Page 6 of Haunted By the Mountain Man
That hit a little too close to home with my background. "You actually give a damn," I said grudgingly.
"These places matter. The people who lived in them, worked in them, died in them—they matter." She closed the laptop. "Walt matters. I won't betray that."
A crash from somewhere below made us both freeze. Then Walt's voice, confused and agitated, echoed in a way that made the hair on my neck rise.
"Shane? Where are you? The lights are out in the dining room. Guests will be arriving soon."
I headed for the door, but Raven followed.
"Stay here. You’ll only make his confusion worse.”
"My grandmother had Alzheimer's," she said. "I know how to play along."
We found Walt in the main dining room, trying to light candles in tarnished candelabras. It was almost midnight and he should have been asleep, but Raven’s appearance messed up his time table. Shadows pooled in the corners like living things. The room was enormous, designed to hold a hundred guests, and now it was just one confused old man trying to prepare for people who would never come.
"There you are," Walt said, relief flooding his weathered face when he saw me. "The power's out again. I've been telling maintenance we need a backup generator, but does anyone listen?" He squinted at Raven in the dim light. "Miss? I don't believe we've met. Are you here for the seasonal position?"
"Yes, sir," Raven said smoothly, moving to help him with the candles. "Just started today."
"Wonderful, wonderful. We're short-staffed as it is." Walt's hands shook as he tried to strike a match. "The dinner service starts at six. Prime rib tonight, Mr. Carlson's favorite. We don’t want to upset Mr. Carlson."
Mr. Carlson had been the old owner.
"Let me help with those," Raven said, gently taking the matches from Walt's trembling fingers. "You should rest your hands, Mr. Harrison. Don't want you getting hurt before the rush."
"You're right, you're right." Walt settled into one of the chairs, and in the candlelight, his uniform looked less faded, his face less lined. As if the gathering darkness was pulling him deeper into his memories. "This place has been my life, you know. Started as a janitor back in '78, worked my way up to head of maintenance. Twenty-three years of keeping this lodge running."
"That's impressive," Raven said, with genuine warmth in her voice.
"It was a good life. A simple life." Walt's pale eyes grew distant. "Until that night. The night everything changed."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Outside, wind rattled the broken windows, and somewhere in the building, something creaked—old wood settling, or footsteps on rotten floors. I couldn't tell which.
"Walt," I said gently. "Why don't we get you some dinner? I brought fresh soup."
"Soup?" He blinked, momentarily confused about which timeline he was in. "But the guests—"
"Are running late," Raven interjected smoothly. "A storm's coming in. They called ahead."
Walt nodded, accepting this. "Of course, of course. Vermont weather. Always unpredictable in October."
As I helped Walt to his feet, I caught Raven's eye. She was good at this. Natural. But I also saw the way she glanced at the shadows gathering in the corners, the way her shoulders tensed when the wind howled.
The lodge was creepy enough without Walt's confused wandering. Add in an isolated location, no cell service, and the approaching darkness of an October night, and I saw why her subscribers would eat this up.
We settled Walt in his makeshift living area—a corner of what had been the main office, where I'd set up a cot, a campingstove, and enough medical supplies to run a small clinic. The space was warmer here, more contained, and Walt relaxed as I prepared his evening medications.
"You're a good boy, Shane," Walt said as I checked his blood sugar. "Always taking care of everyone. Just like your mother taught you."
I didn't correct him. Walt had never met my mother—none of my foster families had been the teaching kind—but in his fractured memories, he'd created a version of my past that was kinder than reality.
"Quick pinch," I said, administering his insulin.
Raven watched from the doorway, her expression thoughtful. When Walt started eating the soup I'd heated, she gestured for me to follow her into the hallway.
"He mentioned a name earlier," she said quietly. "When he was talking about the fire. Who's Carlson?"
"The owner. Back in the nineties." I kept my voice neutral. "Why?"
