Chapter 12
I slam my laptop shut, skin prickling. Someone might have murdered Marjorie Neuman in this house.
Someone might have murdered her for this house.
Did Marjorie’s own son kill her, only for the Parkers to pull the rug out from under him?
No wonder Eric doesn’t want to talk about it.
I place my laptop back in my bag and lie down, watching the shadows on the ceiling as questions crash through my mind like waves.
Why didn’t Eric or Laelynn mention Marjorie at dinner?
Did they know they were buying the house of a murder victim? Was that note more than an idle threat?
Eventually, the bootlegs and fatigue overtake me. The questions melt and blur, and I sleep.
Then, a noise wakes me.
I listen closer: a scratch at my door and a whimper. It’s Heathcliff, hoping to play with his new friend. With my head throbbing, I’m in no mood to be slobbered on.
“Argh,” I say to myself as I throw off the duvet and roll out of bed. “Heathcliff, you’re killing me.”
I open the door to give the big guy some attention. I’ll wash my hands later, I tell myself.
Big mistake.
The second I open the door, Heathcliff bursts into the room and leaps onto my bed. He rolls around, brownie eyes alight, slobber dripping from his jowls, and I watch as my bedspread becomes his own personal dog bed.
I want to strangle him, but one look at his face and I can’t help but laugh. The dopey grin, the wheezy breathing.
“Heathcliff, down!” I shout-whisper, trying not to wake up the entire house.
He jumps off the bed and into my arms, nearly knocking me into the makeup table. My perfume bottle slams into the edge of the full-length mirror on the wall. A tiny, barely noticeable chip of glass falls to the floor. Great start. I’ve been here a couple of hours and I’m already breaking things.
Fur and snot coat my face. Despite my allergies, I pet him a few times, but that only excites him. He thinks we’re about to go play fetch. I grab him by the collar and drag him out of my room.
“Sorry, buddy. I’m allergic to you, and I’ve gotta go to sleep.”
He looks at me with the saddest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. For a second I think I might buckle, but then I feel the slobber sticking to my face and shut the door.
He whines and scratches for the next fifteen minutes.
I turn on my white-noise playlist to drown out his protest, along with the chorus of crickets and owls outside.
I grab a towel and half-heartedly wipe the duvet, then wash my hands and face and pop two Benadryl.
My eyes grow heavy as I ride the slow wave of sedation.
Dreams flicker—slobbery dogs, grape-filled plates, creaking floors. Except it doesn’t feel like a dream. It feels like someone else’s memory that I woke up inside of. Somewhere, the scratching stops.
Then another sound.
My eyes snap open. What time is it?
At first I think it’s Heathcliff, but between the white noise and the crickets, it’s difficult to tell. I lift my head, straining to listen. Yes, it’s faint—almost imperceptible beneath the static. But it’s not Heathcliff; it’s footsteps crunching on the gravel path outside my window.
I rub my eyes and clear my ears. Am I imagining it?
This has happened to me before when I play white noise.
I wake in the dark, shift the pillow, maybe get up, and just as sleep takes me again, I hear a phantom noise.
Like when moms think they hear their baby crying.
I hit pause on my phone and listen again.
Nothing. Just crickets and the wind chimes. The hoot of an owl.
I lie back down and curse myself. Pull it together, Charlotte. It’s your first day here, and you’re already losing it. But then I hear it. A faint crunching sound.
First slow.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Then fast.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
My breath matches the rhythm of the footsteps, accelerating with each crunch. I fling my covers off and dart to the window, peering into the darkness. It’s black except for the moonlight reflecting off the silvery haze. I can’t make out anything. I put my ear to the screen.
Nothing.
The footsteps are gone.
I tell myself the sound came from an animal—maybe there’s a dog door and Heathcliff’s roaming around at night, or maybe a fox or a deer. But then I replay that sound in my mind, and my stomach curdles. That was the sound of footsteps. Human footsteps.
My first instinct is to grab my keys, jump into my car, and drive away. Then I remember I don’t have a car here.
I’m trapped.
I slam the window shut and yank the curtains closed. Whoever or whatever’s out there, I don’t want them watching me while I sleep. I crawl back into bed and restart my white-noise playlist, pulling my covers to my chin, grip tight, building an impenetrable cocoon.
As I drift off, the sound of crunching gravel rings in my ears, and I remember what my mom said about the ghost of Big Island.
Suddenly, it doesn’t seem so funny.