Wednesday's Word: HEAVE. An excerpt from Small Town Escape

 Welcome to Wednesdays where I share a snippet from one of my stories using the previous day's word from the New York Times' game. WORDLE. Yesterday's WORDLE was HEAVE. 

Here's an excerpt from Small Town Escape, the third book in the Small Town Series.

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I followed the twisty road through a forest. The sun flickered through the trees, and the limbs casting shadows on the asphalt. I stopped and pulled over and stopped when I got to a wrought-iron gate. The name on the adjacent mailbox read Taggart.

“Are you here, Faith?” I asked.

Atticus answered with a small woof.

I debated what to do for a moment, but then decided, given the sturdiness of the gates, there was little I could do, unless I was willing to climb my way in.

Gates exist for a reason, and that reason is they either want to keep people in or out. If I wanted to find Faith, somehow, I would have to scale the gates.

I put the car back into motion and headed for town on the two-lane road.

More trees.

A couple of logging trucks passed me. A man driving a bright red tractor waved at me to drive around him. The forest gave way to a pasture filled with horses and cows.

Ten minutes later, a thrill of excitement tingled down my spine when I pulled up to the Dollhouse Inn. It was as creepy as Donovan had promised.

Tucked away in a forgotten corner of town, and hidden by a Hansel-and-Gretel-type -forest, the weathered and dilapidated house was covered in peeling paint covered the weathered and dilapidated house. Gangly trees cast eerie shadows across the lawn. A rusty sign hanging above the entrance announced its the inn’s vacancy.

The classic Victorian-style house had multiple stories. Gables and dormers interrupted the roof lines and stared off in different directions. Gingerbread trim and scrollwork hung from the eaves. There was not one, but two turrets. One wrap-around porch. Two balconies. Three chimneys. It was both hideous and glorious.

I loved it.

I parked the Jeep and pressed my finger to my lips, telling Atticus to hush. I gave him a treat for good measure. Gathering up my bag, I shouldered it, and climbed out. The damp air smelled of pine and a neighboring farm. My excitement mounted with every step across the fallen leaf-strewn lawn. The porch groaned when I took the steps, and a bell jingled when I pulled open the door.

I had found The Dollhouse Inn.

Now I just needed to find Faith.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with dolls in all shapes and sizes lined the walls.

A grizzled silver-haired woman reading Edgar Allen Poe’s ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ sat behind the desk. She looked up and gazed at me with swimmy eyes. “May I help you?”

“Señorita Martinez. Reserva?”

"No English?"

I adopted my grandmother’s thick Hispanic accent. “Just a little.” I held up my fingers in a near- pinch.

She slid a bookmarker between the pages and put her novel on the counter with a thud. "Well, I don't care as long as your money is good."

I fished out my wallet and found a hundred-dollar bill.

The woman cackled, and her eyes gleamed. “You’re a pretty thing. I wonder what brought you out here. Guess I'll never know. I’ll give you my favorite room, the one with the largest collection."

Perfect.

The woman simpered and handed over the keys. “Room 14fourteen. Don’t touch any of the dolls. It has an outside entrance. Just follow the porch around to the back."

I hesitated, unsure how to respond.

The woman heaved out of her chair, and her knees popped. "I guess I'll have to show you." She waddled out from behind the desk.

I smiled, tried to look clueless, and followed her. Outside, I breathed a little easier, appreciating the fresh air after my few minutes in the dusty foyer. I prayed my room would be cleaner.

The woman paused at a red door, inserted a key, and pushed it open.

The musty smell of old fabric and decaying wood greeted me. Like the reception hall, the walls were lined with shelves upon shelves of dolls. Some big. Some small. All of them creepy. I had to tuck my hands in my pockets to keep from covering my nose.

The woman glowed with pride. "It's something, isn't it? My aunt started the collection, but I added these babies from all over the world." She stopped. "What am I saying? You can't understand me." She pressed her hand to her chest. "My name is Phyllis." She pronounced each word slowly and distinctly.

I mimicked her. "My—" I caught myself. “Belle.”

"It's nice to meet you, Mabel. I like a girl with an old-fashioned name. I hope you'll be happy here."

Should I correct her? I decided to let the slip pass. "Gracias."

I wandered into the room and dropped my bag on the bed.

"Just ring if you need anything, but don’t try calling anywhere but the front desk." Phyllis motioned to the old-fashioned phone hunkered like a squatty toad on the bed stand before going out and pulling the door shut behind her, leaving me alone…almost.

Most of the dolls had porcelain heads, with delicate features and lifelike hair that seemed to shimmer in the dim light. Others were made of stuffed fabric, their once- vibrant colors faded and worn with age. And then there were the dolls made of plastic, their cheap material giving them a hollow, soulless quality.

But it was the eyes that made the dolls so unsettling. Glassy and lifeless, they seemed to follow me, watching.

My gaze wandered the room, taking in the high ceilings, the crumbling molding, the ornate woodwork surrounding the windows, and the sturdy but stained, wooden floors. The furniture was a n eclectic mishmash —–an Art -Deco armoire, a Mid-Century dresser, a pot-bellied grandfather clock.  I nearly skipped into the bathroom, where I found a claw-footed tub, a black and white checked tile floor, a pedestal sink, and a small stained-glass window above the toilet.

My imagination soared.

How many more rooms were there? Did every room have a private bath? How much would a place like this cost, and how could I convince Phyllis to sell?

Desperate to show someone my find, I went back to the car to fetch Atticus. I knew he wouldn't be impressed, but he was glad to see me. Of course, I hadn't mentioned the dog to Phyllis. I hoped she wouldn't care, but I wasn't about to ask. Atticus stopped to pee on the lawn. I took the moment to further inspect the house.

I had to renovate it. My followers would eat it up.

Atticus barked, reminding me of Tom.

I couldn't buy this place, even if it was for sale. I couldn't renovate it, and I most certainly couldn't post pictures on my website.

What was I going to do?

The answer was almost immediate, as if someone had whispered it in my ear. Find Faith.