5
Demi
A noise in the house wakes me from a dead sleep, and my heart is in my throat.
I sit bolt upright and peer out into the darkness of my new bedroom.
I was so deeply asleep that the unfamiliar surroundings are a bit jarring when I open my eyes.
I expected to wake in the beige bedroom I shared with Owen.
Moonlight streams in from the gothic, arched windows, and a light breeze sways the heavy curtains.
The wallpaper in this room is one of my favorites in the whole house: black with muted gold filigree.
But this late at night, it sucks in all the light and makes the space even darker, the shadows sharper.
Instinctually, my hands yank the blankets up to my chin like a kid afraid of the monster under their bed.
Or the ghost in their house.
Mittens, who usually sleeps at my feet or under the covers next to me, sits in front of the door, still as a statue, staring at it. My pulse races. This isn’t normal.
I whisper her name, and she slowly turns her head toward me, gold eyes flashing eerily in the darkness. She meows once, then turns back to the door. My skin prickles with goosebumps.
The sound of my phone buzzing on my nightstand is so loud in the stillness that it startles a gasp out of me. I reach for it.
Unknown number.
At three in the morning? Really ?
The call cuts off before the second ring, and my screen goes black. I tap it, and nothing happens. Then a little white apple, the universal symbol of a restart, pops up on the screen, almost blinding in its brightness. Somehow, my phone restarted itself in the middle of a call. Also, not normal.
The noise that woke me echoes through the house again, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
An aggressive bang and clatter that sets my teeth on edge.
It sounds like it's coming from somewhere downstairs, maybe near the front door, but this house projects sounds like a movie theater speaker, so it could be coming from anywhere.
I suddenly feel swallowed by the sheer size of the Manor. This place is so big, and I’m just one person, an interloper with no ties to the history that lives in these walls. I wonder if the house itself is rebelling against my intrusion, or if it's the ghost who lives here trying to get rid of me.
It’s been forty-seven years since someone lived here. Well, someone alive, at least. If I were a ghost, peacefully spending eternity here, I don’t think I’d be too happy if someone took it over without warning, either.
Mittens scratches at the bedroom door like she wants something on the other side of it.
I climb out of bed. There’s no way I can go back to sleep, not now, not without investigating the noise. As much as I’d prefer not to have to confront the haunting of Beaumont Manor alone in the middle of the night, I don’t have much of a choice.
I open the bedroom door, and Mittens darts out into the darkness of the hall. I’m not sure where she runs off to, but she certainly isn’t at my side in my hour of need. Traitor .
As in my bedroom, the only light is moonglow from the Manor’s countless windows. I trail my hand along the wall as I walk to keep my bearings. Then, I stop short, my blood running cold.
Why are the lights off?
I specifically remember making the conscious decision before I went to sleep to leave the house lights on. I’m not familiar with the layout yet, and if I needed to get up in the middle of the night, I wanted the comfort of at least being able to see where I was going.
But the lights are all off. The English etched-glass wall sconces along the hall are dark, and when I turn the corner, I note that the crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling above the cavernous foyer and the grand staircase are also off. All of which I absolutely left on.
I’m not alone in this house.
A rude sense of vulnerability rushes over me.
I don’t know how to mask this fear I’m feeling.
I’m in a new home, all on my own, but I’m not alone.
Someone turned off my lights. Someone made enough noise to wake me up.
Someone restarted my phone while it sat in my hand.
And now I’m frozen at the top of the massive Victorian staircase, wearing nothing but a t-shirt.
I feel eyes on me from every angle.
The light switch for the chandeliers is at the bottom of the staircase.
My phone is in my room. A wise woman would have brought it along, for the flashlight alone, if nothing else.
But I wasn’t thinking, and I’ve made it too far to go back and get it now.
How could I have known that the ghost in my house was sabotaging me?
My vision struggles to adjust to the darkness. Every shadow seems to grow and shrink before my eyes. In the corners of the house, where the shadows are the deepest, I swear I see movement.
The banging sound comes from downstairs again, and it jolts me so violently that I yelp and grab onto the staircase banister to keep from losing my balance. My heart is pounding so hard, I can feel it vibrating my ribs. I’m sure the sound is coming from the patio.
“Fucking shit,” I snap. I’m not sure if I’m mad at myself for being so afraid, or mad at whatever keeps making that noise, or both. Either way, I’m mad, and it takes a lot to get me angry.
On shaky legs, I take the first step down the stairs, gripping the banister for dear life.
One foot at a time. The grand staircase is tall and steep, curving to the right.
I feel the worn Persian rug beneath my bare feet.
It’s threadbare enough to be original to the house.
I know it’s red and acts as a runner, only covering the center of the staircase, but in the darkness, it’s hard to differentiate between where the rug ends and the hardwood begins.
I send a silent prayer to the universe that my toes don’t snag on an errant edge and send me face-first down the stairs.
If that happens, there will be two dead people in this house.
I’m taking the next careful step when a cold breeze wraps around me, lifting my hair and chilling my skin. A shiver runs down my spine. I could pretend that it’s a fluke wind tunnel from an open window somewhere in the house, but I know it’s not.
It’s the same presence I felt on the staircase when I first arrived this afternoon. It swirls around me, through me, only for a moment before it disappears. I can feel it moving down the stairs in front of me.
The lights turn on .
I swallow down another startled scream and let out a shaky breath.
“Thanks?” I say it out loud, like a question, because I’m not sure I should be thanking the ghost who put me in this position in the first place. Still, I’m grateful for the light. It makes the house feel less daunting, warmer, more like mine, and less like it belongs to someone in the afterlife.
Relief eases the tension in my shoulders, and I make my way down the rest of the stairs without incident.
The first floor still smells like the incense and candles I burned in the evening, and the scent comforts me. One more thing that makes this place feel like mine, and oddly, it helps me feel like I’m a little more in control.
I pad across the foyer to the set of onyx French front doors and, steeling myself against whatever ghoul awaits me on the other side, I turn the knob and pull. It doesn’t budge. Confused, I try once more. Then I notice the long brass bar lock pulled firmly in place between the two doors.
Strange. I don’t remember using this lock before I went to bed. Did I forget to lock up? And if so, did the ghost do it for me? Why?
Pulling the lock makes a metallic scraping sound and a gentle clank as it releases. Finally, after what feels like years of this goddamn saga, I open the doors and step out onto the front porch.
At first, it’s only the crickets chirping in the grass and the fireflies dancing in the air like little sparks.
I can smell the sea a few miles away. The moon is full and bright.
An anxious line of sweat that formed along the small of my back cools and dries with the wind that circles my legs and climbs up beneath my oversized t-shirt.
My heart rate finally slows, and I can take a deep breath for the first time since I woke up.
Then, to my left, something scurries and bangs. My nerves are frazzled, and the sound makes me jump. Again. But this time, I don’t feel as afraid.
A large, oval galvanized-steel planter is upside down on the porch, trailing remnants of soil and herbs it once housed as it lurches across the floorboards.
The banging sound I heard from inside the house is disproportionate to what I see before me.
But then it clumsily slams against the wrought iron patio table, and the clang of it rings out into the night like a bell.
There’s an old wooden broom meant for clearing leaves leaning against the house. I take it in hand and approach the topsy-turvy planter. Standing a safe distance away, I nudge the end of the broom under the lip of the planter and flip it right-side-up.
Beneath sits a small opossum, covered in dirt.
I can’t help but laugh. Jesus Christ, what an ordeal just for this little idiot.
“All this drama for you?” I ask.
It looks at me wide-eyed for a moment, then opens its mouth wide like it wants to yell at me. I don’t blame it, honestly. It’s probably embarrassed for causing such a scene. I would be too.
The opossum must realize it’s free, because it sprints off into the night, probably as far away from my house as it can get.
I set the broom against the side of the house, leaving the mess of the herbs and dirt for another time. When I turn around, Mittens is sitting in the doorway, looking at me like I’m crazy .
“Nice of you to show up,” I say. “I could have used your help with this one.”
She meows in response.
Bone-tired now, after the adrenaline rush of being haunted by what turned out to be a forest creature, I head back inside and make my way back to bed.
I leave the lights on again, but this time I remember to lock the door.