The Haunted Victorian #4
If your lover causes you pain… kill the source. Maybe that's not right, but it feels right.
"I cannot fucking believe you!" Dina bellows. Well, I'm angry with her, too.
I kick at the wall, since I can't yell back. A mirror falls. It doesn't smash, but it cracks.
She screams and cries, her rage reflected in the broken shards. There're other things in the reflection, too.
The dead electrician.
See, the electricity kept cutting out, and then the internet would go, too. And I could do nothing but watch Dina get frustrated and yell. And there was this look in her eyes; she wanted to leave, but she couldn't. Like the house won't let her go. I wouldn't let her go either, if she ever tried.
We can't have conversations. We can't laugh, or discuss the deep thoughts that plague her. We can't talk about her feelings about being related to Greta, or her weariness over my actions. I can't talk about any of those things either.
And when the electrician came to fix the wiring and the internet, Dina smiled in a way she hadn't in a while. I don't think it was attraction so much as relief at talking to a person. That was almost worse.
She was going to leave me. I could feel it.
At least I waited until the electrician finished his work. I just didn't like the way he looked at her. Like he could make her his. I knew where his thoughts lay every time he unnecessarily adjusted his tool belt.
But then he had to comment on the house. How creepy it is, and why does she live all alone? He leered at her during the project and returned after he finished, claiming he had forgotten something.
He just wanted Dina.
I snapped his neck partway through his lame excuses.
The wide, unseeing eyes of the dead electrician stared at me, and I felt a little guilty for doing to him what Greta had done to me. At least his death was quick. I'd have dragged it out if Dina wasn't here.
Angel didn't leave a car here. Unfortunately, this guy—the electrician—has a work van sitting in the driveway.
I try to explain, to apologize, but Dina doesn't let me. Fear wracks me as Dina snarls, steals the man's keys and disappears. While she's gone, I bury the body in the backyard. And she returns hours later, on foot, and still angry.
She doesn't speak to me. Sometimes she talks to herself when she thinks I'm not in the room, but this time, she doesn't do that either. The house is nothing but dark silence for weeks.
Dina - present day
Crawling up the brickwork, the rose bushes bloomed unnaturally large, intensifying the haunted vibe of my inherited Victorian. A riot of pink and red petals, green vines and sharp thorns stands bright against the black trim.
No matter how many times my neighbor, old man Marv, asks what my secret is, the question always brings me back to that fateful day I first arrived, not knowing Greta's secrets would become my own.
What is buried six feet under does wonders for fertilization. And I can't help but assume that's where I'll end up, too. Eternally tethered to this macabre fucking house of horrors.
"Good morning, Mrs. Wong." I wave to my other neighbor across the street as she wheels her little pushcart down the driveway toward the farmer's market downtown, a few blocks away.
We live on a quiet street in a quaint coastal town, and I often wonder if it really is as picturesque as it seems or if everyone in our little town holds secrets as deep as mine.
Mrs. Wong tilts her head in reluctant acknowledgement, her long bony fingers clutching the handle of her cart. She wears a bright sun hat and a large-print flower dress, and periodically looks back at me, likely wishing I'd stop greeting her every day.
The day I stop pretending to be normal is the day I've given up trying to be. That day is not today.
My arms burn with scratches from the thorny roses, but I relish the pain as I snip, prune, and pull weeds.
I retrieve the wheelbarrow from the garden shed out back, pack it full of mulch, then fall into hours of edging and filling.
The work keeps my mind busy, keeps me from spiraling.
When I'm finished, I'm a mess. My arms are filthy, my knees and lower back ache, but it looks good. Friendly, even.
I need it to look welcoming and cute, so no one looks too closely at its darkness.
I dust myself off before heading inside, kicking off my shoes in the foyer. Padding barefoot into the house, I head to the kitchen first, naturally the brightest room in the house, then run cool water over my arms in the sink, watching the dirt circle the drain.
Four years ago, I took all the mirrors down.
Three and a half years ago, I put them all back.
Though creepy, having them all up makes the house feel less lonely.
The minimal light reflects off of them, and, according to Eric, the other trapped souls inside these walls prefer the mirrors. I've gotten used to them.
I've gotten used to too much.
I dry my hands and head up the old creaking wooden steps.
I strip off in the bedroom, dropping my clothes in the laundry basket before turning on the shower in the bathroom. Stepping under the spray, the temperature is perfect. Cool enough to soothe the burning scratches on my skin, warm enough to soften the aches in my muscles.
My eyes squeeze shut as I drop my head under the stream. In these quiet moments, the guilt creeps in. Some days it's louder than others. Today, it's screaming.
I love Eric. I really do. No one would ever understand our relationship, but I love him and I'd never turn my back on him. But some days it feels as though he's ruining my life. Like, if he could trap me here just like he is, so he'd never be alone again, and he'd do it. No matter the cost to me.
I close my eyes, letting the water trail over my skin, holding in a sob.
It's been three days, and I can still feel Nix. I can't take a full breath; I feel like I'm suffocating.
I wish I could take it back. That I didn't bring him here.
With a soapy hand, I retrace the path of his warm hands.
My fingertips trail down the side of my neck, my chest. I squeeze one breast, feeling the weight of it, the softness of my skin.
His hands were calloused and rough, and I felt every caress, as if he was marking my skin like clay.
It scratched and burned and felt real. His chest was firm, solid, his mouth a burning inferno on my skin as he licked and bit my ear, pressing against me.
His other hand trailed between my legs, and I greedily spread them, ready and wet.
He was already hard, had been since I brought him home from the restaurant, but he ignored it in favor of touching me.
The bathroom door swings open, ripping me out of the memory. The rush of cool air makes my nipples harden in the warm shower.
Silence. Always silence.
"I can't talk to you right now," I whisper.
I finish rinsing the soap off my body, but frustration and heartache tug at the empty pit in my stomach, claimed by the void that he created. I've got no more tears; I cried them all out.
Eric's taken everything from me.
My head bangs lightly against the wall. "Eric," I sigh into the stream. "I can't keep doing this. It's not… It's not healthy. For me, for you."
Silence. Again, always.
I pump shampoo into my hand and lather it in my hair and then rinse it off.
Once the conditioner sets, I change tactics, adding, "And who's the one that's going to get caught, hmm?
Me! I'm the one who will get in trouble!
" I swing the curtain open, wishing it were a door I could fling.
"You had no fucking right! How could you?
Huh? How could you do that to him? To me? "
A towel floats toward me. A peace offering.
It's not enough. In fact, it's nothing compared to what he's done.
To me, to Nix. To the others. He knows that, but he can't ever offer me more, and some days, that feels like the worst thing that could ever happen to either of us, no matter how much I love him.
After rinsing my hair and drying off, Eric's cool presence follows me through the house. My disappointment and sadness hang over us like a second wraith. Some days I think Eric is closer to the darker parts of me than any other.
A truce is the best we can do until I can figure out how to dig us out of this mess. I can't leave this house. For a multitude of reasons, but its grip is now as strong on me as I imagine it was on Greta. I will live my life and die in this house, like she did, and her mother before her.
I've thought of exorcising Eric, finding some way to help him move on. But that feels even more inconceivable than moving away and selling the place.
And what would he do if I suggested such a thing—that he leave me, this life we have together, however toxic it may be? Would he rage and storm and shatter mirrors, leaving me to clean up his mess, like always?
Or would he say yes and let me go?
In silence, we cook together. I reach for ingredients, which Eric anticipates by opening the cupboards and refrigerator before I need to.
He kisses my neck, sending a breeze along the dip of my collarbone.
I'm still mad—understatement—but he never fails to turn me on.
It's strange how this drafty old house, embodied by Eric's cold presence, is the one thing that warms my heart.
After cooking dinner and curling up on the couch to read a book by lamplight, a blanket drapes over my shoulders.
My lips tug into a half smile, and I cuddle under the quilt, resting my head on the pillow.
Eric lies beside me on the couch, his weight dichotomously heavy and light. I sigh and try to relax into him.
But I'm still angry.
No, that's not right. I'm hurt. And worried. About me, about him.
I whisper into the void. "Eric. We can't keep doing this."