It was always a dream of mine to run a quaint bed and breakfast out in the middle of the Mississippi wilderness, a place where new couples and high-end clients could take a load off if only for a little while. I’ve known this ever since I was a little girl. I’d help my mama run the diner and watching the satisfied faces of our patrons always brightened my day. Pleasing is a passion of mine, slaving away over a stove, mixing batter, constructing all manner of goodies from what I can find in the kitchen, wonderful stuff. It pleases me to please others. So, after I’d saved enough money, I set out and looked for a place to call my own. There it was, near a lake, over budget, and two stories tall. I didn’t care. I took out the loan and busted my hump to make it the place of my dreams.
Managing the place was slow going at first, but eventually, I was turning a profit and it seemed like everything was falling into place.
It was only late at night when I was sitting on the porch and staring out into that lake that I would feel my stomach churn and gooseflesh dot my arms. Something about the surface of the water reflecting the black shadows. I can’t explain it. Normally I would wrap myself up in a thin cardigan and break out the bottle of gin I kept hidden under the counter. This served to quell my strange anxieties of being so far from civilization.
As I was idly tending the desk and staring out the window, a terrible thunderstorm broke overhead. I watched as a couple, probably honeymooners if I had to strike a guess, slammed their doors shut in the muddy lot and darted to the front porch of my little inn; they dodged puddles as the man held his jacket over their heads.
I greeted them at the door, offering a towel to dry them off with. They thanked me and approached the counter. I took their information, ran their card, had them sign a few documents, and handed over their key. I listened to them rushing up the stairs to find their room.
As thunder rolled, the front door shot open, slamming into the wall; I jumped in response. There in the doorway, illuminated by a flash of lightning, stood a man in a fine pressed suit, black irises, clenched jaw, absolutely soaked through. I’d not seen him approaching. He was stunningly handsome. I rounded the counter, offering him a towel. He took it, grinning at me with a flash of beautiful white straight teeth. “Sorry.” He said, motioning to the doorway.
“No worries,” I said, shutting the door and inspecting the wall, “No damages, so don’t worry about it.”
I went to the counter and rifled through some papers. He ran the towel through his hair and around his neck. “This is a nice place you’ve got here.” He said.
I beamed at the compliment. “Thank you!” I positioned the card reader on the counter, twisting it to face him.
Sitting the towel down in a nearby chair, he looked at the small electronic device. “I don’t think so.” He said.
My face was frozen in a shocked in expression and I’m certain he noticed. “It’s standard procedure.”
“No. I will not be using a card.” He began rifling through his jacket pocket as I protested. He passed ten one-hundred-dollar bills across the table. My hands wavered, but eventually reached across the table to take the money. “I will not be filling out any of your paperwork either.” He was obviously of the upper-class sorts I’d intended to attract upon opening my little inn. Although he pronounced his words with efficiency, there was an accent there that eluded me.
I stammered, trying to look for a rebuttal. I felt the thickness of the bills in between my fingers as I ran the currency marker across them.
“I assure you; they are quite real.” He flashed those pearly whites. “Now please, I’ve paid. If you’d be so kind as to hand me my room key, I will leave you to your work down here.”
I looked over his shoulder, through the window to the muddy lot where only the couple’s car and my own sat. “Where’s your vehicle?”
“A town car dropped me off.” His smile was infectious though he was mildly irritated. “Please Miss, my key.”
I passed him the key and he disappeared up the stairs. After I was sure he’d gone to his room, I put on a snuggly cardigan and poured myself a bit of gin.
My bedroom was directly adjacent the office on the first floor. As night came, I poured myself into my nightgown and tossed and turned in my bed restlessly. Something about that man in the suit did not sit right with me. It occurred to me as I was staring at the ceiling that I’d not even caught his name. I tried pushing this out of my mind, but at that very moment I heard a creaking sound coming from above. It took me a moment to remember that the room I’d given those newlyweds was directly above my own room. Crap. I popped in my ear plugs so as to block out the noises of their ridiculous lovemaking. Then the dust above began coming down on my closed eyes. Hey, I get it, people have to do what they have to do, but it’s still a bother when you’re trying to sleep. I threw the sheets over my head.
The sound of a small porcelain figure on my bedside table rocked off and struck the floor, bursting to shards. That was it. I popped out the ear plugs and could hear the moans of pleasure coming from upstairs as though it was happening in my own room. There also came the grinding noise of the bedframe legs sliding across the wooden floors and the thumping sound of the headboard against the wall. What the hell?
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Enough was enough.
I ran upstairs, fully intending to pound on their door, but when I reached the second story, I found the door already ajar. I approached, slowly at first then with an overwhelming anger. They could at least shut the damn door! I pushed my nose in through the crack and saw the young couple going at it, glistening in the moonlight spilling through the window on the far wall. Her hair was wrapped in his fist and her fingernails dug into the headboard. Each slam was followed by her moan and then his brutish grunt. Pictures flew from the walls as they went and yes, indeed, the bed slid along the floor. I could already see that they’d accomplished knocking one of the lamps in their room to the floor. It lay there, belly open and wires exposed.
I was furious.
Just as I was about to clear my throat, something caught my eye. It was the man with the black irises, the fine pressed suit. He stood in their room, in the corner near the window. He was watching them eagerly, licking his lips. His hair clung to his head and his suit still showed signs of splotchy moisture. I was horrified as I put a foot behind to begin my retreat. As I did, the floor beneath me creaked and those awful eyes shot to meet mine. They pierced right through me and he ran his tongue over his upper lip, removing the sweat there.
I ran like the dickens and locked myself in my bedroom.
The following morning, I was exhausted. I think I must have fallen asleep around three o’ clock in the morning but I can’t be sure. All I know is that when my alarm went off, I wanted to slam my head into the wall. Instead, I brewed myself a cup of coffee and set about straightening the garden of flowers I kept out front. When the couple emerged from the inn, taking the steps slowly with shaking legs, I twisted around to confront them.
“I understand you two might be a little,” I looked for the right word, “Excited. But please respect the room. I’ve put a lot of work into this place and I hate to see things go wrong with it.”
The man’s eyes were bloodshot, and he maintained a pair of gray bags above each cheek; the woman hid her mouth behind flat palms. They both looked exhausted. The man nodded, saying something along the lines of, “I’m sorry, we’ll pay for any damages. I’m so sorry.” and they rounded the inn, no doubt searching for one of the delightful trails the grounds had to offer. I peeked around the corner and saw them dip down a path into the forest; the woman’s shoulders shook, and the man put an arm around her. Was she crying?
For some unfathomable reason I felt bad for them. They looked awful.
I turned my attention back to the garden just as the man in the suit took the front steps, rounding the same corner. He said nothing as he passed by me. In fact, I’m sure he didn’t realize I was there at all. His dress shoes made a squelching sound with every step and his limbs gave me the distinct impression that he’d never been given the opportunity to use them properly. Maybe he was tired like the other two. I’m not here to kink shame. If that’s what people are into, that’s fine. I just wish they’d kept the racket down.
After watching him disappear down the same trail the couple had taken, I rushed upstairs, first to the couple’s room to inspect the damage. There were indeed marks where the bed’s legs scratched along the floors surface. I sighed at this and went about cleaning up the glass from the pictures they’d strewn about and the busted lamp. This was ludicrous. I would most definitely be charging this to their card. Christ.
Then I moved to the suit man’s room and as I suspected, it was fairly clean and orderly. I did catch a strange fishy smell though and when I removed the sheets from the bed, I saw that he had used it at some point during the previous night. The bed was soaked through in sweat? No, it was like filthy water. As I inspected the sheets, my suspicions were confirmed. I found clumps of algae clinging to the cotton.
I replaced the bedding, washed the ruined set, then sat on the porch, sipping from my coffee cup. It was cold out. I wanted to cuss and scream but didn’t.
All three of them returned just before the sun fell over the trees, first the couple, then the man. I swear the suit man was dripping water wherever he went. After I heard them return to their rooms upstairs, I examined the wet shoe marks he’d left behind, sneering, and wiping them up.
The second night, I pushed the ear plugs in deep without hesitation. I was going to get some sleep before they did their business that night. I was sure of it.
Again, the scraping of their bed’s legs was too much, and I flung my covers off, moving to the stairs. I was met by the suit man. He stood at the top of the second story landing. I’d nearly not seen him in the dark and so when he spoke, I flinched and almost tumbled down the stairs, “Good evening.” He said.
“H-hello.” I tested warily.
He motioned to the noise coming from the room behind him, “They are rather enthusiastic, wouldn’t you say?”
I swallowed hard. “Who are you?”
He shifted so that I could walk past him, removing a kerchief from his pocket and dabbing away the water coming off his face, “You really ought to be sure they’re not breaking anything.”
Finally, after choking on my own breath, I said, “W-what are you?”
“You should check on your guests.” He urged. “They are your responsibility after all.”
I moved past him, his breath reaching out to chill me. Keeping him in my periphery, I slowly skirted to the cracked doorway, pushing the door in. There they were, same as the last, unaware of the world around them. The bed frame slammed into the wall, leaving drywall craters with each shift. The man was going full speed, the woman clinging on for dear life as her back arched even more wildly than before. Neither of them noticed me standing there because neither one of them could have. They had no heads. They’d been mathematically removed. Perfect. Yet their bodies were suspended in this animation. Thick hot blood shot from their necks in unison with their movements. I felt sick. My knees gave out. I fell to the floor, covering my mouth, weeping. “Oh my god!” I screamed.
I along the floor to shut their door, turning to face the suit man, but he was gone. Shakily, I moved to the second story window at the end of the hall, scanning the lot below, and trying to push the sounds of the newlyweds from my mind. There walked a black figure, out to the lake. He carried something in each hand stiffly by his sides. I knew what those somethings were.
He walked into the lake as calmly as someone going for a stroll and disappeared incrementally beneath the surface of the water with each step till he was gone entirely.