Print This Post
Only three people worked at the bed-and-breakfast on the outskirts of a tiny rural town—a bellhop, a concierge, and a housekeeper. According to unanimous positive reviews, the staff had top-notch customer service though the details of everyone’s visits were sparse. The bed-and-breakfast only rented out one room, and they required a minimum and maximum stay of two nights, three days.
In the reservation request, the form had only one question that was mandatory to answer.
How can we help?
* * *
Day One: The Bellhop
“What the hell did you book?” Danny said, leaning over the steering wheel to see the top of the bed-and-breakfast. The building was only two stories tall and overgrown with vines that covered the windows. I decided not to answer what I hoped was a rhetorical question, wary of starting the trip with a fight. Danny continued, “It’s in the middle of nowhere too.”
“We’ll have fun together.”
He scoffed, but from the lightness in his eyes, I could tell I gave the correct response, focusing on us rather than acting defensive.
Nobody came outside to greet us when we parked in the rundown driveway. The air felt thin, making every breath feel labored. Danny popped the trunk of the car, and I moved to grab my scuffed yellow suitcase, but he swept my hands away.
“I got this.”
I kissed him on the cheek, and I was rewarded with a faint blush.
Deciding not to knock, Danny flung open the front door and lugged both of our bags through. There was nothing notable about the lobby. They had a standard front counter and an antiquated-looking elevator. A woman, presumably the concierge, greeted us. And like the lobby, she had nothing noteworthy about her features either. She smiled, and I looked down at my feet. When I returned my gaze to her, I could have sworn she looked slightly different. But I supposed she must have one of those forgettable faces.
“Mr. Cooper?”
“Yes,” said Danny.
She read the sheet in her hand and turned to me. “And you must be Mr. Cooper as well.”
I nodded, meekly. I should have answered alongside Danny, and I could tell he was displeased.
“Newlyweds?”
“Two-year anniversary.” Danny wrapped a protective arm around me. She didn’t seem bothered by the fact that we were two men. I relaxed, as much as I could, into his hold.
“And who was the booking under?”
“Me.” I forced a smile.
“Why does that matter?” Danny snatched the digital keycard, a surprisingly modern choice, that sat on the counter.
A bellhop appeared from around the corner—a younger man. And like the concierge, he had no defining characteristics. It was almost as if the more I looked at him, the less I remembered about his face. My mind felt foggy when I tried to wrap my head around this phenomenon, but the bellhop didn’t give me time to think.
He grabbed both suitcases. “Let me bring your baggage up for you. Follow me.”
We rode the elevator in silence. I was never much of a conversationalist, and the presence of a stranger made me even less so. Danny always took the lead on trivial small talk, but he was being unusually quiet. We only needed to ascend one floor, and yet the ride seemed to stretch on for far longer than it should.
When the elevator finally opened, we walked through a typical hallway, dimly lit without windows. We passed multiple rooms, which was strange since they only allowed one concurrent booking. I wanted to ask, but I was afraid the question would come off confrontational.
I tried and failed to get Danny’s attention. He seemed intent on following the bellhop. And then, I felt it too. Something tugged me forward. I could swear something called out to me, and I only needed a few more steps to hear it.
The bellhop opened the room door.
And it was surprisingly sparse for how much we paid—a queen-sized bed with two nightstands at each side, a window with a view obstructed by vines, a stone fireplace that looked untouched, and a door to the bathroom. There wasn’t even a TV, which actually worked in our favor since Danny hated televisions in bedrooms.
And yet, it felt familiar, achingly so. I flipped on the two light switches, and only one set of ceiling lights turned on—the ones near the bathroom were out. But I was expecting that for some reason. I walked to the lamp on the nightstand and pulled the cord from underneath the lampshade without needing to crouch down to find it.
That feeling, that urging to move forward, returned.
The bellhop had placed our two suitcases down. They were several yards apart from one another. I didn’t question it because I had this sudden need to unpack. Danny must have had the same sensation because he moved toward his own bag. Neither of us were the type to unpack on vacation, squeezing our dirty clothes in between the clean ones. To leave our stuff scattered about in a hotel room reminded us too much of our own home, and in some way, felt like an affront to what we built.
I unzipped my yellow suitcase. The interior felt cavernous, almost bottomless. There was something I needed to find buried underneath everything. I started to toss aside random clothes, digging further until I could find whatever was the source of this calling. I was on the verge of becoming frantic, as if I was underwater for a second too long and that breath of air was just out of reach.
There were random items I didn’t pack, clothing I swore I threw away a long time ago. Then it became more bizarre. My college graduation gown. My badminton uniform from high school. My expensive black suit, kid-sized, that I grew out of a year after my parents bought it. The uneasiness finally subsided as soon as I grabbed hold of what I was looking for.
My older sister’s sweatshirt—yellow, which was her favorite color. I hugged it tight, and that smell of warm sun with cheap perfume washed over me. I suddenly felt alone, or rather, the loneliness inside me grew louder.
She passed away when I was twelve, and I remembered the aftermath on my family. Her death had left this black hole whenever we were together—it seemed to suck the air out of the room. I tried to fill it, tried to be like that cheery, reckless, fiery girl we loved. But it never felt right, so I resigned myself to the melancholy that defined our new family structure. We stopped talking to each other, even for arguments. We had spent so many years in silence that I remembered nights when I realized I hadn’t spoken that entire day. I would say her name into the darkness, waking my throat with every syllable.
A gasp from the other side of the room freed me from falling deeper into my past.
I looked over and saw Danny holding a hunting rifle in his hand.
“Danny?” It felt so surreal that I had a hard time believing my eyes. The sheer length of the gun would make it impossible to fit into his suitcase.
“I—” Danny looked genuinely shocked. I watched him with strange fascination. I had never seen him look so vulnerable before, not even on our wedding day. “This looks just like my dad’s. No. This is my dad’s.”
“Perhaps, it is,” said the bellhop, still standing near the entrance of the room.
I jumped back in alarm, assuming he had left. Danny whipped his gun around, cocked it, and pointed it at the bellhop.
I didn’t know what came over me. Maybe I remembered how tragic loss was, and I didn’t want to face another reminder today. Or maybe I remembered what it felt like to act like my sister, and I let that embolden me.
I threw myself in between them. “Stop, Danny. Please.”
“He put this shit in my bag. He—” Danny paused, venom in his words. “You’re looking at me like I’m crazy.”
“You’re still pointing a gun at me.”
The bellhop cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I gave you such a fright. I’m simply waiting for a tip.”
Danny grumbled something about how ridiculous tip culture had become and pulled out loose cash. Somehow, all at once, the heightened emotion and fear evaporated. I didn’t question it, or more like, I couldn’t question it. Everything was simply right again even though there was still a loaded gun in that room.
* * *
Day Two: The Concierge
“Book us a restaurant for tonight,” Danny said to the concierge. “Or suggest a bar around here.”
I bit my lip and looked helplessly at Danny. He glanced my way and groaned. “My husband wants me to ask if there are any shows nearby, though I doubt theater is big here.”
“In fact, there is,” she said with a smile. I cringed inwardly, already feeling the tension from being right. She stepped out from behind the counter and pointed to two giant doors next to the elevator. “We have a theater here.”
I didn’t remember that being there, but yesterday already felt like a haze. I thought about it some more and realized I couldn’t recall what we did for dinner last night, or how we spent most of the day.
Before I could dwell on it further, the concierge spoke, “Follow me.”
Forgetting my earlier worries, I turned to Danny to check if that was what he wanted to do. But the concierge already made her way forward, beckoning us to join.
The theater was massive with rows of empty seats with nobody here to fill them. A single spotlight marked the center of the stage.
“What are we doing here?” Danny complained.
I turned to see if the concierge was going to answer, but she had disappeared. Then her voice boomed from the stage. “Thank you for joining us.”
“This is stupid,” Danny said beside me, but he didn’t make to leave. And I felt it too, that same urging from yesterday. It was more than curiosity. Something compelled us to stay.
“Tonight’s show is an interactive one.”
“It better not be improv.” Danny took a seat in the first row, and I followed.
“We’d like two volunteers to come up on stage.”
Danny stood, but he looked down with alarm as if his legs moved on their own. He turned to me. The confusion that riddled his expression softened until he looked almost vacant. He held out his hand.
“Do we have to?” Fear was welling up inside me. I had no idea why, which only made the feeling more terrifying.
Then he smiled.
“It will be fun,” he said, pulling me to the stage. Beads of sweat already formed at the back of my neck from the glare of the spotlight. I was supposed to be the one excited to see a show, and he was just complaining about doing this. I felt imbalanced by the reversal of our emotions, but Danny no longer looked like he would take no as an answer.
“Give it up for our two brave volunteers.” The concierge clapped as a replacement for the nonexistent audience—even though the seats were empty, I felt like I was being watched. “I’m going to ask you two to act out a scene. Oh, but what scene? I’ll take a suggestion from the audience.”
“What was that?” She put her hand to her ear as if someone yelled out across the room. “How they first met?”
“How are we supposed to—”
Danny interrupted me. “Can you just try?”
“I—” I supposed it was a fond memory, and it wasn’t like there was actually anyone in the crowd. “I’ll try.”
The woman stood between us. “Once I clap my hands, the scene will begin. If you have trouble starting, remember that feeling when you first locked eyes, how intoxicating the possibility of love was.”
She stepped to the side and her hands met—the crisp noise echoed throughout the empty room.
Danny leaned against the back wall of the stage, pretending to hold an invisible cup. His head was bowed, examining the contents of the drink. He looked small, which wasn’t like him at all. This wasn’t how our first meeting went.
And then, I realized his game. He was playing as me in this weird re-enactment. Which meant, I had to play a convincing Danny.
I puffed up my chest. I took off my pretend baseball hat and put it on backwards. I tried to embody his confidence, that ability to feel at ease around others. Danny could walk into a room without having the need to explain his presence. I envied it—I still did. I loved that despite his best interests, he chose me. And I would need to act like the person who had the strength to do that.
I felt myself grow taller, bigger, more powerful.
The details around the edges of the stage faded, and I began to hear the loud chatter of that college fraternity party. I caught a whiff of stale beer and sweat. As I approached closer, the floor felt sticky—each step the sound of Velcro ripping.
Danny’s face began to blur even though he was in the spotlight. When he looked up from his red Solo cup, I was met with the face of my younger self. I had always found myself ugly, but somehow, looking at my face now, I was overcome with attraction. This unnerving craving fought against my own thoughts, my own understanding of myself. I realized I was seeing myself through Danny’s eyes.
I dove deeper into that sensation, letting my own identity vanish—a task I was well-equipped for. I could hear his thoughts, feel his emotions pumping through me. Until finally, I let Danny completely take over.
That boy, looking back at me, seemed so fragile like a glass doll. And something in me wanted to push him to see if he would shatter.
Desire and resentment intertwined. I was jealous of him, of a meek boy that somehow survived in this harsh world. He must have had it easy. I walked closer, entranced by those nervous eyes that refused to hold my gaze. He was pathetic. He was everything I hated about myself, everything my father told me to be ashamed of.
But that didn’t matter. All I knew was that I wanted him to be mine, and whatever was mine, I could break.
I flung myself from the memory, out of the burning spotlight at the center of the stage, and away from the violent thoughts of my husband’s younger self.
This strange make-believe game felt too real. I was terrified at what I saw. I staggered offstage, behind the drawn curtains into the darkness. The concierge had disappeared, and all that remained was Danny smirking at me from where I left him.
“Did you…” I felt ridiculous saying this out loud. “Feel something strange just now?”
Danny neared me, and I instinctively moved backwards. He pushed against me, snatched my hands too harshly, and pinned them against the wall. He leaned closer to my ear. “You worshipped me.”
I wanted to be confused in that moment. But I understood. He saw how I viewed him back then, how I still viewed him.
“I—”
But he didn’t let me talk. He rammed his mouth against mine. Our teeth clattered against each other, and he pushed his tongue down my throat.
* * *
Day Three: The Housekeeper
There was a knock at the door.
“It’s time to check out,” came a woman’s voice from outside our room—most likely the housekeeper.
“Check out?” I was standing in the middle of the bedroom. I looked over at the clock on the nightstand and saw that it was already the early afternoon. Danny wasn’t anywhere to be found, so I assumed he must have stepped out. What did we do this entire morning?
I remembered last night at the theater with that horrible game, but it felt like years ago. The revelation of how Danny thought of me back then didn’t feel so shocking anymore. I knew he felt that way. I had suspected that for a while now.
“Hopefully it’s not too much of a mess,” said the housekeeper, polite but stern.
I looked around and saw that it was. Heaps of clothes were scattered everywhere. I spotted my sister’s yellow sweatshirt that I inherited from her death, lying next to the stone fireplace that didn’t work. Our suitcases were gone, but the hunting rifle remained, leaning upright in an empty corner.
All of it looked so familiar. And then realization struck me like a blow to the head. This was Danny’s and my bedroom. Everything was the same—the piles of dirty clothes that we could never keep up with, the broken fireplace that Danny kept saying he was going to fix, the loaded gun in case he needed to deal with an intruder at night.
No, there was something even more specific in the mess of this room. This was exactly as it looked that day. I shook my head, confused at my own thoughts. But my confusion was a lie to myself, a means of protection from something I didn’t want to see again.
“What is this?” Danny came out of the door to the hotel room—the door to our bedroom. He wasn’t supposed to be home this early.
I stepped in front of him and tried to block his view, but it was as if I was invisible. He continued to glare at the bed.
“What is this?” he repeated louder. He stepped forward, and I tried to embrace him, but my whole body passed through him as if I was nothing.
I spun around and saw myself on the bed. My limbs intertwined with another—with someone who didn’t deserve to be caught in what happened. It didn’t matter to Danny who it was. All he cared about was the act of betrayal, that something of his was taken from him.
He grabbed the version of me on the bed and threw me.
And then, I was there all of a sudden, back in that nightmare and being tossed off the bed again. My skull crashed against the side of the wall. In my stupor, I saw Danny’s fists pound down repeatedly on the other man I was caught in bed with. I crawled over to the other side of the room, spilling blood over the clothes that lined the floor. I grabbed the rifle and stood, struggling against the throbbing in my head.
The gun was loaded already, as it always was. Danny never allowed me to use it, but I knew enough from watching him at the shooting range. How hard would it be to pull one trigger?
“You’d never hurt me.” Danny stood in front of the bed. Blood dripped from his fists, and I caught a glimpse of the mangled body behind him.
Danny took a step forward, so I pointed the gun at him.
He stopped, briefly. But as soon as I failed to shoot, he scoffed and continued. He was right. I couldn’t shoot him. I couldn’t even say no to him. Danny snatched the rifle and tossed it away.
I withered under his gaze, drawing my eyes to the floor.
Next to the fireplace, I spotted my sister’s sweatshirt, yellow and obnoxious and loud. And I had this horrible ache in my heart. I missed her. I don’t know why I was thinking about something so long ago when my life was in danger. But I was. Maybe I knew Danny wouldn’t forgive me for this, knew that he could finally do what he dreamed of doing to me—to break me.
“Look at me.” Danny clenched the sides of my arms. My body stiffened, and I yelped in pain. I already had bruises exactly where he grabbed me.
I couldn’t meet his eyes, not yet. I focused back on that sweatshirt, and I remembered how reckless and stupid and powerful she was. And an overwhelming urge came over me—to stop being quiet.
I screamed.
I raised my voice as loud as I could muster and screamed for help.
He covered my mouth with his calloused hands, and I bit down until I tasted blood, until I felt bone between my teeth. He struck me in the gut, but I wouldn’t let go. His fist met my face, but I held on. Danny pulled back, but his fingers stayed with me.
Now, he was the one screaming.
He staggered backwards. His foot caught on the sweatshirt, and he slipped, careening downwards until his skull split against the stone fireplace.
It was quiet again, so quiet that I wanted to be anywhere else but here.
And I remembered I wasn’t here, not really. I wasn’t in our bedroom of the house I already sold. I was in a hotel room with a housekeeper waiting outside. It had been time to check out, and she was waiting patiently.
I walked to the door, and my hand lingered over the knob. I turned back to look at the man beaten to death in the corner and at Danny, who was the one to do it. I still believed that day was my fault. I would never convince myself otherwise. I knew that. But looking at that yellow sweatshirt, I thought my sister, if she was still here, would have been proud I chose not to be quiet. And maybe that would have to be enough.
I opened the door to find the housekeeper with her blank expression. “I’m sorry about the mess I made.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s my job to clean up after you.”
I stumbled through the hallway, gaining stability in each progressive step. The bruises on my arms faded, and the wound on my head closed. I waited in the long elevator ride down, and in the warped reflection of the elevator doors I saw my disheveled clothes right themselves.
The staff, all three of them, greeted me when I walked out into the lobby.
“Your baggage.” The bellhop offered my yellow suitcase, which seemed larger and heavier than before.
The concierge waited for me behind the counter.
“Ready to check out?
I nodded.
She printed out the receipt and handed it to me. The reservation was and had always been for one. I came here to get away from town on what would be our second anniversary.
I read the receipt, remembering my answer to their mandatory question.
How can we help?
Free me of the memory of him.
==========
AUTHOR BIO:
Justin Hatfield is a speculative fiction writer who lives in Chicago, Illinois, with his husband. He holds a bachelor’s degree from Northwestern University. He can be found on Instagram @justinhats.
==========
WHY WE CHOSE TO PUBLISH “How Can We Help?”:
We do our best to find stories that are different, unusual, or out of the box (but not too far out). Unfortunately, they don’t come along very often.
Author Justin Hatfield surprised us with this one. It starts off almost as an ordinary story, except for that line on the reservation request “How can we help?”
The bed-and-breakfast also seems almost ordinary as well. The story is so well done that, while not everything quite lines up as expected, the author manages to hide the magic realism aspects of it until near the end. Even after we learn there’s only one Mr. Cooper here, we still don’t see that gut punch in the final line coming. It brings us right back to the opening and the title.
This is such a beautifully crafted story that there was no way we could refuse it. Kudos to the author for a superb piece of writing!
We’re also pleased to showcase this as Justin Hatfield’s first published story.