Page 24 of A Christmas to Die For
"Does that mean every place and home is without electricity?" Mara's still holding onto that frenzied look, and I want to tell her to calm down before she scares poor Daisy.
"Everyone's got a backup generator."
"The Whispering Pines Motel, too?" Sabrina's panic is now as obvious as Mara's.
"Oh yeah, I'm pretty sure Chet has a backup power system in place for each cabin. Don't worry, we're used to this. Y'all won't freeze to death."
"Hey, while we have you here," I begin, lowering my voice.
"What can I help you with?" Her eyes gleam with kindness, unaware of the tension surrounding the impending question.
"Who is Albert?" I whisper, half-afraid I'll draw more attention to us by saying the dreaded name.
"Albert? He's harmless. Truly. He has dementia and has been in this town for decades. His whole family grew up here, but…" She trails off, and I catch the sadness in her tone. "It's tough. They don't take care of him anymore."
"Does he live off Deadwood Grove?" Mara pulls out the photo from her phone, showing Daisy.
"His family wants nothing to do with him." Daisy reveals a sad but resigned smile on her face. "But he's really harmless. He's lived here so long, everyone knows him."
Daisy seems too innocent and pure to be aware of the incident involving Albert's genitals that left us all scarred for life.
I guess, in a way, it makes sense that Albert would act out like that. His behavior isn't excusable, but part of me wonders if he even understands what he's doing anymore. Albert is losing his cognitive faculties, and I'm reminded of an interview we did with a daughter whose mother had Alzheimer's. One day, the woman didn't recognize her own husband and killed him when he walked through the front door.
I remember Albert asked us where we were headed twice in the span of a couple minutes. Instead of being afraid of him, I find myself feeling a deep pity for him. He's been left here, abandoned in a town where no one seems to truly care for him, and now, slowly, he's losing his mind.
The rest of dinner is uneventful. Every time Mara mentions going home or reminds us that we're only staying one more night, Phoebe silently agrees, her eyes betraying her impatience.
This is turning out to be a huge waste of time. Even as we eavesdropped on the conversations around us, nothing groundbreaking emerged. Just the usual complaints about the lack of healthcare in the area and how they really need to build an urgent care facility.
I kept hoping someone would drop a hint, something like,"Yeah, given what happened here a year ago… you'd think they'd have a healthcare facility by now."Maybe then we'd get some juicy details, something no one else knew about. But no. Nothing.
At least the pizza was hot and fresh, and it felt good to eat something substantial, even if we came up empty-handed… again.
The three of us leave The Hidden Slice and brave the biting wind and snow as we safely run back to our room. As we creep toward our cabin, the very oxygen around us hums with unease.
Something is wrong.
The air grows cold, the wind picking up and swirling dust through the narrow gap of our barely ajar door.
"Did someone break in?" I can barely register my own voice, regardless of how silent the night is.
We stand there, hearts pounding, staring at the sliver of darkness that could hide so many possibilities.
"I'll go get Chet," Mara says decisively.
She runs toward Cabin One, while Phoebe and I step back from the door, unsure whether it's empty or hiding an intruder.
A moment later, we see Chet answer his door, clothed in nothing but a thin t-shirt and jeans—far too little for the temperature drop. Mara's words from afar hit him hard, and we see it in his eyes, that flash of fear. He disappears from sight, and for a moment, everything is still.
Then he reappears, clothes hastily thrown on, jacket barely zipped up. Don't these hillbillies own guns? Why is Chet running toward us with a baseball bat? Why hasn't he grabbed a rifle or at least a shotgun? He moves toward us with urgency, but the bat in his hand seems almost laughable.
My mind races, thoughts spiraling into the worst possible scenarios. I tell myself it's just the wind—it's been relentless—and maybe we didn't secure the door well enough. Maybe whoever was supposed to lock it behind us simply didn't latch it fully, and the gusts pushed it open.
But then, as I peer into the thick, suffocating darkness behind the door, I wonder:What if I see a face staring back at me?
"Stay behind me," Chet orders, raising the bat slightly, getting into position.
"Is the electricity working?" Phoebe murmurs.
