The Black Train Read Free Page B

sign boasted. BATTLEFIELD MAPS!
    At the corner, two elderly ladies strolled by and smiled. Collier smiled back—“Good afternoon, ladies”—but then it appeared they were chuckling. It’s this eyesore on wheels! he realized. The oddball car stuck out here like a sore thumb. Hurry up and turn green! he thought of the traffic light. More pedestrians, now, stopped to eye the car with furtive smiles. That’s definitely making an entrance …He turned aimlessly, just to get away from the passersby but immediately spotted the sign and arrow: LODGING .
    Collier bisected roads similarly marked— NUMBER 2 STREET, NUMBER 3 STREET , etc.—but noted the road he was on: PENELOPE STREET . Collier peered ahead. The road side-wound up plush green hills, atop which sat a splendid antebellum house. Could it be a hotel?
    Some joint. Collier wasn’t much into architecture but when he pulled round the center court, he couldn’t help but be impressed. An elaborate two-story veranda formed the main structure’s face, propped by Doric columns chiseled with intricate fluting. The center edifice was octagonal and walled by handmade red bricks, while four more one-story wings flanked outward. White clapboard comprised these wings, and each possessed a deep wraparound porch. Out front a granite boy in Confederate dress blew water from a flute into a mortar-and-stone pond beside which grew a gnarled oak tree more massive than any Collier could remember. He parked and got out. The shadow of the central building cooled him.
    Lush weeping willows, fifty feet high, fronted the estate, while some even older oak trees seemed to circle the immediate property.
    Collier approached. Streams of ivy crawled up the octagon’s eroded brick walls. He noticed several cars parked in a side lot, and hoped they belonged to guests, not just staff; in spite of the building’s old splendor, Collier didn’t want to be the lone lodger. Though he couldn’t be sure, he believed he might’ve seen a face peering at him from a narrow window on the closest addition. The face looked inquisitive, or warped by old glass.
    WELCOME TO THE BRANCH LANDING INN , the high stone entablature read. A low brick next to the door had been crudely engraved: MAIN HOUSE , 1850.
    White granite blocks framed a massive front door. Since this was obviously a rooming house, he didn’t feel the need to knock in spite of the presence of a peculiar knocker: a face of brass bearing wide, empty eyes but no nose or mouth. For some reason, the knocker caused an odd sensation; then he reached for the brass doorknob and noticed that it, too, had been imprinted with the featureless face.
    Collier almost shouted—
    An unseen hand opened flat on the small of his back, while another hand opened the door for him.
    “Jesus!”
    A short woman in her early thirties had come up behind him without making a sound. Collier looked at her after the start she’d given him: short, petite, and shapely. She was barefoot and dressed in a shoddy denim frock. Couldn’t be a guest, he thought, but then he spotted a name tag: HELLO! MY NAME IS LOTTIE .
    Collier brought a hand to his chest. “Wow, you really scared me. I didn’t see you.”
    She smiled and remained holding the door for him.
    “So you work here?”
    She nodded.
    Now that the scare had receded he noticed that her body was exceptional but her face was less than comely, and her eyes seemed dull, even crooked. She smiled again. A shag of unkempt muddy brown hair had been cropped at the middle of her neck.
    The moment seemed disarrayed. She simply stood there without saying a word, holding the door.
    “Thank you.”
    He entered a small but ornate vestibule which fronted another set of doors, only these were angled plate glass. The thick oval throw rug beneath their feet appeared handwoven.
    “So, Lottie. Do you have any rooms available?”
    She nodded again.
    Not exactly a chatterbox.
    A pleasant chime pealed when the next door came fully open. They