A Dubious Stranger

My heart pounded. Beads of perspiration formed along my hairline. “He’s right behind you. Run!” I shouted.

Oh, this is ridiculous, I told myself as I threw my e-reader onto the couch beside me. This was why I hated crime novels. I hated being scared. How could anyone enjoy it? I was only reading this book for work. Tomorrow, I was covering a lecture by Alistair Sterling, my current novel’s author, about banned books, particularly, the book I was reading, which was prohibited from many school and county libraries. No wonder. Who wanted to read about women being strangled and mutilated? It was horrifying. Worse, who wrote this trash? This Alistair Sterling had to have psychopathic tendencies. There was no other explanation.

I untangled my legs from the fluffy throw and trudged to the kitchen in the hopes of finding hot cocoa. After I received this assignment, I had rented this chalet in the Blue Ridge Mountains because its website boasted a nearby vineyard that had wine tastings, a trendy restaurant and live music every Friday and Saturday night. It seemed the perfect way to turn a work trip into a romantic getaway for Ted, my boyfriend, and me. But Ted had other plans with Trudy Sue, a former beauty pageant queen, who was the best copyeditor at the newspaper where we all worked.

Sighing, I poked through the chalet’s coffee bar until I found a packet of hot chocolate, but the fridge lacked milk, and to me, water wasn’t an acceptable substitute, so I settled for tea. As I waited for the water to boil, a blustery wind rattled the windowpanes. The Nor’easter had howled for the last few hours. One night alone was proving bad enough. What would I do if I was snowed in here for days?

The teakettle’s whistle caused me to jump. You’ve got to get a grip, I admonished myself as I poured the steaming water into a mug. After I fixed my tea, I returned to the living room where I curled up on the couch in front of the fireplace. I gazed at the gas logs’ flickering flames as I sipped my hot beverage and tried to calm my mind.

The doorknob rattled. I cut my eyes toward the front door. It’s just the wind, I told myself as it rattled again. But, when the knob started turning, I sat up on the couch. My eyes widened as the door started to open. I screamed as Alistair Sterling walked into my chalet. I have to be dreaming, I thought, but then, Alistair Sterling screamed back, and I knew I was awake.

“Who are you?” he yelled.

“I’m Lucy Waters.”

“What are you doing in my chalet?”

My brow furrowed. “Your chalet? I rented this place weeks ago.”

“So did I.”

“Obviously, there’s been a mistake,” I said as I reached for my phone. “I’ll call the owner and get it straight.”

After a few swipes, I found the owner’s contact information and called her. When she answered, I said, “Hello, this is Lucy Waters. I rented your chalet for the weekend.”

“Yes,” the owner said.

“It seems you must have made a mistake and rented it to another person as well. Mr. Alistair Sterling.”

“That’s correct.”

“How can that be correct?”

“The chalet has two bedrooms. I rented you a room, and I rented him a room.”

Rubbing my forehead, I said, “No. I rented the whole chalet, not just a room.”

“I’m sorry, dear. I only rented you a room. Check your confirmation.”

“Please hold a minute,” I said, frantically swiping my phone until I found the confirmation email. Sure enough, in fine print, it said I had rented one room for two nights. My heart sank. “I see,” I said. “Thank you.” I ended the call and laid my phone on the cushion next to my leg.

“What did she say?” Alistair asked.

“It seems we each rented a room. Not the entire chalet.”

“Geez,” he said, shaking his head. “Well, which room do you want?”

“What do you mean? We both can’t stay here.” The words tumbled out of my mouth.

He pointed towards the front door. “We can’t go out in that.” Seemingly to prove his point, the wind gusted once more.

“I’ve already put my stuff in that one.” I indicated the room closest to me with my head as I picked up my phone and e-reader then scurried towards the bedroom’s doorway.

“Goodnight,” he said to my retreating back.

Once in the bedroom, I locked the door and climbed into bed, huddling under the covers, but I couldn’t stop shivering. Only a thin door separated me from a depraved man who made a living plotting gruesome murders. Damn you, Ted! I needed you tonight, but you choose Trudy Sue over me.

Tears sprang to my eyes. This was so unfair. I didn’t deserve to be dumped, and I didn’t deserve to be snowed in with a dubious stranger.

It’ll be fine. I’ll leave first thing in the morning. I can do this, I told myself and burrowed deeper under the lightweight quilt. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but my mind returned to the book and the images of women gasping for air as their flailing arms vainly tried to fend off their attacker. I was under the same roof as the person who created those horrific images. Nausea bubbled up, but I couldn’t be sick. The bathroom was in the hallway, and I wasn’t going out there. I sucked in big gulps of air until my stomach settled.

As I laid there, the wooden chalet creaked and popped. I couldn’t tell if the sound came from the storm battering the walls or footsteps on the floorboards. A loud crack caused me to shriek. Then, everything went eerily quiet as it does when the electricity goes out.

I checked my phone. It was only 9:30 p.m. Hopefully, the electric company would restore the power soon. Otherwise, it would be a cold night with only this thin quilt to keep me warm. Why did I leave the fluffy throw in the living room?

Getting out of bed, I walked towards my suitcase where I retrieved a sweatshirt and a pair of socks, threw them on and then dove back into bed. After a few minutes, I stopped shivering and dozed off.

As I slept, I dreamed of mice gnawing at the legs of my bed. The clicking of their teeth woke me up, but as I came to, the noise continued, and I realized it was the sound of my own teeth chattering. The bedroom was frigid. The extra clothes offered little protection. With the power still out, the chalet’s only source of heat was the gas logs in the living room. If I left my room, I might run into Alistair, but if I stayed inside, I could die of hypothermia. Besides, if he really wanted to kill me, he would bust down this door to do it. I took a deep breath and made my way to the living room.

Alistair was in the club chair by the fire. “I was wondering how long you would last in that freezing room.”

Without saying a word, I grabbed the fluffy throw I had left on the couch, wrapped it around me and sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, facing my housemate. Once my eyes adjusted to the firelight, I appraised him. He was stilled dressed in crisp chinos and a pullover sweater, and he had a tumbler in one hand. Occasionally, he raised the glass to his mouth and took a drink. If I hadn’t known his profession, I would have thought he was a wealthy businessman or a respected lawyer, not someone with a dark mind.

After several silent seconds, I said, “I’ve read some of your work.”

“Oh? Did you like it?”

“No.”

He chuckled. “I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.”

“I can’t imagine you’re anyone’s cup of tea. Your book is disgusting, and it should be banned.”

Raising his eyebrow, he said, “Quite a few people like my work. Why should they be denied the right to read my novels just because you don’t care for them?”

“They glorify violence. If they fall into the wrong hands, they could inspire people to copy the murders you describe,” I said.

“Trust me. Killers don’t need my help planning their murders. Their crimes inspire my stories.” He drained his tumbler and stood. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“No, thank you.”

He walked towards the bar. The glass stopper clinked when he pulled it free of the decanter’s neck. With his back to me, he said, “As a writer, I’m against censorship of any kind. People have the right to express themselves.”

“Yes, people have a right to express themselves as long as they do it in a responsible way,” I said as he returned to his chair. “Violent books and movies aren’t responsible.”

“There just a form of entertainment. When people are scared, it triggers the fight or flight response. It gives them an adrenaline rush. Some people like it.”

“That explains why people like reading it, but it doesn’t explain why you like writing it.”

He swirled his drink. “Murder fascinates me.” A cold sweat trickled down my back. I looked towards the front door, wondering how quickly I could dig out my car. “Why do people kill each other?” he asked. I returned my gaze to him. “How do they live with themselves afterwards? I think I would rather die than live with that kind of remorse.”

My eyes widened. For a moment, I was at a loss for words. Finally, I said, “Well, I’ll leave your books to you and your fans. I much prefer romance novels.”

“You know some people want those smutty romance novels banned. They aren’t fit for public consumption,” he said in an authoritarian tone then laughed as I sputtered an incoherent reply. “What about the internet? I guess you think that should be censored as well?”

“I think erroneous and dangerous misinformation should be blocked. That shouldn’t be protected as freedom of speech.”

“And who decides what information is correct?”

My haunches were getting sore from sitting on the floor, so I moved to the couch. “Authority figures and experts, of course.”

“So, you think a small group of people should control what information is available to the public?”

I nodded. “Absolutely. The average person blindly believes whatever you put in front of them.”

He shook his head. “No, people are shrewder than that. They know when something doesn’t make sense to them.” He sipped his drink then asked, “What if the authorities and experts are wrong?”

I scoffed. “What do you mean? Experts know their fields inside and out. They don’t get things wrong.”

“Never?”

“No. They know what they’re talking about.”

“What about Galileo?” he asked.

“I don’t understand the question. What about Galileo?”

“Galileo said the Earth was round and circled the sun. But his contemporary scientists and religious leaders said the world was flat and the sun revolved around the Earth,” he said, leaning forward. “They declared him a heretic. Today, we would say he was spreading misinformation, but he wasn’t. He was right, and they were wrong.” He sat back in his chair.

“That was one instance, hundreds of years ago. It wouldn’t happen today.”

“Do you want to bet? You hear of people losing their jobs all the time because they say something that others disagree with or find offensive.”

“Certain attitudes and opinions shouldn’t be tolerated.”

“But should they be regulated?” he asked. Before I could answer, he continued, “People know when something is blatantly immoral, and they reject it on their own. Much of life, however, isn’t black and white. It’s full of color. Full of complexities and nuances. Who determines what is accurate and what isn’t? For instance, let’s take our situation tonight. Did the chalet’s owner lie to us?”

“No. It said in the confirmation we only rented a room.”

He held up his index finger. “But we both thought we had rented the entire chalet. It was only after she told us to read the confirmation that we saw the fine print. How did we both get it wrong?”

“I guess we just assumed we understood what we were renting.”

“Or did she mean to deceive us?”

“Why would she do that?” I asked.

“To double book the chalet. To make more money. I know I wouldn’t have rented just a room if I knew I was sharing the place with a stranger. Would you have?”

“No.”

“So, she benefitted from lying to us.”

“We can’t prove she lied to us. She probably thought we had read the fine print.”

“I find it questionable that the descriptions of the amenities and nearby attractions were easy to follow, but the details about the rates and accommodations were unclear. It seems plausible that the owner deliberately created a confusing website.”

“Buyer beware,” I said as I repositioned myself on the couch.

“Exactly. We expect consumers to do their homework when they buy products, so why shouldn’t readers be thoughtful when they consume information?”

With a loud pop, the lights came back on.

“Thank goodness,” I said, as I stood, grateful for the reprieve. On a good night, I hoped I would have stayed and argued, but I was too cold and tired to successfully debate Alistair tonight. Besides, he was beginning to make sense and that frightened me. “Now, maybe I can get some sleep.”

“Goodnight again,” Alistair said as he took another sip.

“You too.”

Once in bed, my racing mind prevented me from sleeping, so I retrieved my e-reader and picked up Alistair’s story where I had left off.