Page 15 of A Christmas to Die For
Instinct kicks in, and Sabrina slams on the brakes, tires screeching against the pavement, the harsh sound of metal chains grinding against gravel ringing in our ears. We lurch forward, grateful for our seat belts to hold us in place.
A young deer stands before us, the glaring spotlight of the headlights illuminating its face.
"You almost made us crash... because of a deer?" Sabrina seethes as it quickly darts off into the woods.
"It would have wrecked the car!" Phoebe argues. "And we don't want to kill an innocent creatureanddestroy our only means of transportation."
"My tires could be ruined! Did you hear that godawful sound?"
"We're all on edge," I tell Sabrina gently. "It's starting to clear up. Let's just take a deep breath and focus on the road. No more talking, no more distractions. The map says we're close."
As she accelerates, faded artificial flowers cling to mile marker twelve just out of view—a quiet memorial to a car crash. A reminder of how quickly things can go wrong on roads like this, when people gamble with the weather.
Sabrina gets us to the top of Frosthaven Falls in one piece, the chains on the tires proving to be a lifesaver.
Yes, that man was a few cards short of a full deck, with a foot fetish and maybe something darker, but we made it out unscathed—slightly traumatized, but unharmed. We've got two nights in this cursed town. We'll grab the footage we need, then leave.
But the thought of driving back down and passing that psycho's street makes my skin crawl.
"That's the store Romee went to." Phoebe points to a rundown convenience market.
"Are they even still in business?" I ponder.
How any of these shops survive this season, let alone all year, is beyond me. Yet the pizza joint, local bar, antique/thrift shop, and a tiny drive-thru coffee kiosk all flash bright, neon "OPEN" signs.
"Small towns stick together. They rely on the support of the locals."
Phoebe must have done her homework as well. It's our responsibility to investigate the clients or subjects we're covering, and in this case, that includes gathering any intel we can about the town. I'm skeptical we'll find anything worth sharing. At the very least, I think our presence there will be chilling enough to the viewers who might not be totally familiar with what happened there.
We all scan the sleepy town, our gaze passing over a deserted park and a vacant baseball field to our left. A lone Christmas tree, barely a tenth the size of Rockefeller Center's, sits at the center of town, its lights twinkling dimly like they're on the verge of shorting out, and oversized ornaments scattered on its branches. But it doesn't feel festive. It feels… sad. As if the residents can't even enjoy the happiest time of year because of the dark shadow hanging over this place. Imagine the opposite of Whoville.
There are no bystanders or shoppers. Even if the stores say "open," it doesn't mean anyone's inside. Everyone must be busy wrapping Christmas presents. Or the smartest choice: staying inside and warm from the flurries that scatter around our slowly approaching car.
"There's the motel," I point Sabrina to our final destination, the car never going past fifteen miles per hour, giving us the chance to soak in the small-town experience.
The Whispering Pines Motel consists of small cottages, each with its own entrance, arranged in a half-circle, with its own assigned parking spot. The office sits front and center, like the layout of a clock, with the cottages spread between the nine and three positions.
"I count fifteen cottages." Phoebe points to each standalone cabin with fifteen separate chimneys.
"These look adorable!" Sabrina squeals. She's in for a surprise when she sees the interior. While it might look cozy and cute from the outside, the interior photos on the website left a lot to be desired.
"We're lucky we even got a room," I remind her, trying to soften the blow. The parking lot is pretty deserted. Everyone must be skiing already.
We all pile out of the car and sprint toward the small office up front.
Calling it a lobby is a bit generous. The only thing waiting for us is a tiny check-in desk and a mountain of trifold brochures in a large display—reminiscent of the ones I'd see at other hotel lobbies, with colorful maps of all the theme parks and excitement in the area. Except, of course, there are no fun parks around here.
The faux Christmas tree in the corner looks like it was pulled from a Sears catalog fifty years ago. I'm pretty sure if I so much as tap it, the brittle plastic needles will crumble into dust at my feet. What really freaks me out, though, is how close it is to thefireplace. One spark or ember, that's all it would take, and the whole thing would go up in seconds.
Harper Grace's "Country Christmas" song plays softly from unseen speakers, the lyrics mentioning rednecks and adding alcohol to their wishlist, and the irony of being in such a town hits me square in the face.
"Should I yell something?" Sabrina muses from her spot next to the fireplace, warming her hands.
Before we can even ring a nonexistent jingle bell to announce our arrival, a rather attractive face appears from behind a hidden door that blends seamlessly into the wood-paneledwalls.
"Holy crap, a secret door?" Mara exclaims.
She and I are more captivated by how perfectly it camouflages with the detailed, intricate wood grain, realizing now that's exactly why it was built this way.
