Work Text:
The first thing the out-of-towners notice about the beautiful old Victorian at the end of Rose Lane is the neon “No Vacancy” sign, flashing its neon pink glow at all hours. The locals of Juniper Cove watch them scratch their heads, scouring their guidebooks for information on the bed-and-breakfast that officially doesn’t exist.
“What a shame,” they say, shaking their heads, “that we won’t have an opportunity to stay there.”
The exterior is every haunted house lover’s dream, with stained glass windows adding texture to the moving shadows inside. They eagerly take photo after photo, but curiously, the images always seem to be mysteriously deleted when they arrive home.
“How strange,” they say, “all my other photos are just fine. And I so wanted to copy the glass for our second home.”
Teenagers in town consider it a rite of passage to sneak onto the grounds, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious inhabitants inside. No one has ever seen the owners, and not for lack of trying. But each would-be sleuth who drunkenly manages to fit through the dog door or climb the trellis by the bay window return empty handed to their eager friends.
“I don’t know,” they say, when pressed. “It was all so … fuzzy? The lights were off, and I couldn’t get a good look.”
If any of those children dared to actually knock on the door of the house on Rose Lane, they might have been surprised by what they found. For the house on Rose Lane was no ordinary hideaway, no summer retreat for the elite coming to play in the seaside town. Yearlong residents often remarked that it sometimes felt as though the house was a living thing, watching them as they walked past to get to the nearby beach.
One hot evening that crackled with electricity, a lone figure on a motorcycle made their way down Rose Lane, careful to turn off their headlight as they approached. The neighbors took note of the visitor who parked their vehicle in the driveway of the home, but none of them would be able to recall a single detail the next day.
The girl shook out her curly blonde hair from her helmet, warily eyeing the silent street. She needn’t have worried, but old habits die hard. She approached the front door, fishing through her jacket pocket for the worn card inside. If anyone else had seen it in a wallet or in a puddle on the street corner, they would have seen what appeared to be an unremarkable business card, barely readable and covered in coffee stains and wrinkles.
But under the porch light, the card began to regain its shape, and a single word revealed itself on the cream colored paper: Enter .
The girl knocked carefully three times, then leaned in close to the door knocker and whispered.
“No rest for the wicked.”
And the door opened, revealing an entryway lined with mailboxes, each with a name written on the opening. The girl was careful to latch the door behind her, and the residents of Rose Lane went about their business with no one the wiser. Well, except for one. A tiny boy stared out his window and wiped his eyes, heavy with sleep. Carefully tiptoeing down the carpeted stairs of his snug home, the little watcher made his way across the street, suddenly terrifying in the stillness, drawn to the bright lights of the house on Rose Lane.
Our small observer looked through the window, seeing the girl embrace a young man who appeared to have wings. The room was full of people doubled over in laughter, led by a man serving drinks behind the oak bar. The tallest man in the room put his arms around a woman signing a filthy joke, prompting another round of convulsions from those assembled. He certainly noticed the bartender lean over and plant a kiss on the cheek of a creature whose shimmering black wings commanded attention. The creature rewarded the bartender with a smile clearly meant just for him. The scene radiated warmth, home .
Our lucky witness stood outside on the porch peeking through the lacy curtains on tiptoes, eyes blinking in disbelief as the group broke up when the telephone on the wall rang. Some grabbed guns, others knives, and curiously, salt, making their way out the back entrance. Suddenly trucks that were invisible moments ago appeared, and as the crowd dispersed, everyone exchanged hugs and waves, promising to keep in touch. The girl remained, climbing the stairs in the entryway after the bartender hugged her good night.
The bartender and the angel -- because what else do you call a creature such as he, it’s what he must be -- were alone at last. At this point our watcher left, somehow sensing the sacredness of the ground he stood on, compelled by some force he barely felt but was strong nonetheless. He crawled back into his bed, falling into an instant and deep sleep. The boy will remark to others for years to come that he has never had a more vivid dream.
But back in the house on Rose Lane, the angel embraced the bartender, the gas lights turned down so the parlor was barely lit. The bartender and the angel danced cheek to cheek as the record player played love song after love song. Both held each other as though they were afraid the other would vanish. The angel tenderly pressed his lips to the bartender’s, a gesture returned wholeheartedly. As the final song played, the bartender clasped the angel’s hand, tugging him towards the staircase.
The lights turned off behind the two as they walked, talking quietly as they ascended. Darkness engulfed the lower levels until only a small light remained in the window of a bedroom on the top floor. After a time, this too was extinguished, leaving Rose Lane bathed only in the fuchsia glow of the “No Vacancy” sign. And the house on Rose Lane kept watch as it always did, waiting for its wayward children to return home.