Tag: mystery

Dear Diary,

Look you’d think they’d at least give you a choice between three names rather than just assigning you one. It’s not supposed to connect back to your real life, blah blah blah, but come on. Agatha? Freaking Agatha? I’m going to have to train myself to answer to it. To turn my head when someone says “Oh, Agatha!”

This was never going to be good. I knew that. But it could’ve been better is all I’m saying.

My therapist suggested journaling, but this is going to be burned before I leave here, because it’s going to be about here, and we’re not supposed to carry anything like that out with us. If it’s fiction, that’s different (there’s one of those reviews by someone claiming they wrote a novel while they were here, but it’s probably not any good, because they didn’t actually say it’s been published) but anything about the people we meet, yada yada yada, is illegal.

We all had to sign that stupid form with our legal names, and now we’re here and somebody else, and just make that make sense.

Okay Agatha that’s not the point of journaling. Or of being here. The point is avoiding headlines, avoiding doom scrolling, practicing meditation and mindfulness and dear lord I’m going to die of boredom. Why did I let them talk me into this?

Deep breath. Okay. Worst year of my life and all. God, I almost wrote “worst year of my life so far” and here we go. Doom spiraling again.

I can’t just think it’s the worst year ever because that’s entirely unrealistic. I’m young. Unless I die suddenly in some sort of catastrophic event, there will, someday, be worse years. And that’s not doom thinking. That’s just a fact. I’m still alive and I’m here at this stupid retreat living some people’s dream, and come on, I’m not even the only person doing it. There’s a waiting list, so all the cabins are full. Plus it’s not just the Meyers. They’ve got a couple other people working and living here, and they stay the whole season.

I am here to get away from, and recover from, the things that have happened to me that should have been private but are far too public.

There. That. To live in the moment and not repeat all the awful things and the worst night of my life and the fact that everyone, everywhere, around the world thinks they know what happened, and what I should’ve done, and why it all happened, and just all that shit that I was supposed to leave behind when I got off that dinky airplane and saw Jonathan standing there.

No name cards or anything. It’s just him, the same face as the promotional material, and he waits for your bags and you load them up and if the guy in 3 isn’t the one in my favorite show then it’s his identical twin.

Okay and did anyone ever think of that? I’m never going to be able to say I met him. That we talked. Not about ourselves, no, but come on. It’s the sort of name that makes young women everywhere scream and faint and claim their ovaries exploded, which is both gross and ow, but I’m cursed. He offered me a hand to get down from the van and I can’t ever tell anyone about it.

And yes, Dr. Weber, I’m concentrating on that because it means I don’t have to think about why I’m here. The shit I’m running away from, except Dr. Weber wants me to think of it more proactively, so the shit I’m learning to deal with by being here.

Okay was it really wise to agree to this when being cut off for a month means no therapy appointments, either? It’s almost time for dinner. Guess I might as well see what they do with all our requests.

---

Cold Comfort: Monday, July 1, 2024 – Alyssa

Henry thought the nondisclosure agreement for this place was ridiculous right up until he saw the man coming out of the Poe cabin and knew, without a doubt, that his first name wasn’t Edgar. They weren’t supposed to take photographs of anything that happened in the compound, and especially not of fellow residents, even though this one particular fellow resident happened to regularly trade on his face. And his name, which, Henry reflected as he nodded in passing, was followed all too frequently these days by the word fatigue. He tore his eyes away from the award-winning actor and focused back on the pine needle path that led further into the woods, following Jonathan Meyer.

That was his real name. Jonathan and Lydia Meyer owned the place, and it was their names and faces, and only theirs, on the website. Everyone else went by assigned names, and they passed Cabin 2 (Austen) and reached his own: Longfellow. Hence, he was Henry, at least for the month of July.

“Here we are,” Jonathan announced, unloading the suitcases from the handcart to the small back stoop. He was tall and thin, and even in his dickies and work shirt there was something about him that made Henry think of butlers in dark suits. Jonathan used his thumb to open the lock on the back door and confidently punched a few buttons before stepping aside and gesturing for Henry to use his own.

He did, using his left hand and waiting for the beep and the green light.

Jonathan nodded. “I’ll follow you through to the front and get that one, but then it’s all yours.”

The front of the cabin wasn’t on the path but on the lake, and it wasn’t Lake Superior, even though it was large enough to have an island that also featured on the retreat’s website. Henry went on ahead into the cabin, not looking around curiously because he’d also seen photos of the interior, and through the short hallway to the big front room that was everything but bathroom and bedroom. They repeated the ritual on the front door.

Henry used his right thumb on this one. If Jonathan noticed, he didn’t comment, but then, the whole point of Loon Lake Retreat was not noticing. See, for example, this year’s SAG Award winner heading out of Cabin 3 in swim trunks and with a towel over his shoulder, nary a paparazzo in sight.

Jonathan pointed to a table in the great room that held a three-ring binder next to an odd-looking telephone. It only had two buttons, the white one labeled LODGE and the red one 911. “You can call or come up at any time,” he explained, even though this, too, was in all the literature. “Someone’s always on duty. If you don’t need anything before then, dinner’s ready at six.” Then he waited, but this wasn’t a big-city hotel, and he wasn’t a bellboy whose silence reminded Henry that he needed to tip. Henry nodded, Jonathan nodded back, and then Henry was alone.

Well. Alone in his cabin, but not alone on the compound. There were six guest cabins, although some of them could hold couples, and Jonathan and Lydia, and probably some more staff members, too. There were four vehicles in the staff parking lot, at any rate, and there had to be enough people to keep the lodge manned at all hours, but the staff wasn’t listed on the website, either. Maybe they got to pick their own names.

Henry propped the door and maneuvered the two large suitcases inside. It felt like he’d overpacked, but the email accepting him as a resident for the month of July—after his money had arrived, of course—included a long to-bring list that cautioned Upper Peninsula summers weren’t always as summery as they might like. Loon Lake was up here in the Keweenaw Peninsula, about as far north as anyone could get in the state of Michigan, and guests would want jeans and sweatshirts and wool socks, just in case. They could always request purchases from Jonathan, and have those things added to their tab, but Henry packed as directed and dealt with the baggage fees.

Now this meant he had to unpack, but the bedroom had a wardrobe with hangers and two dressers, like maybe this was one of the cabins that could host a couple instead of a singleton. The bed was a queen, at any rate, and though he could pick up clean sheets from the lodge at any time, if he wanted someone to change the bed for him, he’d have to let them in. There was no maid’s key at this place, even if there was someone who’d act as a maid if he wanted her to.

Henry figured most of the people who forked over the cash for a month here were protective of whatever happened inside their temporary dwelling places. He’d carry his laundry up to the lodge himself, thanks, and put the new sheets on with his own two hands. He didn’t need anyone else poking around, even if it was just his bedroom and he kept his papers and his notebooks in the main room.

That was, of course, the point of Loon Lake Retreat. He’d never refer to the man in Cabin 3 as anything but Edgar, and if any personal questions slipped out, the other residents could dodge or lie as they liked. Henry certainly wasn’t going to be giving any truthful answers of his own, and it remained to be seen exactly how social anyone else would be. Yes, dinner was scheduled to be served in the lodge at six, but it could always be picked up or, if he hit one of the buttons on his phone, delivered to his back stoop with no human contact.

Henry’s problem was going to be juggling contact.

The online forms didn’t ask why you wanted to spend a month somewhere without your cell phone or a Wi-Fi connection. It just asked you for a pass phrase for any loved ones or privileged parties trying to contact you through the lodge’s landline or their catch-all email, checked at minimum every 48 hours. It didn’t ask why you wanted to limit your communication. You could leave at any time before your month was up, but you didn’t get any money back and, once Jonathan drove you out of here, you didn’t return, no matter how many days were left. Everything was very clear: these are the limitations, and you’re choosing them for your own reasons, but nothing asked for those reasons.

Not that Henry would have minded lying if an answer were required. He wasn’t about to say I’m an undercover reporter who learned that you’ve already accepted a murderer for the month of July and will attempt to secure a confession. It didn’t need to be legal. He just needed to get those important words on the record.

---

Cold Comfort: Monday, July 1, 2024 – Agatha