Breakfast was unfortunately cut short as I received multiple missed calls from our driver, later finding him disoriented at the bottom of the hill near our bus.
“Derek!” The American husband shouted, gaining his attention.
“Ah! Here you are,” Derek waved from the folding door of the bus, “I had been knocking for ten minutes, where did you all come from?”
Confused by his question, I elected to respond, “Where you directed us yesterday—Number 4 Highslate Drive.”
“Mate, my drop-off sheet says Number 14 Highslate Drive.”
Caught in a moment of doubt, we looked at one another, flooded with thoughts that our minds could not find a formidable way of organizing into a single question.
“Here, let’s have a look. I have my drop-off sheet from yesterday, look—oh, oh…”
“What? What is it?” The American wife looked concerned.
“For some reason, the 1 was faded,” said Derek, “How could I have missed this?”
The Americans were eager to ask the questions, which was fine, as I had one very troubling thought in my mind that could not be true.
“How did you manage to get into the house?”
“I have a more pressing question, who the hell did we stay with last night?” The husband asked.
“Nobody, I would hope. The home is, sorry—was owned by a Mrs. Ruth Thorpe. She passed away nearly three weeks ago. The house was also a bed and breakfast. Not too sure what the children are planning to do with it now.”
“Guys…,” I looked at the newlyweds who were ghastly pale and seemed as if they had aged 10 years into their marriage.
“Wait, how old was Mrs. Thorpe?” The husband asked.
“Mid-seventies, I believe. Is everything alright? It looks like the lot of you saw a ghost.”