Every mile from Roswell east through Texas oil country is a slow continuation of arid landscape dotted with cattle, pumps jacks and wind turbines. Heat rises from the sandy soil and waves through the air making the landscape seems like a slow motion movie reel. There's nothing to really see but you can't help but look. The sky, much like the land, goes on forever and I wondered a few times if the storm clouds I saw building were tens of miles away or hundreds. Tires rolling over patched asphalt making a numbing sound that reverberated through the hands holding the steering wheel. I took turns shaking my hands trying to shake blood back into them.

I scouted out a charming B&B in Post, Texas that sat on the main street in a refurbished early 1900's building. The reviews and the uniqueness of the hotel guaranteed my reservation and, as I drove the stretch of I-380 towards Post, I daydreamed of sipping wine in the the shaded courtyard that was adjacent to the building. It was 6 pm when we arrived, 11 hours after leaving Colorado Springs, and the little brick building could have held a bust but it was our stop for the night.

We threw down our bags into the room and promptly headed to the patio for a post-drive cocktail. After many deep sighs and about the same number of sips, we unwound watching the birds fly in and out of the trees that lined that hotel and the yard. A stiff breeze was shaking the oak leaves and I looked to see my old friend the dark cloud bank bridging the gap between us. I felt sure, this time, it was truly tens of miles away. We tried to stay outside for as long as the weather would allow but the lightning came too close and chased us inside into our room.

As the thunder clapped over Post, TX and the lightning peaked between the window blinds, Doug and I retired to a relaxing state of reading the news, checking Instagram and listening to music. He was in bed while I sat on the floor resting my back against the hardness that gave relief to my sciatica. It was the anniversary of Stevie Ray Vaughn's death so I was listening to Riviera Paradise while scrolling through tributes on social media. I was engrossed reliving the memory of one of my favorite blues musicians so it took me awhile to notice any other sounds in the room. The storm had moved south and only the low volume of Stevie's guitar broke the silence of the room. I noticed a bell sound like one on a cat's collar used to keep them from sneaking up on birds. It was faint until I turned off my device and sat quietly. It sounded like it was coming from under the bed. I looked around the room to see if it was something else. Perhaps the air conditioning made a sound that mimicked a bell? Or the air vent blew on a antique knickknack. I sat and waited but it seemed apparent the sound came from around me but no where specifically. Doug was reading his tablet and I asked him to listen for the sound. He heard the bell and promptly asked me where it was coming from. Did the hotel owners have a cat that was under our bed? By now I was a bit freaked out which is why I jumped onto the bed away from any monster hands reaching out from under the bed and grabbing me. The practical thing would have been to look under the bed but neither of us was up for the task. Doug decided that sleep would be good at this point and he managed to drop straight to sleep. Me? I lay in bed petrified cuddling right up to Doug's body. I texted a few friends for a distraction but finally made myself close my eyes and attempt some sleep. The next thing I knew light was breaking through the blinds and the fear from the night before had dispelled.
We laughed it off and packed our things to make the next leg of our road trip. The hotel's rate included a home cooked meal which we savored and I took as much time as I could dreading the next 4 to 5 hours stiff in the car. The woman who, with her husband, owned the hotel was doing her morning chores so we waited in the hotel main room. I saw a framed letter on an antique butler table and read the words typed on the paper. The original owners lost their daughter when she was seven years old and it is told that on storming nights, her spirit could be seen playing in the rooms. I brought Doug over to witness the story that tied in the events of the night. It was a ghost! But it was the spirit of Postie, a fun loving girl who played in the rooms of her old home on nights when the rains came through. We shook our heads in awe and giggled at the awesomeness of it all. When we grabbed our bags to leave, we both hollered out a hearty goodbye to Postie and we thanked her for her visit.
On a side note, when I mentioned the event, as we left the hotel, the proprietress quickly walked away dismissing the story. I don't think she's comfortable with a ghost cohabiting her home.