Twenty-Six

TWENTY-SIX

I wake on the bedroom floor, fighting with a sheet I dragged down with me. I struggle free and sit up and lean forward as I catch my breath.

What the hell was that?

A nightmare, Nic. They take little bits of reality, weave them with our doubts and fears, and throw them back at us.

But it felt real. It felt like something I was remembering.

It's not.

But…

I rub my face, climb back into bed, and wait for my breathing to slow. Then I do what my brain does best. I analyze.

None of that happened. I did not see Anton that night. I certainly did not see Roddy. And I definitely did not sacrifice Patrice so I could escape. And if I want proof of that, well, Patrice didn't die, did she?

It was a nightmare.

So why does it feel so real?

Because it's the middle of the night, and you're in a haunted house. Oh, and the reason it's haunted? Because you brought your dead husband and all your fucking past baggage with you.

Well, I do always overpack.

I bite my tongue against a hysterical laugh. Then a sound comes. The slow creak of footsteps in the attic. I go still and listen.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I roll over and startle when I nearly fall out of the bed again. I'd forgotten I was in a twin now. Shania is across the room, in the other bed, her back to me as she sleeps soundly.

Seeing her, I have to bite back another laugh.

To sleep soundly in a haunted house because, as far as you know, it's only haunted by your new friend's loving husband, and if she ever suspected anything worse, tonight's séance proved her wrong.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I flip over again, hands to my ears. There's no one in the attic. It's locked.

As if in surrender, the sound stops, and I breathe again, sinking into the pillow. Minutes tick past. Shania tosses in her sleep. Did she hear it, too?

Creak. Creak.

My heart thuds as my gaze moves to the head of my bed. That's the sound I heard last night. The ghostly echo of the dumbwaiter pulley.

Creak. Creak.

Wait. It's not coming from over my head. It's down by my feet. It must be something else—

No, I switched rooms. That's where the dumbwaiter is now.

I reach for my phone. I'm going to record the sound.

"Nic?"

It's Shania, her voice groggy with sleep. I turn to see her lifting her head from her pillow as she pushes up her sleep mask.

Creak. Creak.

"Do you hear that?" I say.

"Hear what?"

Creak. Creak.

"That."

She peers at me. "I don't hear anything." She blinks hard and her eyes open wide. "Is it Anton?"

I shake my head. "Just the pipes creaking."

She gives a soft laugh. "You really do have good hearing." A pause. "Everything okay, Nic?"

"I'm fine. Go back to sleep."

She lowers her eye mask and lies back down, and within minutes, the soft sound of deep breathing fills the room.

I lift my gaze to the ceiling.

No more footsteps.

Also, no more creaking "rope in pulley that doesn't have a rope."

I sit up to think. Then I see Shania. I need to let her sleep. No, mostly, I just don't want her realizing anything's wrong, but also, she should sleep.

I shiver, grab my wrapper, and head out. I can't resist stopping by the attic door again. Still very much locked.

I head for the stairs. I take them slowly, but there's no need. Nothing happens. The house is silent and still.

I walk to the kitchen and start to pour a glass of wine. Then I put the crystal glass aside and take down a plastic patio one instead, just in case something shoves me from behind and I fall, breaking glass that will manage to embed itself in my artery and I'll bleed out on the floor.

"Would that be such a bad thing?"

The words seem to whisper inside my head, and I jump.

Where the fuck did that come from?

Okay, I am not in the right mental place for this wine. I open the fridge and take a can of pop, emptying it into a plastic tumbler. There, safe from poltergeists breaking my glass and safe from fueling my muddled brain with alcohol.

I sip the pop and pad into the dining room. Then I keep walking. I intended to sit in the living room, but as I walk, I relax. I move to one of the breakfast-nook windows, struck by the urge to stroll around the garden, only to see a cloud of midges swirling around the yard.

They're back.…

I shake my head and settle for strolling around the main floor, which conveniently loops from kitchen to dining area to living room to hall and back to the kitchen.

As I pass through the living room, I'm reminded of the séance. Everyone heard Anton's voice. So why does something inside me balk at admitting it was Anton?

I don't like what he'd said. Same as what Jin and I heard in the sitting room.

That he said he loved you and he was fine?

That's exactly what all these damn con artists have given me—whispers of reassurance from my dead husband. If Anton had one chance to say something, he'd probably crack a bad joke… only to realize he should say something meaningful… just as he's being yanked back to the afterlife.

Just when you thought you got rid of me, my ghost comes wafting back, like a bad smell. Er, shit! Love y—!

Could Cirillo be faking it for his funding application?

It really did sound like Anton, and the con-artist recordings never have. How could Cirillo do that?

"Nic."

The voice sounds right beside me, and I jump, spilling my pop and nearly slipping on the mess. A whispered profanity follows.

"Anton?" I say.

"—need—stop—doing—"

The words are so faint I can only parse out those few.

"Anton?" I say. "If you're telling me to stop rethinking Heather's death, I can't. I'm sorry. If you have something to say, say it. But you know damn well I'm going to keep thinking and I'm going to keep asking."

"—please—not—"

A hand shoves me from behind, and I fly forward, tripping and stumbling before I catch myself.

"Anton?"

Something flashes in front of me. The barest image, stuttering, like a broken holograph.

Anton.

I see Anton.

He's gone before I can blink, but his image stays seared into my retinas. Anton with his eyes blazing in fury, his mouth open as he says something I can't hear. Anton lunging toward me.

And now there is nothing. No image. No sound. The house has gone so silent the quiet hurts my ears.

"Anton?" My voice shakes. "What the hell is going on?"

That was him. You know it was.

But was it really him ? My Anton? I'd never seen that look in his eyes.

I rub my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I resolutely stride to the kitchen to get a cloth for the spilled pop.

As I clean up the floor, nothing else happens. No voices sound inside my head or outside of it. No shoves. No flickers.

I'm straightening when something clanks to my left. I spin and find myself looking at the basement door.

I pause, still half crouched, straining to listen. Another sound comes from below. A hollow metallic clunk.

I set down the sticky cloth and crack open the basement door.

What am I doing?

I turn on the basement-stairs light.

What the hell am I doing?

I open the door all the way. It swings inward, and I pick up the soaked cloth and wedge it underneath. Then I test, being sure it won't close on me.

Close on me when? When I go down the stairs, which no sane person would do in this situation?

I check the lock, being sure it's completely disengaged. Then I grab the railing securely and descend the first step.

Another step down.

Seriously? Who the hell wakes up in a haunted house, gets shoved by an unseen hand, hears noises in the basement, and thinks, "Huh, I should check that out"?

If the house is haunted, I brought the haunting.

Whatever is here—Anton or something else—the threat is to me. Only me.

And that makes it okay? Maybe it really was my subconscious earlier, suggesting death by exsanguination might not be so bad.

I keep descending, listening after each step.

Do you have a death wish, Nic?

Don't be silly. If I did, I wouldn't still be walking this earth. When I set my mind to something, I do it.

I'm going into the basement because that noise could mean Brodie has returned. If so, I'm making sure he gets back to his poor mother.

So I'm going to confront a drug addict?

Better than a vengeful spirit, right?

I reach the base of the stairs. Looking around, I spot the spade Jin had moved here while we searched. I pick it up.

There. I'm armed.

I flick on the light in the furnace room and wheel through the doorway.

No one's there.

As I make my way toward the sleeping bag, I mentally pull up a snapshot of how we left it. Nothing has changed.

I exhale and start to back out.

Drip. Drip.

I go still, my hands readjusting on the spade handle.

Another step back toward the door.

Drip.

That's what I'd heard yesterday. A dripping that went away, and then I got distracted finding Brodie's "nest" and forgot about it.

No, I'd ignored it because it was a dripping sound in a room with a water heater. I figured it was a normal noise.

It doesn't seem normal, though. Could the water heater be leaking?

I maneuver until I can crouch with my back safely to the wall. Then I bend down. There's no water under the heater or around it.

Could the dripping be condensation inside the hot-water tank? Is that a thing?

I'm rising when a rustling comes from outside the room. I freeze and listen. The sound comes again. A faint rustle.

I grip my handy spade and head into the hall. The rustle is coming through the open door into the storage area. I slide closer, reach through, and flip on the light. Something scuttles across the floor, and I stumble back before the sight resolves into a tiny brown mouse running for its life. The critter dives behind a pile of chairs with more rustling, as it frantically looks for an escape.

"Sorry, mousey," I whisper. "You wouldn't happen to have seen a ghost down here, would you? Or a part-time gardener?"

It doesn't answer.

I return to the furnace room. Back to the water heater to figure out where the dripping—

The spade twists in my hands. Before I can process that, the metal edge drives into my shins. I stifle a howl as I tumble, still gripping the spade. It twists again, and I quickly throw it aside. As it clatters to the concrete floor, my gut screams that I've made a mistake. I should have kept hold of it. Now whatever grabbed the spade can wield it against me.

Except it doesn't. The spade lies on the concrete, unmoving.

I take deep breaths as my mind replays what just happened. Something grabbed the spade—

No, that's not what it felt like.

It felt as if something took hold of me. Like I'd been the one ramming the edge into my shins.

That doesn't make sense.

"Doesn't it?"

The whisper seems to come from inside me and all around me at the same time.

I scuttle back against the wall, ignoring the throbbing in my shins.

"You did that. You did it to yourself."

I squeeze my eyes shut. I'm hallucinating.

"Why are you still here? You should be dead by now."

My head whips up.

"Anton is waiting. Isn't that what he said? What are you waiting for?"

I blink hard, my terror hardening to anger. When my story came out, I read comments of people praying Anton's words wouldn't lead me to do something "drastic"… while their tone said they were kinda hoping for that Romeo and Juliet ending. People speculated on how long it'd be before I joined him, whether in his final moments he'd seen how little time I had left.

That old anger propels me to my feet. At the last second, I remember the spade, but it hasn't moved. I still jog out of that room and shut the door.

As I do, another door slams somewhere above me.

Someone must have heard my yowl of pain. Or the clatter of me throwing the spade.

I look up the stairs and…

The basement door is shut.

That isn't possible. I wedged it open.

I stride up, too angry to be freaked out.

It's completely shut, and the cloth is nowhere to be seen, which is impossible because I'd wedged it from this side of the door.

Someone took the cloth and locked me in the basement.

I hurry the rest of the way, grab the knob, twist, and…

The door flies open. I scramble out and see the cloth behind the door.

So now what?

How about jumping in the car and leaving?

I shake my head. I'm the only one in danger, and I haven't experienced anything worse than a dull spade to my shins, which didn't even break the skin.

If whatever is here wants to talk to me, I'll be in the living room, enjoying my first coffee of the day as I figure out what to do about this.