O'Brien's Boutique Bed and Breakfast

Boutique Bed and Breakfast

Hosted by O’Brien

★5.0 - 434 Reviews.

O’Brien’s century old house is at the heart of the historical district, five blocks from downtown. Enjoy our discreet service with a fully staffed kitchen and carefully curated amenities.

Every review was the same: a string of five stars, no additional commentary provided. Users with profiles and names from all over gave a unanimous, wordless appraisal.

★★★★★ - Yvonne, Chicago, USA

★★★★★ - Jung, Seoul, South Korea

★★★★★ - Anthony, Boston, USA

★★★★★ - Lucy, Calgary, Canada

★★★★★ - Sunil, London, UK

The corresponding photo gallery flaunted the brightly lit facade of a Neoclassical house with Southern Plantation influence, complete with a second-floor balcony that wrapped around the entire home. Clicking through subsequent photos revealed a charming interior with natural wooden floors, a grand quarter-turn staircase, and vintage furniture.

Two last suites were available, named after Irish cities. Swayed by the promising numbers and an imminent three-day weekend, I made a reservation for one at the Kilkenny suite–which promised direct access to the balcony, a clawfoot bathtub and a four-poster bed.

The night before my trip, I was packing my holdall when I received a long message from the Host. The self-check in process included parking on a backstreet not visible from the main road. Driving in my battered sedan, I barely had room to pass between the hunkering waste bins and the wooden fence. Parking behind a small garage as directed, the unbecoming view of the trash receptacles and graffiti-laden wall gave me pause. It then occurred to me that the endless rows of stars on the listing perhaps had been bot-generated or paid-for.

With my personal effects in hand, I left my car and made my way around the corner toward the main road. Studded with a single door, the brick wall here looked more respectable than the alley I had just vacated, but was utterly unremarkable—unattractive even. Traffic rumbled both ways on the busy street. I checked O’Brien’s message and entered the given key code with mounting misgivings.

All suspicions were dispelled the moment I pushed the door open with my elbow.

The house looked even better in person, decked with flowers and literal butterflies. A tiled path led from the door to the impressive frontage of O’Brien’s, where a porch swing padded with throw pillows swung in the light breeze. Somewhere, windchimes sang melodically–but that aside, all was quiet.

The front door was unlocked and deposited me in an airy entranceway with the staircase at my right. Squinting at my phone, I found the mentioned key rack mounted behind the unmanned desk. A single key labeled Kilkenny hung on the third rung between Limerick and Galway. I supposed that meant that I was the last guest to arrive for a fully booked holiday weekend.

Peeking into a drawing room, which stretched towards the dining room, I was pleased to find the tasteful, maximalist vintage style exactly as the photos had depicted them. Expensive looking curios complemented the dark wallpaper and ensconced lamps. I mentally claimed the leather armchair and ottoman monopolizing the fireplace.

Upstairs the key turned in the lock without resistance. One side of my suite was exposed brick, directly across from a window nook adorned with burnout velvet curtains. The high ceiling and enormous Persian rug furthered a suggestion of old-school luxury.

Running a bath, I messaged O’Brien to let them know I had successfully checked in. Almost immediately they wished me a pleasant stay, and to let them know if I needed anything.

- - -

While I thought I heard the creaking of floorboards and shutting of doors elsewhere in the house, not a single soul crossed my path. Hourly snapshots of security footage would find me reposed in a new location—in my armchair by the fireplace, on the balcony loungers, on the garden bench. The new hardback novel I had purchased for the occasion was a dud, failing to capture my attention the way that the infinite flow of short-form videos did. The audio medley through my phone speakers and my sudden bouts of laughter were the only signs of life.

Every hour was announced by the beautiful grandfather clock in the drawing room. The solitude I had sought after slowly transformed itself into loneliness that unfurled inside my chest.

Later in the afternoon, after hours of empty distraction, I dozed under the gauzy haze of my bedroom canopy, the unopened novel on the duvet beside me.

When I awoke, the room was muddy with a disorientating darkness. I frantically checked the time to see if I had missed the window for dinner. Relieved that food and company were soon accessible, I rolled over to collect my phone and made my way downstairs.

With the setting sun, the first floor took on a new sense of unfamiliarity–the darkening entry way and drawing room seemed longer and deeper. The lights in the dining room further ahead had been turned on, guiding me like a beacon. I was eager to meet the staff members and ask about the history of the house or make conversation with other guests.

The dining room was illuminated by a colonial style chandelier supervising a long table spread with dishes. At the center a silver platter presented generous rows of black-crusted steak, the grain of each cut oozing with drippings and charred cracked pepper. Globular grapes with wedges of hard cheeses, whipped potatoes and crusty hand pies, roasted rustic vegetables. A haze of steam rose from the dishes, though there were no signs of any heat sources under the platters. There was a stack of clean plates with napkin bound cutlery on a side table.

My nerves and my stomach were at odds at each other as I stood completely alone in the room. There was a bright red door on the opposite side, presumably leading to the kitchen. I strained to listen for any movement therein. Then I turned to look back through the dark drawing room, towards the front entrance. I shuddered as I imagined someone watching me.

Reasoning that dinner must have been freshly served and that others would surely soon arrive, I helped myself and chose a place at the table. My meal, tear-jerkingly delicious though it was, would prove to be as solitary as my afternoon had been.

- - -

That night I fell into the deepest sleep I had in a long time and woke to a gentle knock in the morning. Throwing my covers off I lunged for the door–the light from my room poured onto a picnic basket in an otherwise empty hallway.

Rosemary scones, a berry box filled with cherries, quiche tartlets, smoked salmon arranged into roses. I was seized with the absurd notion that anthropomorphic woodland creatures in aprons were preparing my meals.

I was determined to make some sort of contact with anyone today. Pocketing my phone, my plan was to snoop as much as my respectable nature would allow.

The garden was expertly maintained, and yet was possessive of a wild abandon. Not manicured like French or Japanese gardens, the spaces between stepping stones overflowed with spongy clover patches, the beds of flowers of mixed varieties, creating impressionistic blotches of color.

My destination was the guest house I had spotted during my self-guided tour of the grounds. Grey-shingled and cottage-like, it was completely overtaken by ivy and morning glories. Self-consciously I looked around before shading my eyes to look straight through an uncovered window.

The glorious morning was doing its best to impede my efforts. Through the glaring reflection I was able to make out a basic kitchenette and table set. On it there was a dead bouquet in a vase, its petals dropping on a lace tablecloth. Also: A plate with half-eaten toast, a stick of butter with room temperature sheen, a housefly cleansing its back legs on a spoon.

I drew back immediately, fearing someone inside had already caught me peeping in–or had been watching me the whole time.

Unable to stay any longer in the idyllic garden, I retreated back to the house through a back entrance, chiding myself for being so easily spooked. Back inside, I made my way back to the familiar dining room. There, the polished percolator set up on the table gushed out hot black coffee. Reinvigorated and emboldened by the influx of caffeine, I considered my next move.

A massive clang issued from behind the red door and I issued an undignified squawk. Barely managing to avoid soddening myself with scalding coffee, I put down the mug and stared down the door.

I called out.

Silence, except the ticking of the grandfather clock in the room over.

Like a cat putting one paw gingerly in front of the other, I slunk my way towards the door and tried calling out again, all senses heightened. Grasping the metal handle, I waffled for the briefest moment. Then I pulled.

The kitchen was in the disarray of mid-meal preparations. Round wheels of sourdough awaited their fate on a cutting board next to an array of jars of condiments and pickled vegetables. Several small mixing bowls with sauces or sliced fruit were cluttering the island, and a giant pot was spitting steam from under its lid on the stove.

I located the culprit near the sink–an overturned colander scattering brown-skinned potatoes all over the ground. Hurrying over to turn down the gas underneath the sputtering pot, I called out once more. A sigh of windchimes responded.

Wandering further in, I found a fully stocked pantry, a small cold room, a storage space with dishes and serving equipment. The last room was an office space where the walls were entirely covered in bookshelves, the heavy writing desk suiting an academic more than a bed and breakfast owner.

With one last display at good manners, I knocked on the open door to signal my presence.

Unfortunately, no papers or memos were left behind for my prying eyes, nothing that bated my curiosity or allowed me a modicum of reality. However, the room was strangely drafty despite the closed windows. As I searched the desk, the windchimes sounded closer than ever–I looked up.

Perched high on one of the shelves was a tree branch made of silver. Unearthly brilliant, something about the silver gave it a shimmering, rippling illusion.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, giving me the second deathly scare of the day.

A message from O’Brien, detailing the check-out procedures for tomorrow. It shook me back to my senses, confronting me with my role as trespasser. Retracing my steps, I followed the corridor to get myself back on the other side of the red door as soon as possible.

In the kitchen, I froze. Peeled white potatoes drained in their colander in the sink. Slices of bread were arranged in an assembly between open condiment jars and a mosaic of deli meats and cheese slabs. Completed sandwiches had already been stacked on foldable trays, stuck with red tipped toothpicks garnished with two stuffed olives each.

A sensation like a finger stroke, starting from the base of my skull down to the small of my back. Without looking back, I made the last few steps across the threshold, back to permissible ground.

- - -

I had already tossed my bag in the back seat and pulled out of the alley when a notification banner slid down the top of my screen, transmitting one final message from O’Brien.

We hope you enjoyed your stay as we’ve enjoyed serving you. If there was anything about your time at O'Brien's that was less than perfect, let us know and we will make it right. Safe travels.

I had no valid complaints; everything was beautiful and delicious, the best hospitality I had ever experienced.

At the stoplight, my finger hovered over the empty row of stars that prompted my verdict.

But…

I tapped on my screen and closed the application.

I don’t think I’ll ever be staying again.