Chapter 5
IMBIBE
KAT
Thursday evening, I slump into my G class and immediately lock the doors.
Working in the field I have for so many years, I did not take my safety for granted.
There were too many damaged souls out there; souls that had endured more than any human ever should have to.
And many of them took that pain and terror out on others.
I had seen inside the darkest and most depraved corners of those human’s minds. Of course it would impact me.
I heave out a deep breath and pluck my cell phone from my bag.
Scrolling to my pinned messages, I immediately text Bea.
I was the last one out of the shared office space this evening, which isn’t an irregular occurrence, but my overall sense of unease and anxiety, is.
I don’t know why I haven’t been able to shake off what happened at Pearson House the other night.
I just keep replaying it in my head over and over, searching for an explanation.
And having Josh’s session today was the final straw.
I feel like I am losing control. About to break. Or disappear completely.
My fingers fly over my cell phone as I type out my text.
Me
Hey, do you have a minute? I just left the weirdest session and could use some consultation.
I tap my finger on the steering wheel, while I debate saying more. Being in treatment with Josh was beginning to weigh on me, and I knew ethically that was a warning sign. I challenged him by sitting in silence today and he had held that silence right back. For forty-nine whole fucking minutes.
My head was everywhere. I could feel the pressure building.
Several times, I felt as though I might crack.
When I had made eye contact with him, I could sense him undressing me with his eyes.
The discomfort was reaching a fever pitch, and I knew I would have to come to a decision about his treatment soon.
What’s more, I had found myself thinking about him and worrying about his treatment outside of session time as well, which was a troubling sign, and one I hadn’t really experienced since working for the State.
Twice over the past two weeks, I had even thought that I’d seen Josh out in public.
Once, disappearing around an aisle at the grocery store and again, retreating around the corner of my bank.
I can’t tell if my lack of sleep and general mental health issues are causing me to become paranoid, or if there is really cause for concern.
When my eyes close at night, images of Josh’s face merge with the Demon’s.
But then my father’s face drifts to the forefront, and my anxiety and fear are washed away by a now familiar tidal wave of grief.
My phone pings.
Bea
Hey Kitty Kat, so sorry, I’m actually in between family sessions right now. I can call you sometime mid-morning tomorrow if that works for you?
Okay. This was ok, Kat.
I have several other therapist friends and professional colleagues that I can call for clinical consultation if needed.
Though, as I think more about it, I realize what I really need right now is not clinical consultation.
What I need is something solid and trustworthy to hold onto. Something to stop my freefall.
Me
Heyy. No, that’s ok. Not to worry. I’m in back-to-back sessions tomorrow 9am to 2pm. Thanks anyway.
Bea
You sure?
Me
Yep. I’m ok. Just a long day and could really use a glass of cold Rombauer atm.
Bea
Ok. Take care of yourself, girl. Remember I’ll see you on Saturday. Love you XO.
Me
Yep. Love you too. See you Saturday.
I respond to an email request for clinical records and assessment on another patient, then pocket my phone and head home.
I pull into the driveway and peer up at the dark outline of Pearson House through my glasses.
I’m home. I remember too little about the drive, which always leaves me feeling ill at ease.
It means my head was elsewhere and not on my driving.
And it’s happening too often these days.
I kill the engine, grab my things, and quickly walk up to the porch while clicking the small black fob for the Wagon over my shoulder.
I feel a thrum of appreciation to past-me for remembering to leave the porch and entryway lights on this morning.
I enter the house and am greeted by the clean, familiar smell of the eucalyptus candle I burned the evening before.
I set my bag down on the entryway table and kick off my black heels.
I march directly back to the walk-in closet for my daily ritual of changing out of my therapist clothes and into my comfy loungewear and slippers.
Five minutes later, hair in a bun, and once again blissfully braless, I emerge and make my way to the kitchen, humming softly as I go.
The hum stops abruptly in my throat when my eyes fall on the corner of the glinting granite countertop.
There sits a lone, cold glass of white wine. Freshly poured. Waiting.
A little shudder runs down my spine and I don’t breathe for a long minute.
Then, I dash across the kitchen to the knife block and pull out the biggest one, spinning around and scanning the kitchen and dining room.
Nothing seems out of place. I silently thank God for the open floor plan of Pearson House, which allows me to see fully into the living room from my spot in the middle of the kitchen.
I briefly close my eyes in an attempt to tap into my intuition and sense if someone is in the house with me.
But I feel nothing. I open my eyes and wait for another long moment.
Then, ignoring the wine, I quickly walk towards the back sliding door and check it.
It’s closed and locked. I run up the stairs to the loft to the other sliding glass door leading to one of the balconies.
Closed and locked. What? I know that the front door was secured, because I had just unlocked it when I came home not ten minutes ago.
My feet descend the last few stairs, and upon reaching the landing, I stare down the hallway. That leaves…. my bedroom door, which leads onto the back deck. The same deck I swore I heard someone walking across just a few days prior.
I let out a tight breath and head slowly to the bedroom.
I enter and immediately switch on the side table lamp, which floods the room in a soft golden glow.
Everything appears normal in here as well.
I stride over to the French doors and inspect the brass handle and lock.
Closed and locked. Just like the other three doors. What the actual fuck?
Had someone been in my home? To what, just pour me a glass of wine and then leave? And how could they leave, except for shapeshifting into a gas and passing vapor-like through a window? There was no sign of forced entry anywhere. It makes no sense.
“Am I going insane?” I softly ask myself.
As if on cue, a gentle little prrreow emits from behind me. Bundy leaps softly onto my bed, purring, staring up at me and looking quite at ease.
“Hey Bundy,” I start. I reach down and briefly scratch his velvety head. “You’d tell me if someone was in here and touched my wine, right?”
He looks at me with his big green eyes, gracefully sitting down and beginning to purr more loudly. “You’re supposed to be my guard cat. Don’t forget that,” I murmur.
He meows again. Scooping him up, I head back towards the kitchen, Bundy’s warm body tucked securely under my arm.
I set him down on the kitchen floor and survey the glass of wine for a long moment.
Is it safe to drink? What are the chances that whoever broke in here and poured it for me also poisoned it?
I consider dumping it out in the sink and getting a fresh glass.
I hesitate. Why, though? I open the fridge to check out the bottle, no real idea of what I’m looking for.
It appears to have been poured from the same bottle I opened last night.
Nothing else seems out of place. Could I have poured it for myself this morning and somehow forgotten?
God, you need to get a grip, Kat—that didn’t happen.
Plus—the wine glass is chilled. Icy cold. Indicating a recent pour.
I steel myself and stride over to it to take a sniff.
I set the knife down on the counter and bring the glass to my lips, taking a tentative sip.
My shoulders instantly drop as the familiar notes of butter and golden apple wash across my tongue.
I take another slow sip and feel my blood pressure start to lower.
A few sips in, a wild thought crosses my mind: Could this have somehow been…
Josh? Or, wilder still, could Pearson House be haunted?
Images of the intricate chandelier over the table, gothic wainscoting, and ornate iron balconies flash through my mind.
God, I used to imagine this place was haunted when I was a little girl.
At least I had hoped that it was. I remember dreaming that the shadows I would see playing across my walls at night were really dark spirits awakening to dance and revel in the moonlight.
I take another long, satisfying sip of the wine.
Could it perhaps be my father, haunting this place?
My father, the now ghost, sensing that I had had a long day, and tapping into some heretofore unseen semblance of fatherly affection, poured it for me?
That somehow made more sense than Josh, or an invisible stalker creeping in through locked doors.
I quietly mutter more to myself, “If this was you, thanks Dad.”
And wine in hand, I walk over to the sofa, Bundy trailing just behind me.
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