Page 92 of Oh No! There's an Incubus in my Hot Spring
“If any of us are still standing at the end, I’ll be surprised,” she says with a smile, squeezing my hands.
“Oh, one of the upstairs lights was flickering during your interview,” Irene says, looking around. “Might need to change a bulb.”
“Irene, it’s fine,” I say, dragging her attention back to me. “It’ll add to the haunted aesthetic and we’ll get it later.”
She nods but I can see the panic in her eyes.
“Everything’s going to be great, promise. You’ve done amazing,” I say, holding her gaze.
She breathes with me, and slowly, her shoulders melt away from her ears.
The crunching of gravel alerts me to a car approaching and we all look out the open doors. We marked parking spots with string and ribbons, and the first guest to arrive follows the plan easily, picking a close spot by a golden tree.
A middle-aged woman slips out of the driver’s seat in a cocktail dress, her hair coifed perfectly on top of her head. Leonard appears from the spot behind her, and another man joins them as they approach the springs. I turn on my best host’s smile as they come inside.
“Thank you so much for coming,” I say, showing them in.
His mother reaches out first. “Brittany Jones.”
“Sylvia Azarolla,” I say, taking her hand firmly.
“Anton,” his father says, reaching out next.
“Welcome, let’s get you tagged.” We stop at the first station, and they write their names down on the glowing placards, then hang them around their necks.
“Thank you so much for inviting us, despite my son’s history with this place.” Brittany elbows her son and he rubs the back of his neck.
He must’ve told her about vandalizing the place just in case it came up in conversation. What a cutie.
“Of course. I left some chalk upstairs so you can tag the wall a little more politely. It’s our guestbook of sorts, inspired by Leonard,” I say, smiling at him.
Anton chuckles, his eyes sparkling as he takes in the room. “You sure know how to dress a place up.”
“Thank you.” I wrap one arm around Apollo’s waist and another around Irene’s, pulling them into the praise. “We’ve worked really hard, and I love it.”
Another two cars crunch up the drive, spurring me into action. I move to the drink station and serve the Joneses their beverages. Apollo takes Leonard’s family upstairs to the “guestbook,” and Irene helps the newcomers with their name tags.
The guests flow in over the next thirty minutes—mostly people in town I’ve interacted with, like the father-daughter owners of Nipon Sushi, the manager and a few of the workers at the localgrocery store, and of course I had to invite everyone at the comedy club. We need some levity here. There are a lot of faces I don’t know, but thank goodness for Irene helping with the name tags, I can address everyone properly as I serve them drinks.
“My turn,” Irene says, pushing her way behind the reception station.
I take a steading breath and give myself a decent pour of red wine.
“Go get ’em,” Irene says, patting me on the butt to shoo me away.
I sip my wine and wind my way to the second floor for some tapas. The “Leonard” guestbook wall already has several signatures and drawings. Charlie is posted up on the desk with the chalk and a little hand-drawn word bubble above his head that says “Welcome to the Enchanted Sylvan Springs! “quack quack!” I smile and snap a quick picture of it for social media.
“I’m gonna be a star, mama!”
I chuckle.You sure are, buddy.
Apollo is chatting with Dave, a cook from the diner, so I join him for a bit to get my bearings. Dave is going on about the Colorado hockey team, and Apollo, bless him, is listening avidly. I squeeze Apollo’s arm after a few minutes and let him know I’m going to mingle.
Every group knows me by name and welcomes me into their circle to chat as I move about. The big topic is the haunted status of the springs, to which I tell them to keep their eyes on Ghost Hunter Gabe’s channel on ViewTube for an update. Some ask about the renovations, praising the new aesthetic, and others talk about how excited they are to have a more private venue in town.
When it’s time for the big giveaway, I move back toward the guestbook wall where the comically large chance wheel sits. Each slice has a social media handle on it for those who enteredthe drawing, and I’m hoping it’ll land on someone who’s actually here tonight.
Phones point my way to record as I reach up and grab a rung of the colorful wheel. I’m reminded ofThe Price is Rightfor a second as I pull it down. The yellow marker at the top clicks loudly against the rungs and the audience claps.
