My Killer Vacation by Tessa Bailey

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To all the people who’ve called me cheap in the past…

How do you like me now, jerks?

It is only through pinching pennies and rationing resources for years that I have been able to afford this truly luxurious beach house for six whole days—on a second grade teacher’s salary. The bright white jewel with sparkling windows is right on the Cape Cod coast, boasts a wraparound porch and walkway straight down to a semi-private beach. My toes are already wiggling in anticipation of digging into the sand while the New England sun bakes my skin north of translucent and most importantly of all, my baby brother gets a change of scenery to recover from his heartbreak.

Wheeling my suitcase in one hand, holding the house key poised for immediate lock insertion in the other, I look back over my shoulder to find life returning to Jude’s boyishly handsome features. “Damn, Taylor. I guess ripping your napkins in half paid off.”

“No one needs a whole napkin if they eat carefully enough,” I sing back cheerfully.

“No arguments here. Not when you’ve scored us this view.” Jude adjusts the surfboard under his arm. “So, someone owns this place and rents it out? I can’t imagine anyone not wanting to live here year round.”

“You would be surprised. Most of the homes on this street are rentals.” I nod at a nearly identical home across the narrow lane with shingled siding and purple hydrangeas bursting in all directions in the front yard. “I looked into that one, too, but there was no clawfoot bathtub.”

“Jesus.” He draws out the sarcasm. “We’d practically be camping.”

I stick my tongue out at him over my shoulder, stop in front of the entrance and slip the key into the lock, turning it with a heightening sense of excitement. “I just want everything to be perfect. You deserve a nice vacation, Jude.”

“What about you, T?” asks my brother.

But I’m already pushing inside and oh. Oh yes. It’s everything the owner promised online and more. Panoramic windows overlooking the turbulent Atlantic, a hillside of seagrass and wildflowers tumbling down to that sapphire ocean. High, beamed ceilings, a fireplace that turns on at the push of a button, big inviting couches and tasteful nautical-themed décor. There is even a hint of something in the air…a scent I can’t quite put my finger on, but it’s got a kick. And best of all, the ocean plays a gentle soundtrack that can be heard anywhere in the house.

“You didn’t answer me,” Jude drawls, leaning his board against the wall and poking me in the side. “Don’t you think you deserve a nice vacation, too? A year of Zoom classes with children who were secretly playing Minecraft off camera? Then straight into another year of bringing a new class up to speed, basically covering two years’ worth of material? You deserve a trip around the world at this point.”

I suppose I do deserve this vacation. I am going to enjoy myself, but I’m much more comfortable focusing on Jude’s good time. He’s my baby brother, after all, and it’s my job to take care of him. It’s been that way since we were children. “I forgot to ask if you’ve heard from Mom or Dad at all recently?” It’s a question I always hold my breath after asking. “They were in Bolivia the last time I spoke with them.”

“Still there, I think. Potential riots on the horizon and they’re clearing the national museum, just in case.”

Our parents always had the weirdest job at career day. Officially, they are archeologists, but that title is a lot more boring than their actual duties, which include being contracted by foreign governments to protect and preserve art during times of civil unrest when priceless treasures could potentially be destroyed. Inevitably at career day, a child in the front row would say, “You’re kind of like Indiana Jones,” and my parents—who were prepared for this—would bellow, “Snakes! Why does it always have to be snakes?” Perfectly synchronized.

They are such fascinating people.

I just don’t know them very well.

But they gave me the greatest treasure of my life and he’s currently sprawling out on the closest piece of furniture, as he is wont to do, effortlessly belonging everywhere he goes in flannel and Birkenstocks. “You take the biggest room, all right?” he yawns, dragging suntanned fingers through scruffy dark blond hair. When I start to argue, he points at his mouth and makes a zipping motion, indicating that I should shut up. “It’s not up for debate. I couldn’t even afford to chip in on this place. You get the master.”

“But after everything with Bartholomew…”

A shadow crosses his face. “I’m fine. You can’t worry about me so much.”

“Says who?” I sniff, wheeling my suitcase toward the kitchen. Seriously, what is that aroma? It’s kind of like…a big meal was prepared in the kitchen very recently and the garlic and spices are still lingering in the air. “You take your nap—”

I laugh under my breath when his snore cuts me off. My brother could fall asleep on the wing of a 747 with a flight in progress. Meanwhile I have to perform a very specific nighttime ritual of stretching and exfoliating and precise pillow placement to wrangle a measly four hours. Maybe the waves will lull me to sleep while I’m here, though. One can hope.

With a hopeful exhale and squaring of my shoulders, I stow the handle of my roller luggage and pick it up against my chest, my utilitarian teaching flats carrying me up the stairs. That clawfoot bathtub has been calling my name since I saw it online, buried in the background of one of the pictures. Not featured, as it should have been. There is only a shower stall in my apartment back in Hartford, Connecticut and I dream of baths. Several of the accounts I follow on Instagram are dedicated to luxurious bath time rituals, including people who eat full meals while submerged in hot water and bubbles. Spaghetti and meatballs, right there among the suds. I’m not sure I’ll ever take bath time quite so far, but I respect their enthusiasm.

The master suite is big and inviting, decorated once again in a nautical theme, the palette consisting of creams and whites and light blues. Though it was sunny when we arrived, clouds are currently passing over the sun, darkening the walls. Quiet. It’s so quiet. The bed invites me to come take a nap, but nothing short of a hurricane warning is going to keep me from taking the bath I’ve been envisioning for weeks.

When I walk into the bathroom, I don’t even bother trying to hold in my squeal when I spot the tub at the far end, silhouetted by a floor-to-ceiling picture window. Leaving my suitcase just outside the door, I kick off my shoes, my spine tingling with excitement…although, that pungent smell is upstairs, too? Isn’t that odd? Maybe the previous renter was the type to eat their meals in the bathtub and they accidentally let it rot?

Hmm. The rest of the house is immaculate. That doesn’t really track.

There must be a dead mouse or rat in the wall somewhere, but I am not going to let that stymie our good time. I’ll simply call the owner and ask him to send over pest control. A minor blip on the overall radar of the vacation that will be taken care of in no time. Jude won’t even have to wake up from his nap.

The clawfoot tub beckons me from the far side of the bathroom and I can already hear the white noise of the water running. Can already see the steam curling and fogging up the windowpane. Maybe I can get one tiny little bath in before I call the owner about the smell?

Experimentally, I close the bathroom door and the stink is significantly dulled.

Bath time it is.

I do a little shimmy on my way to the tub, flipping on the hot water faucet with a flourish and sighing, looking out over the sparsely populated beach. Most likely, everyone is home recovering from the fourth of July, which was only yesterday. The rental fees were significantly cheaper this side of the fourth, and my wildly popular brother had several barbeques to attend over the long weekend, anyway, so arriving on the fifth—a Tuesday—worked out for both of us.

With the tub halfway to full, I return to the bedroom briefly to take off my clothes and fold them neatly on the bed, to be placed in the travel hamper as soon as I officially unpack. Holding my breath against the smell, I start to return to the bathroom when something important occurs to me. I found this rental on StayInn.com and at the very top of their renter checklist was this: always make sure the fire and CO₂ alarms are working upon arrival.

“Better do it before I forget…” I murmur, glancing up at the ceiling, though the detectors are probably out in the hallway—

Two little holes.

There are two little holes drilled into the crown molding.

No. No, no way. I have to be imagining that.

Goosebumps prickle down my naked limbs and I fold my arms across my breasts. The pulse in my temples start to pound and I shiver. A conditioned response to being surprised, that’s all. I’m sure it’s just where the nails were hammered into the molding. Surely those aren’t peepholes. Dammit, I knew I was getting in too deep with my true crime podcasts. Now everything is a life or death situation. The beginning of a grisly hack job that law enforcement will inevitably claim is the worst they’ve seen in their twenty-year career.

That’s not what is happening here. This is not a new episode of Etched in Bone.

Dateline’s Keith Morrison is not narrating this little panic attack.

This is just my simple, boring life. I’m just a girl on a quest for a bath.

Turning in a circle, I search the perimeter of the ceiling for any other holes of that size and come up empty. Dammit. Of course those two holes are on the side of the room that faces the center of the house. There could be an attic or a closet on the other side. Gross. Please let your imagination be working overtime.

Still, I’ll never be able to relax now, so I quickly shut off the bath with no small sense of regret and wrap a towel around my naked body, returning to the space beneath the holes, regarding them warily, as if they‘re going to jump down and bite me. I’ve heard of this kind of thing, obviously. Voyeurism. Everyone has. But it’s not the kind of problem one would expect to have at a beachfront property that cost a month’s worth of paychecks. Those cannot be peepholes. No way. Just a defect in the wood. As soon as I confirm that, I’m neck deep in hot water and this perfect vacation is off to a flawless start.

Before I can allow myself to get scared, I venture into the hallway outside the bedroom and open the adjacent closet, releasing a pent-up breath when there is no peeper inside. Although…there are no holes either. Not in the immediate closet. But there is a removeable panel on the shared wall. A crawl space?

Speaking of crawling, that is what my skin is doing.

Was the house so quiet and dark when we arrived? I can’t even hear Jude snoring anymore. Just the distant drip of the bathtub faucet. Drip. Drip. And the sound of my breathing now as it accelerates. “Jude?” I call, my voice sounding like a curtain ripping in the total silence. “Jude?” I call louder.

Several seconds pass. No sound.

And then footsteps are coming up the stairs. Why is my mouth dry? It’s only my brother. But when my back hits the wall, I realize I’m cowering there, my fight-or-flight instinct preparing me to dash for the bedroom and lock the door. If what? If someone other than my brother is coming up the stairs? What kind of a horror movie do I think I’m living in? Calm down.

My parents infiltrate riots to save artwork in the name of preserving history. Obviously their bravery is not a hereditary trait. Two little holes in the crown molding have my heart jackhammering. Even more so than the first day of in-person classes with a mob of second graders who’d been cooped up for a year with limited physical activity.

Could you be any more pitiful, Taylor?

If I needed proof that—at twenty-six—my life is too safe and predictable, here it is. One wrench in the engine and my routine-oriented self is ready to self-destruct.

I slump against the wall when Jude’s yawning face comes into view. “What’s up?”

Swallowing my nerves, I gesture vaguely at the closet. “So this is probably me being crazy, but there are two holes near the ceiling in the bedroom. And I think they correspond to that crawl space up there?”

Jude is awake now. “Like peepholes?”

“Yeah?” I wince. “Or I could just be imagining things?”

“Better to be safe,” he murmurs, passing me into the bedroom. Hands on hips, he observes the holes for a long moment, before meeting my eyes. And that’s when cold licks down my spine. His expression is suspicious. Not teasing, like I was hoping for. “What the fuck?”

“Okay.” I let out a slightly unsteady breath. “You’re not laughing and pointing out some flaw in the construction, like I was hoping you would.”

“No, but let’s take stock, T. If those are peepholes, there’s no one peeping now.” He returns to the hallway to stand beside me. Both of us stare up at the crawl space. “But neither one of us is going to relax until we’re positive, right?”

I groan, visions of my bath dissipating like wisps of smoke. “Should we call the police?”

He considers my totally irrational question. Really considers it, stroking the scruff on his chin. This is one of the reasons I love Jude so much. We’re siblings, so naturally we’ve had our share of bickering fights and outright shouting matches over the years, but he’s on my team. It’s a given. He doesn’t accuse me of being crazy. He takes me seriously. The things that are important to me are of equal importance to him and I will always, always do everything I can to make his life easier, the way he’s done for me in the near-constant absence of our parents.

“I think I’ll just pop off that panel and have a look,” Jude says, finally.

“I don’t like it.” Jude might be well over six feet tall now, a grown twenty-three-year-old man, but he’ll always be my little brother—and the thought of him confronting a possible peeping Tom on my watch makes me nauseous. “At the very least, we should have a weapon handy.”

“Need I remind you that I took jujitsu for six months?”

“Need I remind you that you only hung in there that long because you were waiting for the instructor to break up with his boyfriend?”

“They were clearly on the rocks.”

“I’m sure your dimples helped speed things along.”

“You’re right.” He gives me an intentionally creepy smile. “They are the true weapon.”

I shake my head at him, but thankfully the shivers are subsiding.

“All right.” He claps his hands together. “Let’s take a quick look and pray we don’t find a jar of fingernails or some shit.”

“Or a GoPro,” I mutter, bracing myself against the wall, hands covering my face. I watch through the cracks of my fingers as Jude slides into the closet, reaches up and eases aside the panel to reveal a small space. Very small. Immediately, however, daylight streams in through the two holes and it is impossible to ignore the fact that they are the exact width of an average set of eyes and they go straight through to the bedroom. Peepholes. One hundred percent. “Oh God. Yuck. Is there anything…or anyone up there?”

Jude grasps the edge of the crawl space and does a quick pull up. “Nope. Nothing.” He drops down. “A person would have to be tiny to fit up there. Or really flexible. So unless my powers of deduction fail me, the peeper is a gymnast.”

“Or a small woman?” We trade a skeptical look. “Yeah, that doesn’t really fit the peeper profile, does it?” I pull my towel up tighter beneath my armpits. “So what do we do?”

“Send me the contact info for the owner. I’ll give him a call.”

“Oh. No, I’ll do it. I don’t want this to disrupt your vacation time. Go take your nap.”

He’s already on his way back to the stairs. “Send me the info, T.”

For some reason, I still don’t want to be alone with the peepholes, so I scurry along after my brother in my towel. “Fine.” I chew my lip. “I think I’ll check the laundry room for a stepping stool and some tape to cover up the holes.”

He tosses a wink back at me. “In case the peeper is a ghost?”

“Oh, sure. It’s funny now, but as soon as it gets dark, a peeper ghost will become a totally realistic possibility.”

“Take the other room, if you want. I don’t mind being spied on by Casper.”

I’m laughing as we reach the bottom of the stairs, both of us hooking right into the kitchen where the door to the laundry room is located. “You’d probably enjoy it,” I say.

“Have you been reading my diary again?”

By the time I pull open the door to the laundry area, I’m having such a good time with my brother that I don’t believe what I’m seeing at first. It has to be a joke. Or a television screen playing a grisly reenactment from a Netflix true crime documentary. There cannot be a large, dead man stuffed in between the washer and dryer, face purple with bruises, eyes glassy and unseeing. And there in the center of his forehead is a neat, black-edged bullet hole. It simply cannot be happening. But the bile that spears up my throat is real. So is the ice that hardens me, head to toe, a scream freezing in my throat. No. No, no, no.

“Taylor?” Jude approaches, sounding concerned.

On instinct, I try to push him away. My little brother shouldn’t see things like this. I have to spare him from this. My hands prove ineffective unfortunately and before I can summon enough strength, enough wherewithal to prevent Jude from looking into the laundry room, he’s there beside me. And then he’s dragging me backwards several feet, yelling, “What the fuck?” An eerie buzzing silence descends. The image doesn’t go away. He’s still there. Still dead. There is something vaguely familiar about the man, but I’m shaking and trying not to vomit and that is garnering all of my concentration. Oh God, oh God, what is happening here? This isn’t a joke?

“Okay,” I whisper. “N-now I think we should call the police.”