Page 2 of A Pack of Pumpkins
It wasn’t my plan. But when I called about the beachside house, there was only one room left out of the original five. And since rentals in Lakeside Point are nearly impossible to find, and the rent was miraculously within my budget, I made a terrible, very on-brand decision. I signed the lease without touring the house or meeting my future housemates.
I tell myself the Universe wouldn’t steer me wrong. Probably. Hopefully. Please.
Once all my boxes are loaded, Winnie pulls me into a hug.
“Seriously,” she says, pulling back, “that house looks fine from the outside, but if it’s weird or creepy or there are, like, hidden cameras, you better call me.”
I nod solemnly. She heads back across the street to finish locking up now that Dandy Stuff is closed and I'm all packed. She glances back at me one last time and I wave. She smiles and heads inside.
I climb into the front seat of my car but instead of starting it up I just sit and look around.
The days are shorter now, and it’s already getting dark.
Up the street, I can see most of town. Old houses converted into quaint shops, cobblestone sidewalks leading to brightly painted doors. Hay bales topped with pumpkins sit on porch stoops. Garlands of leaves and mums hang from vintage streetlamps, and every shop window glows with Halloween displays.
Wind whips through the street, sending leaves swirling into little eddies. I smile. My mother always said the fairies were dancing when the wind spun the leaves like that.
At the end of the street, the road opens onto a quiet beach. Lake Michigan stretches wide and shimmering, reflecting all the golden and crimson hues of the trees. The air smells like crisp, rain-soaked earth and leaves. Tears prick my eyes. I close them and breathe deep. By the time I open them again, I’ve held the emotional meltdown at bay. For now.
It’s not like I’m moving far. Just a few blocks away. I’ll still waitress at the café. Still see my cousin. Still hang out with my friends. Still go to Book Club every month.
Nothing’s changing but my address.
Where I sleep. Where I eat. Where I write. How I get to work.
No big deal.
A single tear slips down my cheek.
Clara
Ipullupinfront of my new place, and the scene is striking. The big Victorian style house looms at the edge of a bluff, the land sloping into rolling dunes that spill into Lake Michigan. It has a wide wraparound porch and ornate woodwork trim. But unlike most Victorians, usually painted in vibrant colors, this one is midnight black with pops of slate gray and subtle accents of silver.
In the almost-set sun, the house looks like a shadow clinging to the edge of the world.
As I step out of my car, the sound of lake waves lapping gently against the shore instantly relaxes me. I love that sound.
The company that owns the house, Raven Group, hadn’t offered to send anyone to meet me, just a keypad code and a digital layout. I’ll be alone tonight. My roommates don’t arrive until tomorrow. I don’t know anything about them. When I’d asked for details, Raven Group emailed back saying they weren’t sure they could release that information and would get back to me. They never did.
The gold handle on the front door gleams against the black paint like treasure in a cave. Beneath the vintage knob sits a sleek, modern keypad. I enter the code. The pad beeps twice, then clicks. The door swings open.
Inside, the entry hall is lit by a single overhead light and framed by an ornate wooden banister. To the left is a grand living room. To the right, a formal dining room. Both sit cloaked in shadows.
I flip the switch in the dining room. Light scatters through the chandelier’s crystal teardrops, illuminating a long wooden table. I set my bags down and begin making my way through the house, turning lights on and off as I go. I doubt I’ll come back downstairs tonight.
I’m exhausted. Half from packing. Half from emotional whiplash.
The original wood floors creak beneath my feet as I wander. The layout is circular, drifting through a vintage-meets-modern kitchen, where gleaming countertops and retro appliances meet a proper chef’s island.
Next is a half bath. An office. A two-seasons room overlooking the lake. A back porch. Then, full circle, I’m back in the living room and entry.
It’s like I’ve stepped back in time. The whole place is decorated in an Art Nouveau style so seamless, I wonder why any rental company would go to such lengths. I shrug. Their eccentricity is my gain.
As promised, no one else seems to be here.
I’d been told I could have the omega suite. Apparently, the other tenants hadn’t wanted it. They’re likely all betas. So, I get the biggest bedroom and a nest room for no extra charge. Which… is nuts.
If it’s true.
