PANIC

The Greyview Inn was built in 1898. In its life, it has also served as a boarding house, a private residence for several years, before being purchased and restored as the building as it stands today.

According to the pamphlet, the Greyview Inn hosted two main spirits—a woman who died falling down the stairs either in a freak accident (or an intentional slaughter) and a man rumored to hunt hidden slaves for eternity.

Kate peered over my shoulder at the dramatically lit pictures of the room we stood in. Side light and photo editing made it significantly creepier.

In person, the restored parlor, complete with frilled curtains and a display of non-fiction Greyview books for sale, didn't pack the same punch. The curtains were drawn, but the overhead chandelier threw too much light to leave any deep shadows except for under normal things like tables and chairs.

No stories meant to scare children ever began with monsters hiding beneath tablecloths.

"In this room, employees often hear footsteps coming from the stairs, even after we've closed the Inn for the night." The tour guide, maybe a few years older than me, gestured around the room. He stood in front of seven of us, a family of three being the only other people taking a ghost tour at 8 at night.

It was everything I expected from a tour of a haunted Maine hotel.

"This is riveting," I whispered to Kate. She nodded idly, but her arms remained crossed tight across her body. Every muscle in her body looked taut, tensed to run or scream or claw at anything that might require it.

Her point stuck in my mind. Natalie claimed to know things she shouldn't. Did I believe that but not the promises made by a pamphlet? 1 in 6 chance of an experience.

It only made me feel sorry for the poor woman on the stairs, doomed not only to pace up and down the instrument of her death, but doomed to an eternity of being annoyed by tourists and teenagers.

Rhys and Dean spoke surprisingly little, nodding vaguely at the tour guide's monologue. Maybe it only unsettled me because I wanted to hear my own voice. Too much quiet left room to hear things that cut through the silence.

All I could think of was Mrs. Driscoll's sobbing, how nerve-wracking that sound would be without a tangible source. If I heard that awful croaking grief in a place like this, I'd be across town faster than a Japanese bullet train.

The guide led us to the foot of the stairs, old wood clearly worn out in the middle of each step. Other things were updated. The wallpaper didn't peel enough to be more than a few decades old, a new addition to remind visitors of what it might have looked like at the time of original construction.

The only footsteps I heard on the stairs were the ones of our slow stampede up toward the hall of rooms.

"Now, the Greyview Inn is not the only building in Cullfield believed to be haunted. The Greyview is unique because it's the only one open to the public for the specific purpose of exploring the presences here," the tour guide continued his script. How long did it take him to memorize all this information? How many times a day did he repeat it?

"And what are the other alleged haunts?" Rhys asked, hands in his pockets. "Ya know, if I was a ghost, where else would I hang out?" 

Beside me, Kate sighed heavily, presumably wishing like me that the response wouldn't end up becoming a list of places we needed to explore. Ghost stories hardly increased any places odds of keeping real, tangible secrets from the last decade.

Unless there was something Rhys wasn't sharing.

"Several buildings in Cullfield have history as part of the Underground Railroad. Closed off passageways are rumored to exist under a handful of private residences. Houses can often struggle in the real estate market if buyers hear any stories of paranormal experiences in the house." The tour guide explained exactly like someone who fielded that question regularly. It was the kind of explanation I would give too if I wanted to avoid getting implicated in break-ins and urban exploring. Pointing out specific private locations probably wasn't a good idea.

"That last part's true... My mom has to find out if anyone died in a house all the time," Kate whispered.

"What about the Harry Garnett building?" I asked, "when it still existed."

The guide hesitated.

"No one died when the Harry Garnett burned down, so I don't see why it would be a site for spirits. I don't personally know anything about it before it burned down except Harry Garnett was a local politician and politicians always have policies not everyone agrees with." He shrugged. "Now, on your right is a bedroom where on several occasions guests claimed to wake up in the middle of the night to see a man standing over them..."

His speech went on, but somewhere after the first recalling of an eyewitness account, I zoned out.

The hall seemed to go on forever, sconces between the doorways making patterns of shadows on the walls.

The guide granted freedom to wander the floor without his unenthusiastic monologues. The family lingered in that first room like they hoped the looming apparition would appear on demand for them at the foot of the bed.

I drifted further down the hall, Kate at my side. I was sure she only wanted the presence of someone who hadn't conspired against her this evening. I was the only candidate that qualified.

"Do you hear something?" I asked her. I wasn't even sure if I did. More than an actual sound, it was an impression.

Halfway down the hall, I turned into one of the open rooms. It had to cost a fortune getting all the period-appropriate furniture and knick knacks right. Everything had its own history beyond being a prop in a tourist attraction, maybe being donated by someone clearing out their grandmother's attic for an estate sale. Someone stitched the quilt on the bed. Someone used to read the thick hardcover book on the side table.

"Jane?" Kate's hand gently brushed my shoulder, stopping me from stepping into the bathroom.

"Can't you hear that?"

Drip drip drip. That's what I heard in the hall when it was too far away to identify. Drip drip drip of droplets hitting concrete.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Kate rubbed her arms like she was freezing cold.

"You're right. It must just be me." I stepped back, turning to the other pieces of the room, touching the knobs on the bed frame.

The view out the window ruined the carefully constructed illusion of 1898, all Cullfield's mixed architecture and early 2000 model cars visible. I stopped there for a moment, picking out the Datsun and Dean's Subaru on the street below. It wasn't so far up, this first floor.

"Let's find the guys." Kate tugged at my arm, something else unsaid on the tip of her tongue. There's a certain tone in people's voices when they stop themselves from saying something.

We bumped into them, literally, right outside the doorway.

"Find anything interesting?" Rhys asked, ghost of a smirking begging the question of whether he was taunting or serious. I couldn't tell, not with him. Next to him, Dean remained unfazed. Bored, even. For someone whose family name was entrenched in old Cullfield politics, he didn't look particularly interested in the unsavory history.

Maybe that's exactly why he wasn't interested.

This section of the tour didn't appear to have a particular time limit. The tour guide started talking again as soon as the four of us and the family gathered back in the hall, done seeing everything we wanted to see in the row of staged rooms.

Back down the stairs, our feet thumped again on the worn out steps.

"Now, going back to Cullfield's history in the Underground Railroad... tunnels were built connecting the Greyview to other safehouses on what used to be the outskirts of town, but are now more centrally located in contemporary times. Later, the same tunnels would play a part in the prohibition period to bring bootlegged spirits into the Inn." The tour led into what was now a restaurant and what clearly used to be a bar. A few people took up tables, eating burgers and drinking Coke out of cups that didn't at all match the decor.

Pictures on the wall showed what the bar used to look like, the layout different from the novelty restaurant we were standing in. Somewhere in the evolution of the place, things got moved around.

The walk continued past the late night snackers through swinging doors into a different room.

"Prohibition required a certain amount of stealth." The tour guide pushed a rack of displayed barrels, the track in the floor making the gag more obvious than I hope it was as a real prohibitions secret.

The mechanism wasn't exactly era-original, but stone arch behind it didn't strike me as cynical.

Kate inhaled sharply. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught her swift look to Rhys. At her sides, her hands become fists and for a second, I honestly thought she was going to smack him again.

"After earlier days when the Greyview offered refuge and safe passage to slaves escaping to Canada, the property changed hands. Looking for a perfect business opportunity, the new owner utilized the old tunnels to move prohibited alcohol through town without the knowledge of the authorities. The tunnel has since been sealed, but a length of it is still deemed safe." The tour guide pulled out a hidden flashlight from the barrel rack.

Kate's fingers wrapped around my arm, threatening to cut off circulation as the guide stepped off the hardwood floors and down the half-step into the tunnel.

The Inn still offered plenty of light through the first several feet of the tunnel.

"In this area, the same man who appeared to guests in room 103 is said to stalk through the passageway, on look out for the fugitives instrumental in the Underground Railroad. It's unknown whether or not he was a slave owner himself or if he was just a sympathizer of the South, but here at the Inn, we've come to know him as Robert." The curved ceiling of the passage bounced odd echoes all over the place, both of the guide's voice and our footsteps.

The deeper we went, the more we relied on the flashlight. We stopped in what looked like an alcove, another rack of barrels on display.

"This section is where moonshine and any other hidden luxury items were kept. Historians are divided, but some believe that the Innkeeper involved himself with a variety of other criminals and in exchange for use of the tunnels, for laying low or for getting from one end of town to the other undetected, they provided things like crates of cigars and money from robberies." The guide panned his flashlight down to a stack of crates meant to represent this possible history.

No one said anything. As a group, the only sounds we really made were the rustling of clothing and the breathing in and out, inhaling the stoney, earthy smell that came from being underground.

And in and instant Kate released my arm, wheeling around so fast Dean jumped back from her. Her breath turned ragged so quickly, threatening to turn into something wetter and more desperate.

"I swear something just brushed my shoulder," she hissed, glancing around. Rhys stood right next to the crate, too far away to be tormenting her. Dean's wide eyes hardly screamed guilt. She twisted, looking for some kind of easy explanation, but our tour group remained the only people in the tunnel.

Kate clapped a hand over her mouth. "I can't do this."

Without further explanation she sprinted back toward the half-circle that was the light at the end of the tunnel. The beam of the flashlight quickly swung around, brightening up the path for her.

"This is my fault," Rhys muttered, taking off after her, leaving Dean and I in the alcove with the family and the tour guide.

"Did she really feel something?" the kid asked his parents, who could only shrug.

"I should..." The tour guide didn't finish his sentence, but handed his flashlight off to the father to go after Kate to save her from writing a bad Yelp review.

For at least a minute, we stood in awkward silence in the near-dark.

I pulled out my phone, flipping on my flashlight app.

Dean paced around, inspecting the displayed barrels, crouching next to the crates. He tried tugging at the lid, but it didn't give.

A stop on a ghost tour seemed like too obvious a place to hide anything valuable anyway.

Very distantly, I thought I could still hear Kate sobbing. When I looked back to Dean, he tilted his head toward the darkened continuation of the tunnel.

I glanced back toward the Inn. There was no sign of our guide.

Wordlessly, I nodded at Dean, shuffling slowly past the alcove.

"Where are they going?" the kid asked his parents, but I didn't hear an answer.

"So, you have politicians in your family?" I asked before the dim echo of our footsteps drove me crazy.

"Cullfield runs in my family," Dean replied, "or my family runs in Cullfield. One of the two."

It struck me that he did remind me of a politician in some ways. He was a collected person, and always appeared when there was a need for someone. He took me on a tour of the school my first day, making just enough jokes to be comfortable while serving his informative purpose. That was exactly the kind of person who was good at only showing what they want people to see.

The tunnel kept going and going, but there were no more alcoves, no more doors.

"You think Kate will be okay?" I asked. There was a temptation in my chest to turn back and go find her, but I couldn't hide from even myself that it would only be an excuse to get out of the tunnel.

But Dean kept walking, following the beam of my flashlight app up and down the tunnel walls.

"Kate imagined she felt something on her shoulder. She'll be fine," Dean said, "you saw someone dead over the weekend and you're worried about someone who got spooked by a few ghost stories?"

Well, from that perspective.

"Thanks for the reminder," I replied, ignoring the chill up my spine.

"Sorry." He paused. "Did you really not know her that well?"

I shrugged. Did I know anyone that well? "I didn't talk much. She didn't talk much."

"But you were there. No one else was. Adults. Neighbors. But it was you," Dean said.

It sounded different when he said it like that. Blunt. Like there was something strange about me that made me act before anyone else. Was it really not just what anyone else would've done?

"Someone had to," I replied.

Behind us, the Inn was only a speck of yellow against a black canvas, but there was nothing.

Let's just go back. I kept wanting to suggest it, but it never came out of my mouth.

"Why did you show up at her house?" I asked in the privacy in the middle of the tunnel. It was just the two of us. No Kate, no Rhys. I wasn't the same as them. I hadn't spent a lifetime in Cullfield knowing Natalie and knowing Dean.

"I knew Natalie my whole life," Dean said, quiet.

"Everyone keeps saying that," I said. There was no anonymity in a small town. There was no such thing as flying under the radar. I tried that and earned myself the grand title of Girl Who Called 911.

"No... I mean, I knew Natalie. I knew about the drawings. I was there." His voice was so measured, so political, but something still lurked underneath. "I knew her better than anyone else."

I didn't need to pan my flashlight across Dean's face to know whatever expression he wore there was a solemn one.

"I'm sorry." At the same time, there was a little swell of relief in my chest. Someone genuinely cared that Natalie was gone. She was more than just a conversation starter, more than just a warning or talking point. She was a person and someone felt something after her death.

"I want to know why. I want to know what it was she was hiding. Why she did this."

We stayed silent. The tunnel ended abruptly, sealed off at the end. Whatever was on the other end probably didn't care for the idea of kids like us wandering away from ghost tours onto their private property.

I scanned the wall. "What do you think we're looking for?"

Dean didn't have an answer, he just squinted at the wall.

"What's that?" I asked. A fleck of white stood out against the wall. I plucked at it, pulling a white strip from a fissure in the wall, black ink scribbled across it.

Dean leaned over my shoulder as I read it.

"You followed the instructions. You pushed the boundaries. I knew you could do it. Now, these are the rules:

One, no skipping ahead. Trust that the schedule exists for a reason.

Two, the pages are marked for a reason. They're written for a specific person.

Three, follow the instructions. Don't stray. The answers don't come easily. Wrongs are easier to commit than they are to fix."

It wasn't notebook paper or sticky note. It was the back of a mall kiosk photo booth. I flipped it over to the four pictures of Dean and Natalie, squished into the tiny booth, laughing, smiling, and kissing.

Dean inhaled sharply next to my ear. "Please don't tell the others," he whispered His voice was so soft and shaky that I didn't know what to do with the tightness in my chest. There was something crushing about it. Dean could be one of too few people who truly, really cared about Natalie's death and he didn't want anyone to know it.

He pulled the strip from my fingers, flipping it back to the instructions side and holding it carefully under the light from my phone. With his, he snapped a picture.

"Look, I'll text it to them. Everyone will know what it says," Dean said, "just don't tell them what it was written on."

He slid it into his pocket, careful not to crease it.

"Why is it a secret?" I asked.

Dean smiled grimly, his mouth turned up but his eyes heavy. "Family, mostly."

So Romeo and Juliet of him, but Natalie was dead and we were underground and Dean did not thrust a dagger into his heart. Not yet, anyway. And I, for one, could say quite confidently that Natalie Driscoll did not fake her death.

"It was Rhys' chapter. You don't think he was meant to see it?" I pressed. Was keeping secrets how we would unravel the book?

Dean shook his head. "We're the ones here and that means we were the ones it was meant for."

I thought about Natalie's red and orange crayons and the Harry Garnet arson. A chill ran up my spine.

"Okay," I said. There was nothing else left for us at the end of the closed off tunnel.

By the time we past by the alcove again, the family was gone, and at the mouth of the passage, a bigger, broader man who was decidedly not our tour guide stood waiting.

He had an I'm going to call your parents kind of look in his eye.

"Dean?" His expression clouded away from the authority figure look and into confusion.

"Good to see you, Mr. Lefevre. Sorry. We got impatient," Dean said, "it was stupid of us."

Familiarity was a good reason for his casual rule-breaking.

"You're really putting that donation to good use!" Dean added, those words enough to make Mr. Lefevre hesitate. Whatever consequences he had in mind vanished.

That was a good explanation for how the Greyview Inn could afford to buy out flea markets for old candlesticks and hand-stitched quilts.

Dean stepped past him without further comment and all I could do was follow after him, pretending to be half as confident and equally as sorry.

"Say hi to your parents for me," Mr. Lefevre said, like it was an afterthought since his options for scolding didn't apply anymore.

We found Kate and Rhys easily, the two of them sitting at one of the sturdy wooden tables in the restaurant. Kate picked at a basket of fries. Her make-up wasn't smeared across her face, but it was washed away entirely, leaving the redness in her face more obvious.

She stared at the closed diary in front of her, saying nothing. 

"So?" Kate asked, half-hearted. Her phone lay next, open to the texted photo, resting on top of the little black book Natalie left behind for us.

Dean didn't dare look at me, hands folded politely in front of him.

"More instructions," I said, the tightness back in my chest, "follow the rules."

"Helpful," Rhys shrugged.

There weren't any more thoughts to share on the subject. As far as interactions with Natalie went, it was rather straightforward. Follow the rules.

It was getting late. We mumbled goodbyes as Dean gently pulled Kate up to take her home.

"I think it was a test," Rhys finally said when I buckled myself into his truck. When no one else was around. 

"A test?"

"Kate's claustrophobic. Years ago, when we were in maybe fifth grade, we went on a field trip to a mine or something and Kate would not go in. She screamed bloody murder whenever anyone tried to convince her it was okay. A parent had to stay out and wait with her," Rhys said.

But she made it down the ladder in Natalie's house. But she also squeezed my arm so tight I thought she might crush it.

"So why put her through that? If you knew it was going to happen, why did you make her?" I bit back some of the harshness, but really, that was torture. On purpose.

"I didn't make her do anything. But it has to make you wonder what got her so far down into the tunnel. What's worth putting herself through that?" Rhys said quietly, "that's what I want to know. What is worth  that?"

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A/N Have any suspicions? What creeps you out?

//kc