Rain. Red mud gushed up, glutting the windshield. To see at all, I must lean forward, grip the wheel. Perched atop a steep hill, the Inn is only accessible via a single-lane dirt road. I drive no faster than thirty, round each curve with the care of a delivery room doctor—still I spin out. Ease the car from the ditch, fix the tire, then record the entire incident in my journal. Up up up the hills, down a gravel driveway. The Inn: shrouded by seven pines, four waxy shrubs; yard otherwise cleared off save an unpainted wooden fence, smattering of pigs, three cows, a lone chicken wailing. No sooner have I parked the car than William, one of the Inn's owners, taps on the driver's window wonderful weather, eh?

A suitcase in each hand, we walk across the sagging porch steps. With a bow, William opens the door, scurries inside. Crusted oriental rugs line the lobby, which is really an over-sized living room. Vaguely floral wallpaper, a plush red davenport; silk hyacinths shoved into mason jars, jars scattered across the mantle, couch-side tables. William introduces me to his twin brother Horatio who extends his hand we own the Inn with our sister Mary. Horatio gestures towards a woman seated behind an engraved desk. The sibling's resemblance is startling. Sliding my room key across the desk, Mary smiles
most of our other guests are still asleep. Dinner will be served at eleven pm. I ask eleven? Mary nods eleven. Smoothing down my skirt, I ignore the oddness of the dinner hour, Mary’s expressionless face. I sign the guest book using the alias assigned to me by the paper: Billie Lassiter, age 27, Houston, TX, 10/15/1939. From his perch at the top of the stairs, Horatio stares down at me. Stares with persistence: I'll show you to your room. Located at the far end of the second story, my room has but one window, overlooking the pig pen. Horatio apologizes about the weather, his attire we don't normally dress like this. It’s just the pigs been getting...we'll see you at dinner, eh? I say yes then shut the door.

Although I am alone in the room, I cannot shake the feeling of Horatio's gaze. It creeps across my face, slopes down my back and legs. I snap the blinds shut, close the curtains. The only light in the room comes from the crack beneath the door. Two hours pass. I sit on the bed in silence. Worn from the drive, will take all my might to attend dinner. Intestines ache at the mere thought of digestion. Head swarms at the first sounds of the other guests waking, staggering down the hall towards the communal bathroom. 9:43 pm. Countless flushes, insistent knocks, water from the tap, a woman sighing its so early, far too early. In my notebook, I record all that I hear and smell—what little I can see through the crack at the bottom of the door. Write even about Horatio's “gaze” knowing Mr. Hammonds, my boss at the paper, will twist his face aww shit how many times have I told you. Someone knocks on the door. Without my consent my whole body stiffens, refuses to soften even as I answer the voice what is it? A man says dinner in five minutes.

Before I even reach the dinning room, voices. Whirring chatter. Although my body has loosened, it now shakes visibly. Of what I am afraid: I cannot say. In the foyer I stop to rest, lean my head against a massive flower pot. Several minutes pass. My breathing slows. I walk down a small set of carpeted steps into the dinning room. As the door swings open, the guests fall silent. William grabs my hand come, honey, take a seat already. I sit next to a woman named Caroline and her husband Harold. They’re drinking gin fizzes, grinning through the liquor we’re from Cali-forn-ia. William pours me a glass of wine is this alright? We toast. Twenty guests total. Most from far-away, out West or the Plains. I gulp down my wine, ask Caroline what brings you to the area? Aside from the Inn, there are no attractions of any sort for at least fifty miles. No views, hiking trails, gasps of nature. The only reason for booking a room: seclusion. Horatio emerges from the kitchen with a 16lb smoked ham; the table sags beneath its weight. Some guests eat famishly while others dawdle, lingering over the broccoli. At the precise moment I realize I can eat no more, Mary sweeps my plate, and only my plate, from the table in a single, effortless gesture—almost unperceivable. I stare slack-jawed. William eyes Mary briefly, then noticing me eyeing him, turns the opposite direction.

Dismissed from dinner, I return to my room. Although it’s apparent by the noise downstairs that there is a gathering, I am not invited. I note this fact in my journal. I note all “facts.” Study the room, as if my life depended on it, and in a way, yes.

      Mr. Hammonds is famous in Houston, only Houston. Famous by trade: tabloids. He owns several more reputable print outlets but none have garnered the public affection and rage as The Houston Bullet. I once worked for his most prestigious paper The Houston Post; however, a single incorrect fact landed me in the over-stuffed leather chair opposite Mr. Hammonds’s desk. Ten, twenty minutes he stared me down, informed me that never, not even once, had The Post printed a retraction. He paced the room: but with you, that’s what we had to do. He sat down behind his desk I’ve got your new assignment. For The Bullet. You know, The Bullet, yes? Of course, I knew: I was being punished, exiled. Mr. Hammonds contunuted: its not that you made a mistake but that you made a willful mistake. Sympathizing with your subjects won't get you anywhere. I uncrossed my legs, sat back straight in the chair: the Bullet, really?
      Prior to his role as print tycoon, Mr. Hammonds worked as a hustler in San Antonio, and although he tried, he never lost the look. Clad in his swagger-suit, he rubbed his paunch with the palm of his hand then lit his pipe aw you’re a tough girl, Lara. You’ve done worse assignments before. Inhaling hard, he coughed—look, I’ve heard a lot of shit about this Inn up in Vermont. Write your piece on whatever you see. Or think you see. I could not believe his audacity. Standing from my chair, hands on my hips: Vermont? Hesitating none, he motioned for me to sit, did not even pause before adding under normal circumstances we would never send a woman on this sort of story. 1,689 miles. the drive will be good for your head. clear out all the riff-raff. Without waiting to hear my answer, he handed me a big blue envelope of research, a set of keys, and said call when you get there.

Using the bedside telephone, I dial Mr. Hammonds number. No answer. More noise from downstairs. Noise straight-on till four am, then, silence. No, not silence: an almost quiet. A stirring. I tip-toe from my room, crouch by the stairs, and peer into the lobby, which is empty. From my spot I can see down the hall, past the kitchen, bathroom, and dining hall. All looks still, quiet. I descend the stairs, holding my breath, my entire body close. Two steps down the hall, I am stopped by William ah Mrs. Lassiter we thought you were asleep. I stutter helplessly sleeping pills, I’ve taken and can’t find the kitchen. Something about water, yes water. William says there’s a cooler upstairs, outside the bathroom. His hand on my shoulder, he leads me back upstairs goodnight Mrs. Lassiter.

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