The Friendship Room sat in silence. Red and smoky gray translucent glass illuminated various patches of the otherwise dim space. Dusk was upon the Aubert Inn, but the inhabitant of the infamous doll room preferred not to use the electricity. The one source of light, the stained glass window that was part of the original church, held the central image of a milky white bird tearing at its own breast, shedding ruby drops into the mouths of four of its children, nestled below it. Around this image was the whirling mosaic of red and gray, through which the impartial sinking sun pushed its golden glow. Bits of undefined material, fine gossamer threads and white specks, lit up when passing through the colored beams, drifted lethargically in the anticipatory miasma, the atmosphere heavy with malevolent patience.

Basking in the silence was a room simple in its rectangular shape and furniture: one queen-sized bed, a bureau, a vanity, two wing-back chairs, a coffee table, two bedside tables, and two shelving units flanking the floor-to-ceiling stained glass. There were no books on the shelves, though, no decor, and there were no amenities on the bureau or bedside tables. No, everywhere one looked were dolls. Babydolls, porcelain dolls, china dolls. Dolls with blinking eyes and harlequin dolls on shiny pillows and dolls in proper prairie or Victorian or art-deco clothing. A few marionette dolls hung from the ceiling, a couple of Cabbage Patch kids sat at the bedside tables, and there were even a few well-known figures such as a Chuckie replica and an oversized Raggedy Ann and Andy. All of these figures and more sat still and quiet, their empty eyes staring into nothing, their toothy smiles and their freckles and their stiff hands and their senseless inanimate stuffings existing in a void, a vacuum free of flesh and nerve and bone and yet still alive with something, still pulsing with a newly acquired presence.

That presence had yet to make itself known beyond the confines of the Friendship Room. It was with intense interest that Anjulie and Marie monitored the door, checking as often as they thought of it only to see the "Do Not Disturb" sign still hanging from the knob. Their guest had arrived so late at night that Marie had fallen asleep behind the desk, and when she'd awakened, she'd found the room key missing and the room itself occupied. Their new guest hadn't come to any meals or left the Inn at all, as far as anyone could tell, but there was surely someone in there because both sisters had heard movement within the room—the water running, footsteps, drawers opening and closing, that sort of thing. Neither had been bold enough to so much as knock, as there was something entirely off-putting about that continuous sign on the door. The patron didn't want to be disturbed; Marie and Anjulie would honor the request. And yet a week into so-called Kitty's stay, the women were beginning to grow uneasy.

As the sun set on that Friday evening, Anjulie swept the lobby. The other five patrons who were staying in various other rooms had already eaten, and Hal was cleaning up in the kitchen. She had front desk duty tonight until Marie returned from something she'd called "an engagement," though what exactly the older woman had meant by that she hadn't explained. Anjulie hoped it was a date with someone—anyone! Marie never took time for herself; she'd spent so much time building a life she didn't seem to know how to enjoy.

The unlocked front door (one of a set of two large, wooden church doors) suddenly creaked open, and Anjulie looked up to see a tall, hardy man in torn jeans and an eighties rock band T-shirt striding toward her across the high-ceilinged lobby.

"Excuse me, sir, but check-in is over for the night." She stopped sweeping and stood with a hand on her hip.

Ignoring her, the man closed the distance between them quite rapidly and, wrapping one arm around her back and knocking the broom to the ground with the other, he pulled her toward him. "I don't have a reservation." His words were hot against her face. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Anjulie wrapped her arms around the man's neck and pressed as tight as possible against his muscular body. "I think we can find an available room," she breathed into his ear.

His mouth was at her shoulder, moving up her neck, and his hands roamed downward and squeezed from behind.

"Emmett!" Pretending to be scandalized, Anjulie pushed him away. She coyly swept aside her long black hair and gave him a playful, scolding glare. "The guests might see."

"And?" He reached for both of her hands, threatening to draw her back in.

Anjulie backed away, shook her head, grinning. "They don't pay for entertainment, and I'm not one for free meals."

"But baby, I'm so hungry."

"You'll have to wait," the woman shrugged, smiling as if she were helpless in the situation. She bent to pick up the broom then looked back at her fiancé. "I lock the doors at eleven." The two stood in a moment of flirtatious silence. Anjulie watched Emmett's gaze take in her black faux-leather leggings and fitted black top, pausing at the right places. Heat flushed her chest and cheeks. She tried to appear innocent but the gleam in her eyes bespoke the devil. "You know, the Victorian room is currently unoccupied," she offered at length, pausing to bite her lower lip. The man's subsequent expression gave her all the confirmation she needed. "Just—let me see if Hal can take the desk for half an hour."

Running a rough hand through his trim beard, Emmet's mouth turned up at one end. "Don't take too long." Then he headed for the stairs while his woman hurried (and not for the first time) to beg the cook for a quick respite, ready to take on kitchen clean-up in return.

The upper landing looked down over the lobby; it had been the church's old choir loft. Left to right from there were two hallways, leading back to the added guest rooms, three on either side. With the sudden devious realization that the Victorian room was the last he and Anjulie had to "christen," Emmett chose the proper corridor and strode toward it. The halls were dim, lit at night only by wall sconces on the inner wall, across from the bedroom doors. The rooms themselves contained beautiful stained glass, and at the very end of each side hall was a cozy bay window reading nook. During the day, enough natural light shone to make the place welcoming. Now, though, Emmett was pleased for the shadow; he was up to no good, and no good wanted little illumination.

Three doors lined the hall, several yards of space between them. The first, he knew, was the circus-inspired room. Emmett nearly blushed as he recalled the time he'd spent in that one. The second door was that horrible doll room; he'd felt way too exposed to enjoy their hurried encounter months earlier in that place. Beyond that, though, was the Victorian room—blissfully devoid of people, she'd promised. With hardly two weeks to go before their wedding, he intended to remind Anjulie of the filthy pleasure that was in store for her for the rest of their married lives.

Thoughts of the body that barely hid beneath all that tight black clothing sending his blood rushing, Emmett could hardly contain his excitement as he tried to move quietly. Guests were in that first room. He practically tiptoed, a ridiculous gesture for as large as he was. That second door—he was sure Anjulie had mentioned some weirdo being in there, someone who'd yet to show themselves. He was about to creep past that one, too, when, the moment he neared it, the cut-glass knob suddenly turned, and the door inched ever so slowly inward.

Freezing, Emmett held his breath. He was a couple of feet away from The Friendship Room and was sure he'd soon be seen by its occupant, but rather than open all the way, the door stopped moving after exposing only about a foot. A tense moment passed. Emmett wondered whether he should wait or hurry by, but before he could act on any decision, a very small yet definite notion wormed its way into his mind: he should check on the guest, make sure everything was all right, and in the process, he could see who they were. That'd put Marie and Anjulie at ease—they'd been unsettled by their mystery customer, unsure how to communicate without being rude. Well, an open door was practically an invitation, right? And he was a grown man. This sneaking around was stupid.

Emmett scoffed at his own immaturity, relaxed his body entirely, and called softly into the room, "Hello? Your door, it's open. Is everything all right?"

He couldn't see much; there weren't any lights on. If someone were inside, perhaps they were hurt. Maybe it was why the women hadn't heard from them! They were elderly, or they were disabled . . . That was it. He was going in.

Downstairs, Anjulie had finally managed to convince Hal to cover for her. The older man was rather surly, as usual, and while he was an excellent cook, he was often a pain in the ass to work with. He knew exactly what Anjulie was up to and entirely disapproved, even though she promised it'd be the last time, but he—being the entirely unromantic fifty-six-year-old perpetual bachelor he was—agreed only after Anjulie had sworn to give him an extra paid night off the next week (she'd figure out how to explain that to Marie later).

Slipping into the lobby restroom to make sure all of her was as attractive as she could make it, Anjulie at last zipped up the stairs. The various guests had either gone out or were in their rooms for the night, and though the place wasn't particularly thick-walled enough to hide loud noise, she and Emmett were practiced in being quiet. She knew her behavior was reckless, but there was something exhilarating in secrecy, acting like a teenager in her parents' house, the threat of being caught in the act hovering over her. She briefly wondered if being married to the man would change their taste for temerity and knew, instinctively, that it wouldn't. Anjulie was fairly sure her boldness was one of the reasons Emmett had been attracted to her in the first place. Maybe Marie hadn't believed her younger sister capable of screwing in every room of this old church, but Marie had always thought better of Anjulie than she deserved. Most people had. Perhaps that was the reason she and her daughter were so often at odds—Bijou wasn't fooled.

Pausing when she reached the landing, Anjulie had the sudden notion that something was . . . off. The landing itself pushed back into a nice sitting area with sofa and chairs and bookshelves. The standing lamp and wall sconces were on, and no one was there. When she glanced over the chest-high marble railing, she could see Hal settling in at the front desk in the lobby below. Everything was quiet and calm, and yet, she couldn't shake the uncanny sense that a part of her was beginning to sink.

Her chin quivering, her breath wavering, Anjulie pooled her courage and headed toward the Victorian Room, but she, too, was stopped by the sight of the Friendship Room's open door, which no longer displayed its "Do Not Disturb" sign.

Why was the door open? The light was off . . . was their guest still there? Or had they left? Had Emmett gone into the wrong room?

Anjulie lifted a trembling hand and pushed the door all the way in, too unnerved to say anything aloud. Her vision was aided only by the single sliver of fresh moon now pushing its way through the stained glass image of the bleeding bird. Hundreds of eyes reflected bits of gray and red light as they silently watched her cautiously step into the room. Anjulie could make out the bed, the other gloomy shapes of furniture whose placement was familiar to her, and something else: a dark form against the cream-colored area rug. It was long, and it was wide, but it didn't appear to have much height, almost as if . . . as if it were a pool of some dark thing that'd spilled across the floor. Whatever it was, it certainly didn't belong there.

The guest! Perhaps they'd been hurt!

With a quick intake of breath, Anjulie sprang to the wall near the bathroom entrance and flipped the overhead light switch. What met her eyes defied expectation and yet . . . somehow . . . possessed a certain dreadful familiarity.

Her jagged breaths clouding around her expanding features, the woman stood above the empty wrapper of what had once been her man, clothing and flesh drained of everything that had moments earlier filled it, flattened cavities where eyes and tongue had been, pooling black, indeterminate viscera—what was once inside, outside—in a pile beside what could now hardly be called a body. And as her shock took shape in her screams, the large, talking doll in the center of the pillows on the queen-sized bed, the one Anjulie had programmed to say to their guest "Welcome to your temporary home! We hope you enjoy your stay, Kitty!" began reciting its mechanical message, glitching horribly, repeating over and over and over "Welcome—home—Kitty!"

END OF PART I