11. LO
LO
A fter grabbing coffee, we headed back to my house. There’s an air of reluctance to get out of the car, evident amongst all of us. Even Stevie seems to be lingering in the van.
I look over at my house through the car window. It’s so unassuming—sunny, bright, freshly painted. The yard is well-kept. It’s not at all the scary, dilapidated house of horrors that makes appearances in movies and TV shows.
But even so, I can see the way only one of the curtains is moving—almost like there’s someone in there, watching us.
“Alright, let’s get moving,” Stevie says.
I stare at the curtain, glued to it even as everyone else is climbing out of the van. Is she—or whatever ghost is living in my place—taunting us? Trying to get us out? I’ll probably never know the answer unless the ghost decides to really lean into it and write something like Get out! on my wall.
“You coming?” Stevie asks, her voice muffled by her closed driver’s side door.
I blink myself back to reality. You would think a ghost would become less scary the more time you spend around it, but I don’t think I’m liking my ghost very much right now. “Yeah,” I say.
With my hand poised over my buckle. I give myself three seconds to get up.
Whether I like it or not, I own the house.
My things are in there. I’ll never downplay the amount of money I have, but I’m also not so wealthy that I can afford to leave all of my earthly belongings—and newly bought furniture—behind without hurting from it.
Even if I sell the place, it’ll be a long process, packing up again and moving.
“I’m going to change and then we can head out,” I say as Stevie steps through the threshold. Andrew, the twins, and I are more hesitant, hovering just outside, until I finally take a deep breath and walk in.
After a night away, the slate has been wiped clean, and I’m on edge.
I walk back into my house like there’s an animal inside waiting to attack me.
Months of going in and out with relative ease are suddenly completely forgotten, and I’m more afraid of this place than I’ve ever been.
It definitely doesn’t help that last night was the scariest night I’ve had in this house—or ever in my life.
I look down the hall, and Stevie looks at me. She waits for the boys to pass by before quietly asking, “Do you need an escort?”
Despite the time we had together last night—the life-changing, perfect, I will always remember it in vivid detail time—there isn’t a hint of suggestion in her voice. She’s not flirting with me; she’s worried about me. And it makes sense since I’m not exactly doing a good job of hiding my fear.
“I…” I weigh my options, thinking of the probably hundreds of times I’ve gone into my bedroom and changed, the times I’d been alone. I’m capable of doing it. I know I am.
But the way my heart is racing tells me that I don’t think I can go back to that. Despite Stevie’s certainty that there’s an explanation for everything, I don’t think it’s as simple as a mechanical issue.
“Yeah.” Her eyes, the same green eyes that gazed at me so lovingly last night, meet mine. “Can you come with me?”
She nods, and I’m thankful she doesn’t say anything about it. We head toward the bedroom. The boys are either too distracted with setting up cameras or too smart to ask questions; they don’t make a comment as we slip down the hall just the two of us.
“It’s nice to be in here when Fleetwood Mac isn’t playing at the highest possible volume it can be played at.”
I snort as I head over to my dresser and then the closet. I’ve never been so grateful that I’ve been keeping up with my laundry.
Not that I care at all what Stevie thinks of me. Or my outfits.
I drop my clothes on the bed and pull my shirt over my head.
I’m calmed by the warm rays of light coming through the windows and the gentle silence of the house.
Moments like this remind me of exactly why I wanted to live here so badly in the first place, and why all of the additional mess—like fearing for my life—is worth it.
For just a second, I can pretend that I’m not constantly on high alert being here.
I pull Stevie’s shirt over my head and gingerly place it down next to my pile of fresh clothes.
“I, um.” Stevie turns away, her face pink.
“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, it’s okay.” I smile a little bit, changing quickly so Stevie can take herself out of the corner of my room she’s stuffed herself into.
Despite the strange comfort and closeness wearing Stevie’s clothes brought to me, I’m grateful to be back in my own things. Clothes have always been one of my biggest vices outside of books. I immediately feel more like myself with my favorite pair of jeans on.
“Okay,” I say, smoothing down my hair and slipping earrings into my ears.
I don’t bother with anything more than mascara and a touch of lip gloss, mostly because I’m ready to leave the house again.
I’ve been weighing my options on Stevie’s offer to not film with them tonight and instead leave it to the experts, but I feel too deep into all of this to pull back now.
Stevie turns around to look at me, half turning her head and then fully committing when she sees I’ve pulled on a loose-fitting pair of jeans and a partially buttoned black cardigan. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t pick this outfit because I thought she might like it.
Her eyes travel over the outfit and over my face. “You look great,” she says softly, and it’s a more meaningful compliment than I’ve ever gotten before. All of the times I’ve heard that I was beautiful, talented, sexy, whatever, pale in comparison to her earnest tone.
I fight off a blush. “Thanks.” I think about her voice in my ear last night and the way her arms felt around me. Even though the sleeve of her t-shirt is covering her upper arms now, I can still picture exactly where her tattoos are.
I check to make sure I have the necessities—phone, wallet, lip gloss—and then head for my bedroom door. Stevie follows behind, closing my bedroom door most of the way behind us.
“Ready to brave the trek out of town?” I ask.
“No, but I’ll do it for the story,” Stevie responds. “I’m intentionally picking a place not in a major city after this.”
I snort. “Can’t get out of here fast enough.”
“It’s nice to get a break sometimes, even though I do like it out here. I like being on the road.”
“I get that. I’ve done a few movies on location, and it’s not a vacation by any means, but—”
I stop when, out of the corner of my eye, I see the door to my bedroom move. It’s subtle, opening slowly like someone is pulling it open from behind the door where we can’t see.
My blood turns to ice. Stevie puts a protective arm out around my waist like she’s ready to push me out of the way at any second if she needs to.
The door doesn’t creak or moan—the house is too newly updated for the typical creepy old sounds—but the silence is almost scarier.
I can hear the faint voices of the boys and the clamor of them setting things up down the hall.
But there’s nothing else. No footsteps, no indication that a living person is in my room.
Even so, Stevie takes a tentative step forward, peeking into my bedroom from a distance to investigate. The door is fully open now, as if we hadn’t just closed it. I know with certainty that none of the windows are open, and there’s no random draft to explain why the door would move.
I cross my arms tightly around my body, fighting off the urge to sprint and leave Stevie to face whatever might be waiting for her.
Her hand sits on the door handle for a long beat before she finally yanks the door away from the wall, looking behind it as if someone is going to be standing there. I can assume, based on her reaction, that no one is.
“Stevie?” I try not to sound as freaked out as I am, but I’m definitely failing. The warm sunlight pouring out from the bedroom into the hallway is incongruous with my racing heart and sweaty palms.
She scans my bedroom, moving her head slowly from left to right before walking back down the hallway toward me. “There’s no one there.”
“Of course there isn’t,” I say, trying to play off my fear as annoyance. I’m not doing a good job.
We say goodbye to the boys and then head out for the day, leaving us with just enough time to make it to the building where the Self-Connection meetings are held. Our goal is to get there early so we can grab Sunniva before she gets distracted by whatever her meetings entail.
As we’re driving—Stevie in the driver’s seat—my phone rings in my lap.
“It’s Annalise.” Stevie gives a little nod of acknowledgement, telling me she doesn’t mind if I answer.
“How’s the ghost hunt? Get any proof yet?”
“Things are fine,” I say, holding my phone to my ear. “Some weird shit has been going down, though. I don’t even know where to begin with telling you about all of it. It doesn’t seem like the ghost is thrilled with having people in the house filming.”
“Do you think you’re just, like, the ghost’s favorite or something? It seems like they only like you and then chase everyone else out. Except me. But I only ever stop by for, like, an hour at a time because your house gives me the creeps.”
“I know you’re fucking with me, but that might not be an unreasonable guess. We don’t really know anything at this point. The most I can say is that things are getting really weird.”
“Good thing you have experts around to help.”
“For sure,” I agree.
“Speaking of, how are things going with Stevie?” Annalise asks, a teasing tone to her voice.
I immediately turn closer to my door and cup my hand over my phone, just in case the sound is traveling enough for Stevie to hear.
I haven’t had the chance to catch up with her yet, so she doesn’t know the full story, but Stevie wouldn’t know that.
For all she knows, I’ve been texting Annalise for hours, giving her play-by-play on how the sex was.