Page 25 of Something Cryptid This Way Comes
A smile lights his face. He presses a kiss to my lips, then my cheek, then my temple, and settles against me, so we’re side by side once more. From this vantage point, we can see the carriage house through the window on the opposite wall.
His focus floats in that direction. “What’s the haunted house like?”
“Each room provides a different experience. Alaric and I built dividers that create mazes in the rooms. They’refoldable so we can change the layout every year. Our employees wear costumes, but stay in the background, monitoring the rooms in case they need to help someone or guide people to the next rooms. We don’t use jump scares. It’s more of a psychological experience. Light frequencies that make people uncomfortable. Specific types of music and sound effects. Things like whispering someone’s name while they’re walking through the house and they can’t tell where it’s coming from.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Exactly.” I can’t stop my fingers from tracing the lines and squares of color in the flannel over his pec. “We utilize the dark a lot. The unknown is what’s scary. Cold breezes that seem to come out of nowhere. Scents. Projected images. Playing with the lights. There’s a trick we do with fishing line, when people walk through, it feels like spider webs. It’s really atmospheric.”
“Do you keep them set up as bedrooms?” His arm wrapped across my back is a welcome weight and his hand, warm and comfortable on my hip, squeezes and flexes over and over.
“No. We remove the beds, TVs, and the antique furniture. The breakdown and removal takes two days, and then we’re ready to start bringing in the props and other furniture and transforming the space, which takes the rest of the week. It’s a lot of lifting and carrying things up and down from the attic and the basement.”
He lets out a low whistle. “It sounds like a big job. I can help.”
“I’ll take you up on that offer. Thank you.” I stretch into him and when he turns his head, take the kiss he offers. “I should probably get back over there. There are a lot of props and equipment to check.”
“I’ll come,and bring the lattes.”
The backbreaking work I’d been dreading doesn’t seem as bad knowing Bram will be at my side.
We stand, pulling each other up, smiling as we go. I’m not naive enough to think a kiss is anything more than a kiss.
Except, of course, when it is.
Mine meant more. And maybe I’m a fool to hope that Bram’s did too.
CHAPTER 8
BRAM
The guest room has good acoustics. Everywhere I look, I see Trevor’s stamp in the furnishings and decor.
And not just in this room. The scent of his soap in the shower, the flavor of his preferred blend of coffee, the softness of the plaid shirt I borrowed against my skin. I’m surrounded by him, and I love it. It’s both thrilling and comforting.
My microphone is on and the podcast recording software is open. The desk’s height is perfect and my chair is comfortable. I glance at the icons of the video clips of people sharing their Mabel encounters, edited and ready to be inserted into the story. I need to get back to work, but my thoughts keep drifting to Trevor.
I’ve been in Maplewood for over a week and I’m adjusting to life here with him so easily, it’s like we were made to live together. Thinking about that makes me want too much, and I don’t want to dwell on it. Not yet. Though, since our first kiss two days ago, I haven’t been able to stop.
Memories of times spent together keep popping into my thoughts. The time I got the flu at an away game and Trevor had chicken noodle soup from the best restaurant in townsent to my hotel room, then insisted on staying on a video call with me, even while I slept, to make sure I was okay. How he’d drop everything if I called, just to spend a few minutes with me… and how I’d always do the same for him. Me planning our group vacations in places I knew he wanted to visit. All those stories I’ve recorded just for him. Each one adds to the realization that I’ve had feelings for Trevor for a very long time. Much longer than I'd realized.
The clock is ticking down on my podcast episode. I need to focus on Mabel. Trevor is working at the inn and brought both dogs with him so I can get the recording done in peace and quiet. The fact that he’s so thoughtful in considering what I needed somehow makes it easier to breathe.
It’s not like I don’t have support from friends and family, especially Charlie, but Trevor sees things others don’t. He notices the little things, like making sure my favorite shaving cream is in the bathroom, or buying my dog a fancy bed, or sending me a hiking watch when I told him I was thinking about starting this podcast, before I had even left football.
I run my fingertip over the face of the watch. It has GPS, can withstand below freezing temperatures, has solar charging capabilities, and a ton of other things one might need when out in the middle of nowhere. The gift was far from little, but the pictures of the sunrise or of Agnes and the Rocktogenarians playing a gig, or a squirrel sprawled out on its belly that he texts because he knows I’ll like them, and the phone calls after every game mean just as much. If not more. It’s how he watches over Agnes, how he looks out for his friends, and his commitment and love of this town that make it impossible not to have feelings for Trevor.
I look into the camera and press record.
“Welcome back to The Cryptid Corner. I’m Bram Macleod, and today we’re journeying to central Vermont to hear the story, the myth, the legend that is Mabel. She’s acryptid native to Maplewood, with stories going back decades, for more than a century. People who have encountered her describe Mabel as a tall, thin being covered in leaves. Some think she’s a nature goddess, others a guardian spirit of the forest, still others think she’s a person who embraced the wild life of being at one with nature, and more who believe Mabel is a cryptid. I’m here to share their stories and my own.”
I pause the recording to take a sip of water. Glancing at my notes, I ready for the next part.
“My mom, brother, and I moved to Maplewood when I was ten years old. The first week here, I hated it. I missed my friends and my dad and my neighborhood. I took off on my bike and ended up in the woods, sitting on a log, feeling upset and lonely and mad at the world. Then something in the trees moved, and everything else, the birds and crickets, grew silent.”
Another pause, so I can more easily slip in some sound effects and background music. On the tablet in front of me, I’ve sketched out where I’d like to insert photos and video I’ve taken of the forest to accompany my story.
“A figure peeked out at me from between the pine trees. She was tall—giant-like to my ten-year-old self—covered in leaves, with iridescent green skin and the clearest green eyes. We looked at each other and I stared, fascinated, for I don’t know how long. I wasn’t scared. A sense that everything would be all right came over me. As silently as she came, she retreated, then vanished. I hopped on my bike and raced home as fast as I could. When I got there, a kid from down the street knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to play soccer with him. That day, I made my first friend in Maplewood. His name is Trevor, and he’s still my best friend.”
