Damn it.
She pressed her face into her rumpled sheets. Had she stopped to think what confronting her father would mean, she would have never gone downstairs. Sure, she was spooked that a bunch of people had died downstairs. Anyone would have been at least slightly weirded out. Logic dictated that she pack up her stuff and insist her dad move them out, stat. But the dark corners of her brain were bubbling with excitement. Not only was the place haunted, but she had actually seen things far beyond creaky walls and footsteps down the hall. Despite her own fear, Vee wanted to stay right where she was.
She had gone to bed a little after two in the morning, flipping off the lights but leaving her laptop open. Her music streamed into the darkness as she tried to fall asleep.
But now the room was silent, her playlist having reached its end. The darkness was heavy—the same weighty murk that had made it hard to breathe the night before. And just like yesterday, Vee’s itch for ghost hunting was gone. She squeezed her eyes tight, not wanting to look at who may have been standing in the night shade of her room. Because you’re an idiot, she thought. You’re a coward, that’s all. A spineless kid who wants to be tough, but when it gets even a little bit scary, you wuss out. For a girl determined to stay living in a haunted house, she was the epitome of a fraidycat. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t been able to construct a proper email to Tim. She was terrified of everything. Ghosts. Boys. Divorce.
Open your eyes.
She couldn’t tell if she was urging herself on, or if the suggestion had slithered from the inky gloom.
Open your eyes.
She clenched her teeth, squeezed her sheets between her fingers for strength.
Downstairs, a subtle twang of music cut through the silence of the evening. The bass, although quiet, crept up the walls and pulsed, as if mimicking the house’s heartbeat. Vee peeked open an eye. The gentle patter of rain tapped against the window as her gaze adjusted to the dark. The room was as she left it. Boxes were stacked against one of the walls, her secondhand furniture still needing to be put together. The bed frame was disassembled. A stack of books sat on the floor next to her bed.
What was her dad doing?
The music was quiet, but when she peered at her phone it was nearly four a.m. Though she was thankful for the distraction. Between the heat, the thickness of the air, and that weird feeling of not being alone, she felt just about ready to crawl out of her own skin. Knowing that her dad was downstairs was a comfort. She’d get up, tell him to stop with the music, and maybe get some sleep.
Stalling, she texted Heidi despite knowing her best friend was fast asleep.
My dad is such an idiot.
Knowing a response wouldn’t come for at least a few hours, Vee finally forced herself to her feet. Tugging open her door, she looked out into the upstairs hallway and shot a glance toward her father’s room. The door was open. The room was dark. She furrowed her eyebrows at the music coming from beneath her. It wasn’t typical of her dad’s taste. He was into electropop and old eighties stuff. Lately he’d been listening to nothing but Morrissey on a loop—standard woe-is-me stuff. But this music was more dated, like the kind of songs played during movies about the Vietnam War or documentaries about San Francisco in the sixties. That, and there was a distinct scratchiness to it, a slight carnival warble that made the hair on the back of Vee’s neck bristle with apprehension.
Forcing her feet to move, she stepped up to the banister and peered down onto the living room below. The light in her father’s study was off. So were the lights in the kitchen. Save for the small shred of moonlight that managed to cut through the cover of rain clouds, there wasn’t a speck of illumination.
“Dad?” She hated the uncertainty in her voice. Of course he was down there. How else was the stereo on? She ignored the voice inside her head that was so fond of whispering terrifying alternatives. It’s on because they’re here. Or maybe it’s not really on at all. Maybe this isn’t your house. Maybe all the furniture will be gone. Your father is dead, and you’ll be trapped here forever, just like them. Just like the people that died here so long ago.
“Don’t be stupid,” she whispered to herself, then raised her voice. “Dad?” He had to be down there somewhere. Maybe he was standing outside the kitchen door, staring into the orchard the way he had been when she found him earlier. He had been looking into the shadows, as though he had seen something there. For a split second, she had been tempted to tell him what she had seen—the boy from the photographs; what she had heard: a haunting scream she still didn’t understand. The girl in the mirror. The house, rearranged. But the surprise on his face when he had turned and saw her there had been disturbing. It was as though he hardly recognized her, like he hadn’t been altogether sure whether she was his daughter anymore. And so, she had let him have it. No mercy. Just what Mom would have done. You’re turning into her. Vee grimaced at the thought.
“Are you down here?” She began to descend the stairs, her hand gripping the rail. One step down the staircase. Then another. Then a third. Her pulse thudding with every subsided inch. The air was soupy, viscous. She picked up a hint of sweet, earthy smoke.
That was when Vee saw her—the shadow of a long-skirted figure standing to the side of the base of the stairs. She seemed to be looming, as though waiting for Vee to come within arm’s reach. It’s her it’s her it’s her again.
Vee’s breath caught in her throat. She opened her mouth to scream, but a shift in the darkness had her attention reeling toward the living room instead. Here a tall, lanky figure vibrated beside the stereo that continued to play music despite being turned off. The dark silhouette seemed to shimmer, as if trying to keep still despite its urgent need to move. The arms and legs were long, awkward, spiderlike. Vee imagined his face covered by multiple arachnid eyes.
She had enough nerve to bound back up the stairs with a tremulous moan.
This isn’t happening not happening no.
She nearly tripped over one of the risers, caught herself with the palms of her hands, and continued to scramble up.
Not happening not happening no No NO!
Vee raced toward her father’s door, desperate to find him sleeping in his bed. But she stopped short, her right hand clutching the banister. Because there, at the end of the hall, in the threshold of her father’s open door, was a third figure. Unmoving. Frozen in place.
Vee’s heart hitched in her throat. She gasped for air, her lungs refusing to work. The man lifted his arm as if to press a finger to his lips. Shhh. Something winked at her from the darkness, like shiny buttons catching a glimmer of moonlight.
She twisted away, ran to her room, and slammed the door so hard it vibrated in the frame. Her right hand beat at the wall like a moth trapped beneath a lampshade. She flipped on the light to reveal an ordinary, unpacked space.
She couldn’t handle this.
She was crazy to think she could.
The panic inched up her throat, a cry trying to bubble up past her lips.
She couldn’t handle this.
It was too much.
There were too many of them.
No matter how grown-up she tried to act, she was nothing but a dumb, scared kid.
She’d tell her dad everything. About the boy in the orchard. The scream. The girl in the mirror. The stereo. The people downstairs and the man in front of her father’s bedroom door. She’d tell him about the house. The way the furniture had changed. The way she was sure she had been standing in another time and place despite knowing she was where she was supposed to be. If her dad decided to lock her up in the loony bin, so be it. At least she’d be able to sleep.