Sincerely, Ivy Smith

“Ivy? Ivy, can you hear me?” 

Mom’s worrisome voice rolls through the almost-empty motel lobby. 

“Yes, mom, I can-” I start, but she cuts me off.

“Ivy?” 

“Yes, mom.” 

“Oh, Ivy, thank god you’re okay. Are you heading home soon?”

“I have a few more hours of work,” I reply. “And don’t worry mom, it’s just snow flurries. I’ll be fine.”

“You never know what those flurries can progress into. I’ve got all of my emergency resources ready in the basement. Non-perishable foods, four self-heat blankets, a flashlight, water, and an extra cell phone. I’ve also been trying to get the new generator working. I hope it’s enough….” 

Mom’s mind had probably drifted. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” I assure her softly. Mom always worries, and I don’t want her to have a panic attack if I don’t make it home in a few hours.

  “I love you, sweetie,” she says, her voice cracking just a bit. “Call me whenever you can.” 

“I will. And, I love you too, mom.” I hang up.

The silence is the loudest sound you can hear. 

My foot pushes against the inside of the arched check-in desk, swinging myself in the beat-up, black spinny chair. I’ve done this so many times now, there’s a brown boot-print marking on the place where I push off.

I look up from my phone, which I’ve been on for the past hour or so. Nobody has checked into the motel for a while. There are two small floors with maybe 9 rooms on each. The rooms themselves are pretty crappy, with checkered carpet floors, a twin-sized bed, and a pull-out couch. 

Mark Shell, the owner of the motel, doesn’t give a shit about the quality. He comes in once a week to pay me and leaves an extra 50 -dollar bill for me to spend on the soap, towels, toilet paper, and cheap microwave “breakfast” that comes with the stay. I don’t think he realizes that all those things are much more expensive than that.

I mean, it isn’t that surprising that nobody cares about this motel anymore.  A new hotel opened up a few blocks away, and people are guzzling in there like the owners are handing out free gold and cash. 

I’m expecting to be fired and for this place to shut down in the next few weeks or so.

I look out the window of the check-in office. Snowflakes are dancing, frenzied, and excited. The wind carries them in all different directions.

This is useless, I think to myself. 

I grab my backpack, pull my car keys and the motel keys out, and head towards the door. Nobody is even gonna come anyway.

My boots trail muddy footprints behind me as I walk towards the door.

I’m expecting a breeze.

When I open it, I get a mouthful of snowflakes. A spine chilling gust of wind engulfs me, threatening to push me back into the office. The ground is covered in a thick white blanket of snow, almost a foot deep. 

What the hell happened to small snow flurries?

Mom wasn’t kidding when she said that these things can progress.

I’m planning on making a run for the Jeep, but the wind has other ideas.

I fall back into a pile of white coldness, stinging my raw, exposed hands. Icy particles hit my cheeks like thorns. I pick myself up and scramble back into the office.

I slam the door.

I won’t be leaving any time soon. Just a small bit of panic roots in me. If I get trapped, I have everything I need. Food, water, shelter. Not nearly as much as mom, but I can make do. Of course, I won’t have to stay the whole night. I hope I won’t.

I walk back around to the desk and plant myself into the chair. It smells faintly of cigarettes and beer. It’s been like that for a few weeks, actually. A group of teenagers checked into a room, and then rampaged through it and the office, smoking and drinking and cursing and spraying silly string everywhere. 

Mom. Right. I need to call mom, tell her that it’s gotten worse.

I pull my phone out of my backpack and unlock it with facial recognition. 

Before I can press the phone icon, an incoming call comes from mom. 

I press accept. Home, where mom is, can’t be much worse than the motel. 

It takes a few seconds to connect. The roaring wind outside shrieks against the front doors. 

“Ivy, the power just went out at home,” she yells. I can barely hear her voice over the roaring wind. 

“Mom where are you?” I yell back, hoping she can hear me.

“I can’t get the generator to work….” she responds.

“Mom, stay inside! Go into the basement! I’ll try and get home as soon as I can.” I scream. 

“Ivy-”

The signal goes down. I hear a loud cracking noise and run to the window; a large tree fell onto the parking lot. The wind is picking up pace. I can see the struggle of a few stranded people in cars who got unlucky enough to be stuck in the storm. A car starts to drive towards the motel, probably hoping to be let inside, but the wind makes it impossible.

I back away from the door, into the farthest corner of the office. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker for a minute or so before going dark. 

The roof could fly off any moment now. It’s not like this place was built well. Or maybe, I’m just overthinking. 

I have no experience with situations like these. I’m probably doing this all wrong. I think I’m hyperventilating. I close my eyes and think. The staff room is probably the sturdiest. I grab the door handle and pull myself inside.

Immediately, the wind is muffled by the closing door. I guess the walls are thicker or something. 

Then again, to be on the safer side, there's always the “storage closet,” the one that Mark never wants us to go into. 

I know I shouldn’t. 

But there’s a raging storm outside, and the closet is probably the safest part of the building.

I slowly open the door.

A set of stairs leads into darkness. I contemplate whether to go down there as my hand instinctively reaches for the wall, searching for a light switch. My fingers find the bump in the wall and I push down to hear a satisfying clicking sound. The stairs are illuminated by an orange, flickering light.

My feet skeptically find their way down the un-sturdy pathway.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I search until I find another light switch. The walls of the room are made of brick, deep red. Dirt, cobwebs, and dust particles climb up the corners. Racks of keys are hanging on one wall; car keys, house keys, safe keys, all kinds of keys that we would never use at the Motel. Boxes and books are sprawled along the dust-infested floor like an ocean of wood and paper and filth.

I pick up some books.

Moby Dick.

War and Peace.

To Kill a Mockingbird.

The Diary of Anne Frank.

“Somebody here loves to read,” I whisper to myself. I instantly regret it. Suddenly, I feel like I’m not alone in this small room. The fact that nobody would hear my scream over the wind or find my body down here is horrifying. Not like anyone would be down here (why would they), much less kill me. I hope.

I move on to the boxes. They are big and wooden, bolted shut. Except one. It’s open, pieces of paper scattered around it. I approach it, holding my hands out. This reminds me of a horror movie.

I kneel down on my knees and look inside.

Underneath the dust, the first thing I see is a dollhouse.

Hell no. This is not going to turn into “Annabelle” on me.

But after looking at it longer, the dollhouse seems more friendly. And then after looking at it even longer, it starts to freak me out again.

The roof is made of individual tiles, rounded and smoothed to fit perfectly into each other. The tiles are a creamy white, so small that they could be seen as tic tacs. The walls are made of wood, and I run my fingers along it. It’s cold and smooth. My finger is now caked with dirt. 

The windows are made of thin glass. I squint in the dim light and see that it is carved with designs. Swirls, circles, squares, rectangles. 

It’s freaking me out. I don’t know why. The amount of detail put into everything is overwhelming.

I unclip the hinges on the side and swing open the walls. 

There is mini furniture, laid out in symmetry.

A tiny little kitchen. There’s a stove, and oven, and a fridge. A dining table with cups and plates.

A living room with a small cotton couch and porcelain TV.

A bedroom with a bed, the mini sheets perfectly laid out with pillows as well.

And then there are dolls. Made out of fabric and stuffed with rice is my best guess.

Pieces of string are sticking out of its head like hair. Flowey, floral patterned fabric is wrapped around the dolls’ waists like dresses. 

The fact that everything is so perfect, and that the dolls look like they are from Willy-Wonka’s factory, that sets off my OCD a little. 

But the weirdest part is the dolls’ faces.

Pieces of paper with intricate expressions are glued to their faces.

Deep black eyes, a mouth open in surprise.

Blue crescent eyes, a bloody nose, and an evil looking grin.

What the hell. 

What had Mark been hiding in here? It wasn’t a storage closet. It was a basement filled with the strangest, creepiest things. 

I let my hands touch every part of the dollhouse. 

I can feel smoothness, coldness, roughness, bumps.

That’s when I come across a piece of paper. I pull it out from under the small couch. 

It’s folded up. I slowly un-crinkle it.

Frowning faces are scribbled in black.

There are disturbing things written.  “Let me out” “You broke your promise” “Why not me” “I can’t forgive you”.

My mind is racing. I’m hyperventilating again. I lean onto the wall and close my eyes. My head is throbbing.

What is this? Why is this here?

I take a deep breath. No matter how deep and long I breathe, it seems like my lungs can never get enough air. My brain feels cold and empty.

I open my eyes again and take a final breath.

There are other things painted over the black in bright red.

Dripping smiley faces, hearts, stars.

A frowny face is unsuccessfully covered up by a poorly drawn heart.

When I open the paper, another piece falls onto my lap. I pick it up. It is neatly folded into fours.

For a moment, my mind rushes back to the storm.

Mom is probably worried sick, maybe even called the cops. I can’t call her though, because there’s still no signal.

Who knows what could be happening outside.

I pull my attention back into the basement. I want to figure out what is going on.

Inside the paper is a letter written in messy print.

Dear whoever is lucky enough to find this letter,

You have come across something special. Something that is mine. If I have not given this to you in person, that means that you are holding my property. Please return it to me, at the MOTEL on Route 66 along the highway, across from the Pier Gas Station. These are items that my customers have sold to me, and they mean so much to me.  I have not stolen them. I repeat, NOT STOLEN! I care for my customers. I care for their health, their family, and I know that they deserve the quality that this motel gives.

With gratitude, 

Mark Shell

So this is Mark’s. The doll house. The letter has a million things that are untrue in it. That he so called cares for his customers. That the stuff is his. He makes it so obvious in the letter that he stole these things. He probably wants to sell them for money. Typical Mark.

I look back into the box. There are other things, too. There is a golden locket.

I pick it up, bouncing it from hand to hand. There is a metal circle in the middle. I press my finger down into it, not expecting anything to happen. But the top part of the locket retracts and a small glass bottle rises. It has a green, foul smelling liquid inside. 

There is also a piece of fabric. It is snow white, lace and string framing it.

There are treasures in here. Treasures that belong to people. People who have stayed at this motel, people who are looking for things that are theirs.

I look up into the dim light.

I’m going to add to this collection of things. My thing isn’t a treasure. Or even valuable, for that matter. But maybe it’ll make somebody a better person. 

I scramble around for a piece of paper, but the back of an envelope will do. I find a half chewed pencil and begin to write. As I do, I can feel the words flow like water, gushing out of me. 

 Mark,

It’s me. Ivy. I’m the teenager who works for your motel. There’s a blizzard outside right now. The snow and wind drove me down here, into the “storage closet” I saw the dollhouse. And the note. And the locket, and the fabric, and the assortment of books and keys. These items were certainly not sold to you. And I know that you probably don’t care about what I am going to say, but give it a chance. That dollhouse you found? Imagine the expression on the little girl’s face when she realizes that her favorite dollhouse is gone. And the dad's anger when he realizes that all the hard work he put into it vanished. When I was 5, my favorite notebook went missing. It was a present from my dad. I would scribble all of my thoughts in there whenever I was anxious or scared. Luckily, I had ripped out some of the pages with the deepest writing before I lost it. One day, I came home from school to a note scribbled on the table: “I went out to get you a new notebook. Love you! -dad”

That was the last time I ever saw him.

And maybe these items mean something important to their owners, too.

Just think about it.

Sincerely,

Ivy Smith