7. Jolie
7
JOLIE
I’m here.
“ H ello?” My voice quivers, hands shaking at my sides as I stare at those two words. Is this some sort of prank? A practical joke Lark or Delilah is playing on me? They aren’t really the type, but how else can you explain writing on the mirror in your bathroom? Nevertheless, I text Lark.
Haha very funny
Lark:
I usually am, but what did I do this time?
Were you in my room earlier?
Lark:
No. Why? Is there something juicy in there for me to make fun of you for?
I’m pretty sure if it was her, she wouldn’t act like she has no idea what I’m talking about.
Never mind. I’ll leave you to get ready for tonight.
A shiver sneaks up my spine. The thermostat is low again, not as low as before but still lower than what I set it to by more than a few degrees. When I’d asked Lark earlier about hers, she’d said she hasn’t had any issues…
Cold air. Strange messages. The goosebumps streaking my arms. The way-too-weird-yet-obvious answer is standing in front of me: My room must be haunted. I blame Lark for making me watch too many supernatural reality shows.
“Hello. Mr.—or Mrs.—Spirit.” I swallow, trying to fight the dryness of my throat. “Are you still…h-here?”
I wait, ignoring the way my pulse ramps up, thudding over the silence.
There’s no response, but I’m officially creeped out.
I text Blake. Lark would chastise me for this, but there’s no reason for her to ever know. She and Delilah already have plans, so they won’t be here to glare at him for the short time he’ll be visiting. Maybe I’ll be able to convince him to stay the night this time. There’s no way I can be alone right now.
I wipe away the writing on the mirror, double lock the windows, and shower quickly. Every few minutes, I poke my head out of the curtain, checking to see if there’s a new message or anything else out of place.
As I step out of the stall, frosty air lashes my skin. I wrap my towel around myself tightly, eyes darting around the room, half expecting to find the window open. Tiptoeing to my dresser, I grab some leggings and an oversized gray sweatshirt. It’s cut along the neckline with The Tempest scripted across the chest, the Institute’s logo emblazoned on the back. It’s something I used to rock at rehearsals. Now it’s just another addition to my pajamas. Something I can’t wear outside these walls.
Not anymore.
Slipping on a pair of blue fuzzy socks with white snowflakes scattered across them, I leave my room. Lark and Delilah have already left, so I sit on the couch and wait for Blake to respond or just arrive at my door. I’ll take either option at this point.
After twenty long minutes of fidgeting with it between my fingers, my phone buzzes. I swipe off the lock screen, wondering how far out Blake is.
The Prince:
Hey, roads are a bit too slick for me to drive over tonight.
My stomach lurches.
Metro?
The Prince:
You know how I feel about public transportation.
I promise I’ll make it up to you.
Okay. How about a night out this weekend?
Is this a little desperate? Maybe. But Lark and Delilah will be away for a wedding. I don’t want to be alone with this Casper wannabe.
The Prince:
…
I stare at the tiny dots. Waiting…
The Prince:
Can’t. Traveling to NJ to see the fam.
I’ll text you next week once I’m back.
Okay. Sounds good.
Disappointment sinks into my gut, a stone of unease whirling into a surge of nausea. The wind whistles against the balcony door, as if searching for a way in, and I shudder, trying not to think about the strange message left on my mirror or whoever left it.
I pull up my phone, typing in “how to spot a ghost”—
Thwap!
I jolt off my ass, dropping my phone onto the couch. What just slammed into the window? I should have gone out with Lark and Delilah when they’d offered.
Grabbing the phone from between the cushions, I clutch it tightly in my shaking palm, ready to use the emergency setting if some intruder is somehow magically chilling on the balcony. I turn on the flashlight and aim it out the door, making sure no one is standing in the small four-by-four space. Darkness engulfs everything aside from what’s lit by streetlamps and the moon. Unlocking the door, I slide it open, the wind helping me along instead of meeting me with the resistance I expect.
My arms wrap around myself for warmth. The evening chill nips at me, tousling my hair like a gentle lover, the air crisp with the scent of pine and nutmeg—the remnants of the holiday season carried on the breeze. I inhale it deeply, ignoring the cold’s bite. I used to love this, the beauty of winter. But now it’s something I try to ignore…knowing it also brings the anniversary of the accident.
I take a deep breath. Strangely, I’m comforted by the way the wind trails my skin, tiny goosebumps rippling along it. I pop my back and hip, enjoying the release of pressure on the joints, my exhales painting the dark sky in muted grays.
A glorious numb settles into me. I should head inside, but some pull, no matter how illogical, keeps me lingering.
After a few beats of silence, the wind whistles past me. I shiver as the trees rattle against the building. When I turn to slide open the glass door, spicy pine gusts into me, herding me the rest of the way inside.
My body is slammed by the warmth radiating within the apartment. My fingers are stiff and purple as I wiggle them before rubbing my frost-kissed nose. I glance once more outside the window, latch the lock, and listen to the brush of wind against the glass.
My mind swirls back to the mysterious message on my mirror…
And a crazy idea begins to form.