The Chambermaid: A Chilling Mystery Thriller, page 1
The Chambermaid
A Chilling Mystery Thriller
Ramona Light
The Chambermaid
© 2022 by Ramona Light
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including information storage and retrieval systems, without express written permission by the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and places are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. None of the characters in the book are based on actual persons. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely and unintentionally coincidental.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Epilogue
Also By Ramona Light
Chapter 1
I’ve been replaying this moment in my head every day for the last ten years, but I’m still filled with dread.
The Maine sky above me is getting dark even though it’s not yet five. I look back at the long, winding road I’ve just driven, and I can only see the tip. The endless, gaping mouth of the trees and shrubs swallows the rest up. A crow squawks, but I see none when I scan the sky. The smell of burning wood coming from somewhere is sickly sweet.
I feel like I am at a significant moment in my life. But if the first part of this plan fails, it has all been pointless. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Even if I’m blocked off at this early stage, I can just retreat to my tiny apartment in Keaton. Then I can begin working at it from a new angle.
The heat of the evening is heavy and dead. Tiny whispering ribbons of fog have gathered around the tall house before me. I can see the looming shape of the hotel against the graying sky. I can make out a handful of the hotel’s windows, and all but one are dark. The rest of them are blocked from view. The house holds so many memories, yet somehow seems alien. A few of the windows that pepper the three stories are lit up. They look like gold teeth in the mouth of a rotting corpse.
I’m still standing beside my brown Oldsmobile with the driver’s door open. I feel like my feet are glued to the small gravel parking lot. There is only one other vehicle—a battered Ford truck. I’m sure there will be more in the main lot outside the hotel, but I can’t see that area from here.
When I lift the newspaper clipping up to examine it for the hundredth time, my hand is shaking. Four damp fingerprints run along the top. When I reread the words printed underneath, I feel a sudden sense of dread. Am I insane to be doing what I’m about to do? What if I’m recognized? Or even worse, what if I’m wrong?
I’m not the bravest of souls. The worst part is that I’ve no clue how this is going to play out.
I try to move my body again, but it remains locked in position. The unseen crow shrieks another call, splitting the silence like a rusty blade through an old dress. It feels like a warning. My heart is beating too fast, and my palms are slick. Somehow, I find the energy to fold the newspaper clipping and slip it into the breast pocket of my black summer coat. The long navy dress with the floral design on it clings to my skin. Every breath I take feels more precious than it should.
The Lakeview Hotel didn’t always have its address marked as Hillvale, Maine. No, before the Church of True Believers took over the premises, it was simply a part of the neighboring town of Keaton. Of course, if one town grows while the next one struggles, then the smaller one is always swallowed up. But none of that matters and the building itself will always remain in the same place.
You’re procrastinating, Ellie, I tell myself. You’re putting off the inevitable because you know the outcome.
The Church of True Believers isn’t known for allowing outsiders into its world. Although, it’s not unheard of. I’m hoping a job as a maid in a rundown hotel will seem unimportant in their eyes. At least, I think that is what I’m feeling.
Wouldn’t there be a great relief in being told the position had been filled? Or that I’m not suitable for the role? To climb back into my trusty Olds and drive her out of Hillvale and back into my old life? Sure, but nothing will ever feel right until I’ve done what I need to do.
And what is it you need to do, Ellie? Do you even know?
Not really. But as Felix used to say back in Harlingwood House, if I don’t roll the dice, then I’ll never know.
Most other twenty-year-old girls are out partying and having a good time. Or they are studying for college and talking about boys they like. But I’m standing here shaking outside an old, spooky house. Why am I doing this to myself? I could be in—
This isn’t you, Ellie, the voice in my head almost screams. This isn’t you at all, so just turn around and hightail it out of here.
“No,” I rasp into the thick, warm air.
I move my arm to close the car door, and this time it obeys. The sharp snap of the latch catching makes me jump. The urge to drive away returns with force. I take two deep breaths and then swallow it away. I’ve worked too hard to give up. If I relent to my fears now, I’ll never again build up the courage to return. I know that with all my heart.
I walk toward the house before I realize I’ve left my purse on the passenger seat. As I open the driver’s door and lean across, I have a sudden feeling someone is watching me. In fact, I know they’re going to wrap their hands around my neck any second now.
I quickly fumble my way back out of the car with the bag in my shaking hand. I am alone by the side of the car; nobody is standing behind me. My eyes need to adjust to the darkness again. When they do, I swear I see the curtains in one of the upstairs windows twitch. Squinting my eyes and looking up, it is still too hard to tell. Even if someone was there, what difference does it make? They would probably wonder who the crazy young lady is that keeps standing in the same spot outside their house.
Their house?
I shake my head to clear it and start off along the little stone path leading up to the front porch. Maybe I should have gone to the hotel instead. I’m here to interview for a position there, after all. Calling on the owner’s home may seem a little presumptuous.
Oh well, there is nothing I can do about it now. When I step onto the floorboards of the porch, they scream in protest. My heart is beating too fast, and I can already see the light coming on in the hall.
Without thinking, my hand comes up and presses the bell. The sound it makes is like a gong. It echoes several times before fading away into the night. I can hear steady footsteps approaching from inside as I wait for whoever it is to open the door. I must be crazy. Why else would I be trying to get a job at a place widely referred to as “America’s last haunted house”?
Chapter 2
The hallway is nothing like I remember. Then again, every image I still have of this house is blurred and misshapen. Except for the gray robes and hoods, of course. I’ll remember them until the day I die.
I can see a small table by the front door with an old rotary phone on top. I haven’t seen one before except in the movies. I wonder if it really works or if it’s just for show? A long staircase faces it, leading up to the landing. Again, it seems familiar but different all at once. The railing running up the side looks like oak, but it could just be the varnish. The carpet feels dead underneath my feet. When I look down, I can barely make out the design on the brown material.
The man who answers the door is tall and gangly. He has mousy brown hair that is receding and round-rimmed glasses over dark, beady eyes. When I shook his hand a moment ago, it was clammy. However, that could easily have been me, as I’m still sweating.
The large front door creaks behind me and then closes with a thump. The house smells musty, and the dangling bulb above makes our shadows sway.
“You’re here about the job, you say?” the man asks. He must be no older than 35, yet he talks like a granddad.
“Yes, I saw the ad in the paper.”
“Ah.”
We stand like that for a while. I can feel his beady eyes on me, but they don’t feel too intrusive. At least not yet. The musty smell is overpowering, but there is a hint of something else underneath it. I can’t put my finger on what it is, though.
He lifts one of his spindly arms and points down the hallway. “Shall we step into the study?”
“Sure.”
He leads the way, moving like a cat that has been recently spooked. I keep waiting for something to ignite a memory, but nothing does. It’s been a decade since I’ve been here, and I was only ten when I left. My memories of the house are hazy. So much so that I sometimes wonder if they happened at all.
“What is your name?” he asks over his shoulder. He is wearing a pea-green cardigan over dark green pants. On his feet are shoes that look like animal skin, though I have no idea which one.
“Ellie,” I say. “Ellie Mason.”
“Indeed,” he replies, still not looking at me. As we pass a painting of an old man in a green jacket, he adds, “My name is Clifford Hill.”
“Pleased to meet you, Clifford,” I say to the back of his head.
“Indeed.”
We come to another corridor and turn left. Clifford has to fumble for a light switch for what feels like an eternity. It seems odd that he takes so long, and I’m struck again by how old he behaves. The musty smell is worse here, and there is no hint of that other strange smell from earlier.
We pass more paintings of people I’ve never seen. The wallpaper behind them looks like it might have been red once. Every door has old-style twisty doorknobs on them. Again, I have no recollection of these. They may have been here ten years ago, but I can’t be sure. What ten-year-old notices things like that?
“How long have you lived here, Clifford?” I ask.
“Hmm?” he replies as we round another corner. Again, he struggles to find the switch.
“Have you lived here long?”
“Oh, yes indeed.” There is a dull click, and then the next corridor is thrown into brightness. “Ah, there we are!”
I don’t remember the house being this big. I don’t recall much of anything from back then. Every corner we turn, I keep expecting the living room to come into view. That room, I can remember. That and the gray robes. And the blood, of course…
Clifford suddenly stops, and I nearly walk right into the back of him. He pulls a huge set of keys out of his pocket. They are attached to a string that dangles down by his side. As he looks through them, I notice his fingernails are filthy. They look like a child’s after they’ve played in the mud all day. When his glasses slide down his beak of a nose, he pushes them back up with his thumb.
“Excuse me,” he half-whispers as he flicks through the keys. “There are so many locks in this house!”
“It’s no problem,” I tell him.
Clifford finds the one he’s looking for and slips it into the keyhole. He jiggles it for a moment, and then there is a sharp snap. The door slides open with a whoosh, and I’m greeted by a large office. Clifford called it a study, and I suppose it is. I just always pictured more books on the shelves of a study. The only things on the walls here are more paintings.
The desk is ancient. On top, there is no computer, only a large leather-bound ledger and a green-shaded lamp. I even see a fountain pen next to a jar of ink. I think of the old phone in the hallway again and feel like I’m in a time warp.
“Please, Miss Mason,” he says, pointing at a red leather chair. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you,” I chime, trying to sound upbeat. I’m anything but, though.
Clifford shuffles around to the other side of the desk and slides down onto the huge armchair behind it. It looks like something out of a Dickens novel. With his skinny frame against it, he looks ridiculous.
I reach into my bag, and I’m glad to see my hand is barely shaking now. When I take out my resume and place it on the desk, Clifford looks at it with a creased brow.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“My resume.”
He waves a hand at it dramatically. “Pish-tosh! No need for all of that. I can read people by their manners, and that is all the resume I need.”
“Okay,” I reply, a little uneasily.
“Yes, yes,” he says. Then he seems to look past me for a moment. Again, I get the irrational feeling someone is standing behind me.
Stop it, Ellie, I scold myself. You’re just trying to spook yourself.
Still, he holds his gaze over my shoulder. When he finally brings it back down to me, his eyes look a little glazed. It could just be the glasses, though.
Clifford drums his dirty fingers on the desk. The sound is like a terrified heartbeat. I feel like he is waiting for me to talk.
I clear my throat nervously. “So, you never told me how long you’ve lived here, Clifford?”
“All my life,” he tells me. “I’ve lived here all my life, Miss Mason.”
Chapter 3
“You’re aware of the hotel’s history, Miss Mason?” Clifford asks. In the green hue of the desk’s lamp, his sharp face looks ill.
“The hauntings?”
“Indeed.”
“Yes,” I say. “But I don’t believe in all that stuff.”
“Good, good!” Clifford chimes. “That is very good. We want our patrons to believe it, but not our staff. It can lead to issues when the maids and other workers get spooked.”
“Are there many other people working here?”
“Not many,” Clifford says, shaking his head. Some of his thinning hair comes loose, and he brushes it back with his hand. “Just me, my auntie, and several of our fellow Believers who work here part-time.”
I see by his expression that he wants me to ask about the Believers. I don’t, as everyone for miles around Hillvale and further knows about the CTB.
“Part-time?” I ask. I crease my brow. Part-time won’t work; it just won’t. “But the ad said you were looking for a full-time maid?”
“Indeed!” Clifford exclaims. “We are coming into the busy season, and each year gets more hectic. The decision was made to hire a full-time maid. You will be our first!”
“Are you saying—”
“That you’ve got the job?” he interrupts. “Yes, if you will take it?”
“Don’t you want to call any of my references?” I ask. There are only three numbers on my resume, and two of them connect to Felix. I’ve only had one other job in my life, so filling out that section took some fabrication. “I have some contacts on my resume.”
He waves a theatrical hand at the papers I left on his desk. “No need. As I mentioned a moment ago, I’m an excellent judge of character. I’m sure someone as punctual as you will be an asset to Lakeview.”
The study falls silent. In here, the musty smell isn’t as bad as in the rest of the house. Or at least the parts of it I’ve seen this evening. Clifford’s thin lips part in a smile, but it looks forced. He seems nervous and awkward, and it is only adding to my uneasiness.
“So,” I begin, then clear my throat. “I can start soon?”
“Tomorrow, if possible, Miss Mason,” Clifford says, lacing his hands on the desk. “Of course, you know this is a live-in position, right?”
“Yes.”
“We all discussed this aspect greatly before placing the ad,” he declares. “And a live-in situation seemed like the only plausible solution.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Of course,” he replies. “Unlike most hotels that get busy in summer, we get our rush in the fall, as unseasonably warm as this one has begun.”
“Okay?” I say, stretching out the “ay.”
“It’s the reputation, you see. People think there is more chance of seeing a ghost or a ghoul when it’s dark and windy,” he tells me, chuckling. “They’ve seen too many movies, Miss Mason. And heard too many tales of Lakeview Hotel.”
I’ve heard them too, I want to say. I’ve lived them, Clifford. I want to scream these things at him. Instead, I smile and nod. Clifford does the same, his thin lips almost invisible. His sunken cheeks are clean-shaven. And the pea-green cardigan he wears is ill-fitting. Although he seems quite creepy I also feel he’s harmless. It’s all quite hard to put into place.
