. "You're paying to sleep here for two nights."
"Shall we continue?" their guide asked, eager to go home for the evening. "I saved this room for last. Here is where Mrs. Coerten was killed."
A framed enlargement of the crime scene—body and all—hung on the wall above the spot where the woman was murdered, just as there was a similar picture of her husband's body in the living room. Despite this photographic glimpse into the past, there was nothing in the room that screamed "murder site." Nikki was disappointed. Although she had not expected to see blood stains, she assumed the room would give off a morbid vibe; it didn't.
This room isn't even creepy, she thought. It looks like any other bedroom in an old Victorian house.
Once the tour was completed and the owner of the house departed, the five friends gathered in the dining room. Careen took her cell phone out of her handbag and ordered pizzas, wings, garlic knots and bottles of soda from a local take-out pizzeria.
"Why don't we bring in our bags while we wait for the food to be delivered?" Zoe suggested.
"First things first," the EMT said, taking charge. "We've got to decide who sleeps in which room."
"Since I'm sure we all want to spend the night in the guest room, how do we do that?" Kelsey asked.
"The only fair way is to draw lots."
She ripped five pieces of paper from a small notepad, wrote the name of a room on each one, folded them up and placed them in the fruit bowl on the dining room table. Dane drew first, selecting Sophie's room.
"Will we have to keep the same room tomorrow night?" he asked, clearly disappointed.
"No. I think we should give everyone another chance at the guest room."
Zoe and Kelsey got the master bedroom and the servant's attic room, respectively. That left Libby's room and the guest bedroom.
I've got a fifty-fifty chance of drawing the murder room, Nikki thought.
"After you," Careen said, pushing the fruit bowl in the photographer's direction.
With trembling hand, Nikki selected one of the two remaining slips of paper and unfolded it.
"Jackpot!" she exclaimed, showing the others the words written on the piece of paper: guest bedroom.
* * *
"So, what does everyone think?" Dane asked, putting hot wings and two slices of pepperoni pizza on a paper plate. "Did she do it or not?"
"Guilty," Zoe replied. "She had the motive, means and opportunity."
"I agree," Kelsey declared. "All evidence points to her being the killer."
"I've read some interesting theories about other suspects," Careen said, "but Libby seems to be the most likely candidate. What do you think?"
"Frankly, I'm torn," Dane answered once he licked the sticky barbecue sauce off his fingers. "I believe it was either Libby or the housekeeper."
"Well, one thing is certain," Nikki laughed. "We can rule out murder-suicide."
After dinner, the guests congregated in the living room. Zoe brought several bottles of wine with her from New Jersey and handed one to Kelsey along with a corkscrew. Meanwhile, Careen thumbed through a book she had purchased at the Coerten B&B's gift shop earlier that day.
"Learn anything new about the case?" Dane asked.
"It's not about the murders. It's about the house itself and the other people who lived here. I'll bet you can't guess how Captain Robsart made the money to build this big place?"
"The slave trade?" Zoe asked.
"Yup. And it's believed when his ship went down, the unscrupulous Ebenezer was carrying guns to be sold to the Confederacy."
"Sounds like a nice guy," Nikki quipped sarcastically.
"Doesn't he? But Robsart's wife is another story. It says here she was kind, sweet and charitable, but that she passed away before the age of thirty after having all six of her children die in infancy."
"There was a high child mortality rate back then," Kelsey pointed out.
"True, but I've been skimming through this book, and it's amazing how many deaths occurred in this house."
"What do you expect?" Nikki asked. "It was built more than a century and a half ago."
"Still, the number of fatal accidents, rare diseases, unexplained deaths and even suspected suicides is way beyond what is to be expected."
"Does it say in there how Libby's real mother died?" Zoe asked.
"Let me see," Careen said, referring to the index in the back of the book and turning to the appropriate page. "Here it is. She died of a sudden and unknown disease at the age of twenty-seven, two years after her first child choked to death when she was only four years old."
"And I thought the Kennedys had a lot of tragedy in their lives."
"But it's not just the Robsarts and the Coertens. It seems like every family that ever owned this house had bad luck."
"What about people like us who stay here as guests? Are we putting ourselves in danger?" Kelsey joked. "I once said I was dying to stay in this place, but I didn't mean it literally."
Ironically, although all five had an interest in the macabre, not one of them seriously believed in ghosts, curses or any other supernatural entities. They were all educated, level-headed and logical people who put their faith in science over superstition.
"Relax," the EMT replied. "I doubt this place was built over an Indian burial ground or some other such nonsense."
"Maybe it's the spirits of the slaves come back to haunt the house of Captain Robsart," Dane laughingly suggested.
"Indians, slaves, the ghosts of the people that died in this house—and who knows what else might be lingering in the shadows here," Zoe said with awe. "I don't suppose anyone brought a Ouija board with them so that we can try to contact the spirit world?"
"Gee, no," Nikki laughed. "I left mine at home with my tarot cards and crystal ball."
Thus, as the evening wore on and the bottles of wine were emptied, the conversation was more lighthearted. Finally, at half past two, Kelsey yawned and announced that he was going up to the attic to get some sleep.
"Me, too," Zoe said. "I've been up since six this morning, and I'm exhausted. Just let me make sure the front door is locked."
"Why?" Dane laughed. "Whatever it is we have to fear is right here in this house with us, not out there."
"You never know," she answered. "Someone might try to break in and steal Mr. Coerten's photograph off the living room wall. And, just for the record, I agree with FDR. We have nothing to fear but fear itself."
Nikki was in good spirits when she bid goodnight to her friends and entered what had once been the Coertens' guest bedroom. Nevertheless, the excitement of the day, not to mention the long drive from Pennsylvania to Massachusetts, had worn her out. She quickly changed into her pajamas and crawled beneath the blankets. Moments after closing her eyes, she heard the Tri-Tone announcing another text.
Who could that be at this hour?
Not wanting to ignore what might be word of a family emergency, she reached for her phone on the bedside table. When she read the name of the sender, a chill went through her body. She thought—hoped—she had heard the last of Dark Traveler, yet here he was sending her another text. Her initial instinct was to delete the message sight unseen. However, her curiosity won out and she read it.
GOOD NIGHT. PEACEFUL DREAMS.
Both Zoe and FDR are wrong. Fear itself is not the only thing we have to fear.
* * *
Careen was the first to wake in the morning. Wearing a fleece bathrobe over her flannel nightgown, she went down to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.
"You're up early," Nikki said after following the scent of Starbucks French Roast down to the kitchen.
"I normally get up at five every morning to go to work, so seven is actually sleeping in for me."
"Is that what time it is? Seven?"
Careen noticed her friend's red eyes and the dark circles beneath them.
"Had a rough night?"
"You could say that. I barely slept a wink."
"Well, you'll get a different room tonight."
"It's not that. I got a text message."
"From who?"
Zoe entered the kitchen and, always a teacher, corrected the other woman's grammar.
"From whom. You always use the objective case after a preposition."
"Thanks for the English lesson. Anyway, who sent you a text in the middle of the night?"
Nikki then told the other two women about Dark Traveler.
"It sounds to me like you've got a stalker," Careen said. "Have you gone to the police?"
"No. What can they do? They'll probably just tell me to change my phone number and email address."
"That wouldn't be a bad idea," Zoe suggested.
"Do you know how long that would take? I do everything online: banking, shopping ...."
"Coffee!" Dane cried as he stumbled sleepily into the kitchen, interrupting the women's conversation. "I need caffeine and plenty of it."
As the young man from New York's Hudson Valley poured himself a large cup of coffee, the EMT from Taunton went up to her room to change into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.
"Would anyone like some eggs and toast for breakfast?" she offered when she returned to the kitchen.
"I'd love some!" Zoe answered.
"I'm too tired to eat," Dane said, refilling his mug with coffee.
"Nikki?"
"No, thank you."
The four guests remained in the kitchen until well after nine, expecting Kelsey to come down and join them for breakfast. Two hours later, there was still no sign of him.
"I'll go and check on him," Dane offered, "and make sure he's all right." He returned several minutes later and announced, "He's not up there."
"He must be taking a shower," Careen said.
"I checked. The bathroom is empty."
Dane went to the window and looked at the vehicles in the driveway.
"His car's still here."
"Maybe he went for a walk or a jog."
"Surely one of us would have seen him come down the stairs or heard him go out the door."
"He's got to be here somewhere," Careen insisted. "Let's search the place. I'll start with the attic. Zoe, you check the rooms on the first floor, Nikki the second floor and Dane, you go down to the cellar."
As the photographer mounted the staircase, her cell phone alerted her to an incoming text message. Once again, it was from the mysterious Dark Traveler.
ONE DOWN. FOUR TO GO.
Nikki's scream brought the other two women to her side.
"What is it?" Careen demanded to know.
The photographer was too upset to speak, so she held her iPhone out in front of her.
"That's it! You're contacting the police right now!"
Nikki nodded her head in agreement but was unable to place the call.
"There's something wrong with my phone. I can't access the keyboard."
"I'll call then."
But Careen discovered her phone was dead.
"That's impossible!" she cried. "It was fully charged when I ordered the food last night."
Zoe took her phone out and announced, "Mine's deader than Mr. and Mrs. Coerten."
Careen crossed the room, opened the door to the cellar stairs and called down for Dane. There was no answer.
"It's dark down there," she told her friends, her hand feeling the sides of the wall. "And I can't find the light switch."
"Is there another way out of the cellar?" Nikki asked.
"I wonder ...," Careen said, her voice trailing off.
"What?" the photographer prompted.
"You don't suppose we're being pranked, do you?"
"By who?"
"Whom," Zoe said from force of habit.
"By Dane and Kelsey. How do we know they didn't team up to play a practical joke on us? I'll bet the two of them are downstairs right now laughing their asses off."
"You really think so?"
"There's only one way to find out. Dark or not, I'm going downstairs."
"Wait. I'll go see if there's a flashlight in the kitchen," Zoe offered.
Meanwhile, Careen continued to call Dane's name.
When Nikki heard the Tri-Tone of her cell phone, she knew who was contacting her.
TWO DOWN. THREE TO GO.
There were no screams this time, just a pathetic whimpering.
"Never mind phoning the police," Careen cried. "Come on. We'll drive to the police station. Just let me go upstairs and get my car keys."
"Zoe," the photographer called to the girl in the kitchen, "forget the flashlight."
There was no reply from the kitchen. The only response was the Tri-Tone of her iPhone.
THREE DOWN. TWO TO GO.
"It's him again," Nikki told Careen who was running down the stairs with her key ring in hand. "And Zoe's gone."
"Joke or not, let's get the hell out of here!"
Careen reached for the door knob—and it reached out for her. In what looked like an Oscar-winning special effect by Industrial Lights & Magic, the emergency medical technician from Taunton melded with the wooden door of the former Coerten home.
FOUR DOWN. ONE TO GO.
"What did you do to her and the others?" Nikki shouted, believing she was destined to be Dark Traveler's next victim.
THEY ARE HERE WITH ME.
"Who are you? What are you?"
IN FDR'S WORDS: FEAR ITSELF.
As Nikki felt her own body begin to morph and become one with the living room's hardwood floor, she at last understood what the Dark Traveler was. It was no person or entity, but the house itself. It was built of fear and terror rather than wood and brick; and held together not by nails and mortar, but by the souls of every person who had died in the mansion Captain Ebenezer Robsart built with his ill-gotten gains.
Although their bodies would never be discovered, the spirits of the five guests would remain in the Coerten D&B as long as it stood, and they would continue to feed the fear, which had a voracious appetite.
This story was inspired by the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast in Fall River, Massachusetts. My daughter and I visited the B&B and took the tour, but I drew the line at sleeping there (not with my imagination!). We also had lunch at the former Versace mansion in Miami and visited Centralia, Alcatraz, the Tower of London and Eastern State Penitentiary. So, I guess you can say we're die-hard dark tourists.
Salem designed his own line of luggage that he calls American Dark Tourister.
