Page 4 of Mania

I yelp, springing up to stand.

A man watches me from a few steps away, standing near the back of the church. Pale blond hair combed neatly to the side and dressed casually in a white t-shirt and black trousers.

The loud chirp of the cicadas must have covered the sound of his approaching steps.

“I — uh — I’m a guest here,” I answer as a way of explaining my presence.

His brown eyes stay pinned to me as he takes a drag of his cigarette. “Haven’t had a new guest in quite some time,” he remarks.

I wring my hands. The silence lingers.

I clear my throat. “Been here long?” I ask, not sure what else to say.

His gaze slides toward the forest, the branches and leaves swaying in the weak summer breeze. He takes another drag of his cigarette before his attention returns to me. “Far too long.”He pitches his cigarette butt to the ground with his thumb and index finger before crushing it under the toe of his saddle shoe. “You shouldn’t linger here,” he mutters.

Turning around, he disappears around the corner of the abandoned church before I have the chance to ask him if he meant the graveyard or the hotel.

Chapter 3

Maeve

I returninside the hotel not long after.

Standing in the middle of my room, I stare at nothing, lost in thought.

It’s a small space, just big enough for a queen-sized bed near the French balcony doors, the faded varnish of the bed frame matching the armoire near the bathroom. Something about the decor feels outdated, the wallpaper dull and lifeless.

Even with the balcony doors open, there’s barely a breeze. The metal fan drones loudly in the corner of the room; the hotel doesn’t offer air-conditioning. I’m not used to this kind of heat, it prickles uncomfortably on my skin, even this early in the day.

I haven’t moved, still holding the room key in my hands. I can’t shake my weariness. I feel turned around, unable to process even the simplest of actions.

There’s a rap at the door, and I jump at the sound.

“Housekeeping!”

I swallow hard, my heart drumming at a much faster ratethan it should as my anxiety settles into my body like an unwelcome guest.

“I’m okay for today, thank you,” I rasp, my feet glued to the floor.

I listen to the receding footsteps, the same sing-song ofHousekeeping!echoing somewhere down the hall.

My gaze lands back on the bed, unfocused and adrift. My mind unwittingly pulls me back to the graveyard and the memories attached to it. They call to me like the voice of someone drowning, dragged by the wind and sea.

I finally decide on a cold shower.

The lobby isthe loftiest space in the hotel with its high ceilings and large open space for guests to sit. The furniture is outdated even here, and it gives me the vague sense that I’ve somehow time-traveled to decades past.

Walking up to the reception, I wait for an employee to appear, drumming my fingers on the wood of the desk; after a minute of idling, I grow impatient and ring the service bell.

I wait some more.

I move to ring the bell again when I hear a voice behind me.

“In need of assistance, Miss Fortune?”

My nerves are still so fragile that my heart jumps into my throat as I swivel around to find the same man from the graveyard peering down at me, brown eyes slightly narrowed.

“Oh! I’m sorry …” I stutter out, “Do you work here?”

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