Please Don’t Sign the Guestbook

The Airbnb was quaint and quirky and we blew in with the wind, strewing makeup bags and wine coolers across the place like our signature: four best friends, there to whoop it up. None of us noticed that first night that sleep eluded us all. We were pulling an all-nighter anyway—manicures, facials, and midnight confessions of our darkest thoughts.

We rummaged through drawers around dawn looking in vain for a blow-dryer, but all I found was an old guestbook. Every guest that signed had simply written, “Unforgettable.” We’ll do our best to live up to that sentiment, I thought, attributing my sudden coolness to the still-wet hair.

We hit the ski hills hard, then whiled away evening in the hot tub. I didn’t even care that my towel disappeared, just grabbed one from the bathroom cupboard, slamming its door shut against the cold draft that rushed out. The rest of the evening I couldn’t seem to get warm, layering on blankets over fleecy pajamas and woolen socks whilst the girls lolled around in shorts and tees. My goosebumps went unnoticed in a blur of tipsy Truth or Dare and juicy gossip until the last of us succumbed to sleep.

Awoken by a chill in darkest night, I could hear no movement—all was still. Across the shadowed room the wardrobe door stood slightly ajar. I tiptoed across to close it; instead the door swung open and that frigid draft sucked me in. Swallowed by the darkness as the wardrobe slammed around me, something choked out my cries. Locked away, helpless, something that was not me took my place in the bed.

In the morning four girls left. The one that was not me scrawled one line in the guestbook: “Unforgettable.”

Published by Aly Writes

I bake. I write. What goes better together than a good story and a delicious fresh-baked pastry? Nothing. And I can give you both. Grab a hot cuppa and join me.

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