Overlook

As the Windland Estates Coffee House prepares for the weekend rush, I catch my breath near the two-story windows. We have the best views in all the city, overlooking the valley and mountains, tall evergreens in the distance. Some wedding parties book their photographs here. We've even shut the place down for ceremonies, which we cater.

I wipe down tables, take my place behind the counter, where I'll be slinging cups of specialty drinks, arranging pastries in the display case, mopping up spills, checking the change in the drawers to make sure the count's not off. Always, midway through my shift, I feel a breeze, though the door is closed—and a hand on my shoulder that doesn't belong to anyone human.

Julia, a long-time ghost-resident of the original Estate, watches over the place, and I suspect she likes the cherry pastries best. One is always missing at the end of my shift, mysteriously placed behind the chain and "Do Not Enter" sign near the rickety staircase.

Some employees, who've stayed late at night, say she's not as kind as I make her out to be. They say she's evil. They’ve seen her face in the mirror in the bathroom. They say she leaves bloody handprints on the walls, reaching with both hands through the mirror, threatening to strangle. Many leave breathless at night and quit the next day.

At times, I think I've heard ghastly shrieks, but I insist, in my mind, that they're coming from the mountains, where any number of wild animal roams.

The lunch crowd comes and goes. I'm so busy I've nearly forgotten to breathe, but a curious thing happens at 3:30 p.m. Well-dressed groups of people enter in fifteen-minute intervals. They order nothing and gather around empty spaces, which are hard to come by at this hour. Then, someone wearing a wedding dress steps into the front room with a handsomely dressed groom. The well-dressed guests gather and then, an officiant enters, during the happy-hour rush—and orders everyone to the side—so that a string quartet can parade through. Chaos erupts as coffee-house guests spill their drinks and break cups, just trying to edge in for a better view, and the wedding party encourages it.

Someone calls the manager, who hurries over and tries to reason with the couple, but they don’t want to leave. The manager talks of rules, permits, down payments. We’re past capacity, she tells them, but they ignore her.

However, I suspect there's someone here among us who won't tolerate this behavior, and I feel her icy hand on my shoulder again. The fingers tighten, nails dig into my skin, and a wind whips up all around us, shutting off the lights and electricity. We're covered in darkness.

When Julia whispers in my ear, "If anything happens, the blood is on the bride's hands," the lights go back on. And it's time for the bride to walk down the aisle. As she does, all eyes turn to see the bloody handprints on the back of her gown, just before she collapses in front of the most breathtaking view of the sunset outside our two-story windows.