Chapter 1
THE DOCTOR
Ioften have extremely dark thoughts about death.
About other people dying. About death and dying in general.
Like, very dark. For example, I think about my father’s death.
About his death here in this very house.
Swinging heavy from a polished beam. And the days he spent alone before he was even found.
And as I stare up at the ornate second story balcony overlooking the driveway, I wonder what it would be like to swan dive off of it. Right onto the wet, midnight black concrete below.
Would I splatter? Would I implode?
I imagine myself vanishing into the forest, the dense trees enveloping me and unburdening me from the sharp, stabbing pangs of grief and uncertainty that plague so much of my life. Maybe I do want it… to die.
My mother died, shortly after giving birth to me, and at times, I feel as though that set the tone for death to follow me for the rest of my life.
Thankfully, I doubt that my patients suspect I am borderline suicidal. I think the clinical phrasing would be something along the lines of—struggles with acute grief and loss, moderate depression, and endorsing suicidal ideation with unclear intent.
I know there is something dark inside of me. It’s probably what compelled me to move into this house and set up my own bedroom in the very space my father ended his life in.
Fuck.
And that’s the thing about when someone kills themselves. The ones still alive—the ones that didn’t take that route—are left spinning their wheels over and over in the trenches of guilt and shame. And they make stupid fucking choices.
I stifle a manic sound that threatens to bubble up at the back of my throat. I’m honestly not sure if it’s a sob or a giggle.
I am jolted back to reality by a deep male voice.
“Miss?”
“W-what? Sorry…” I blurt out.
“Did you decide on your colors yet? We are all ready to go, but there isn’t any paint yet.”
Shit. I knew I was forgetting something. How could I not be? My brain is simply holding too much weight at the moment.
I take a steadying breath and reply in what I hope is a normal tone, “Yes, I have! So sorry. They’re in my car. I can go grab them for you right now.”
After days of carrying the paint samples with me from room to room and around my office and then back home again, I had finally decided on the colors for the house: Onyx, Soot, and Milky Alabaster for the window trim.
With this color palette, I’m keeping Pearson House essentially the same as it always was. Just refreshed and updated. The gothic wainscoting and twisting balconies were severely weathered over the years by the near constant rain in this part of Washington.
Of all the houses I inherited from my father, this one—Pearson House, is my favorite. It has been ever since I was a girl. Or at least it was. Before my father died in it.
With four bedrooms and two baths, a piano room, and an open floor plan living room with floor to ceiling windows that overlook the vast expanse of forest behind the property, Pearson House is like an ominous black castle, jutting up and over the expanse of a dark green kingdom.
The DeCloah National Forest butts up to the back acre of the house, across a deep ravine that runs southwest from the upper acreage.
So many of my childhood memories revolve around me playing pretend at the edge of those woods, daydreaming and imagining myself as a dark woodland fairy princess. I would crawl over logs and sing soft incantations aloud. Make friends with the spiders in their webs.
Then, later, reading for hours at a time. I would escape into the secret worlds in between those pages until I heard my father’s loud whistle across the ravine as the sun set and the mist began to roll in, signaling me back home.
Shaking off the memories, I walk over to my black G Wagon parked about midway down the driveway. I jerk open the back door and rifle through my black leather bag. After retrieving my chosen paint samples, I head back toward the contractor and press them into his hands. “Here you go,” I say.
I think his name is Jim? Jim. Joe? John. Definitely John.
“Thanks. We’ll go and pick up the paint now. Should be able to lay the exterior primer tomorrow if the weather holds up.”
“Terrific,” I say, offering him a warm smile that I hope makes up for the awkward moment earlier.
John turns and walks over to his truck.
As the work trucks pull out of the long driveway, I wander around the side of the house toward the back porch.
My feet crunch over the dead and fallen leaves that litter the gravel pathway.
I make a point not to walk underneath the ladder that leans against the siding of the house.
I’ve had enough bad luck for a lifetime.
The back porch of Pearson House is one of my favorite places ever.
One of my very few safe places. I love the way the old wooden deck creaks and crackles under my feet.
I love the rustic unevenness of the old wooden slats and rusted nails that always seem to be poking slightly upward.
It’s beautiful in its imperfect and somewhat dangerous state.
Like me, a voice in the back of my head says. I smile at that thought.
I perch on the edge of the back porch and lean against the damp railing to take in the view.
The late afternoon mist is starting to roll in over the tree line, and a slight chill races up my body.
I survey the sight of the familiar forest, shrouded in dense fog.
Shades of browns and greens layer the landscape before me.
The smell of rain and wood smoke is thick in the air.
The fragrant coastal rhododendron freckles the landscape here, dotting the thick shades of green with bright pops of color.
The sight always feels like coming home.
I pull my long cardigan more tightly around my body, and my mind begins to drift, surely ready for yet another totally normal and healthy mental escape. But just then, my phone vibrates rhythmically in my pocket. I swipe up to answer.
“This is Dr. Pearson. How can I help you?”
____________________
Later that evening, I stand in the kitchen and take in the silence of the house. The workers have been here around the clock lately, and I relish the evening hour when they all drive away and leave me to the solitude of this space.
After my father’s death nearly a month ago, it’s been a heavy torrent of getting his affairs in order.
From consolidating and rectifying his many bank accounts, a few of which were offshore and secret, to deciding which houses to sell.
It has been a mental and emotional deluge that has fallen squarely on my shoulders.
My sister, Rae, is living and working in DC.
She’s chasing down her dreams and cozying up to high profile political candidates to support via her work as a campaign manager.
She remains only loosely connected to the family and hasn’t done much to help me in these lovely post-mortem endeavors.
As the eldest daughter, I have been the executor of my father’s sizable estate, all the while trying to renovate the house, juggle my patient caseload, and keep myself, well, alive.
And I’m doing kind of a shit job at that part, actually.
I moved back to Greenwood and into Pearson House eight days after my father died here. It wasn’t even a conscious decision really, just a feeling that I needed to be here. To be close to him, maybe, and to be safer, somehow.
I’ve committed to Pearson House now. Though, I'm not entirely sure it's committed to me.
Despite spending nearly every summer here for as long as I can remember, tucked away inside its walls with a book in hand, something feels different this time.
As if it's trying to push me out. Doors slam without reason.
Cold drafts brush the back of my neck, even when every window is shut and locked.
And a presence—a heavy, unseen weight—follows me everywhere I go.
____________________
The next afternoon, I wrap my fingers around the cool black leather of the steering wheel, feeling the tires glide effortlessly along the winding road.
“Silence” by Delirium pulses through the speakers, and my thoughts begin to drift.
It’s easy to lose yourself while driving through the lush forests in this part of the state.
The long, dense stretches of trees blur into streaks of the deepest hunter green.
Out here, it’s almost possible to forget you exist at all.
To imagine, instead, that something ancient and unseen is controlling everything, and watching. Always watching.
I jam on the brakes, noticing where I am. Fuck, I think.
For the second time in a week, I nearly miss the turnoff for the long driveway that leads to Pearson House.
Still braking, I make a rather sharp left-hand turn and mentally rebuke myself to slow down in anticipation of the driveway.
There are many twists and bends in the rain-soaked roads that lead to Pearson House.
It makes it hard to anticipate what’s coming unless you already know.
I flash on the bright lights as I make my way down the long, dark driveway. When I finally pull up to the house, I put the SUV in park and let loose a long sigh, gently rolling my neck to the side.
Gazing up at the looming, pitch-black form of Pearson House, I immediately regret that I didn’t leave a light on for myself earlier.
Jesus. It is super dark out here. Crazy dark. Horror movie dark.
I take a breath and kill the engine. Snatching my things, I fly up the steps to the front door.
The second my key turns fully into the lock, I reach my hand around the wall and feel for the switch.
I flick on the porch and foyer lights. The black iron sconces flare to life with a burst of gold, and my breathing eases.