11. Hailey
HAILEY
I burrowed deeper under my covers, trying to convince myself I wasn’t freezing. My hoodie was pulled up, and I wore two pairs of socks. The house felt colder every night, like the walls were thinning or becoming porous. Mom blamed the furnace. I blamed Mom.
She’d left nearly every window open earlier, then acted confused when the house turned into a damn meat locker, saying she’d just been airing things out. That made no sense. Who airs an old house out for smelling like an old house? In the middle of winter?
Ever since Henry was born, she hadn’t been .
. . her. She jumbled words, she lost her phone ten times a day, and she even put her keys in the freezer once.
She double-checked the locks so often the clicking followed her from room to room.
If I left the house, she made me text when I arrived, then again when I was on my way back.
Sometimes she’d call just to make sure I’d answer.
But the thing was—she’d stopped doing that.
At least mostly. The week before we moved, she’d finally eased up.
No more triple-checking the doors. No more frantic calls when I was minutes late.
I’d started to think maybe whatever had been wrong was burning itself out.
Which made today worse. Back then, she’d been trying to keep things shut.
Today, it was like she couldn’t tell what was supposed to be closed at all.
Opening all the windows felt like going backward, like watching someone convince themselves they were fine right up until they weren’t.
And she wasn’t sleeping again, not really.
I’d hear her pacing the hall at night. Sometimes she’d open my door and just stand there, saying nothing.
The last time, she stayed at least fifteen minutes. I counted.
I knew postpartum did weird things to women. I Googled it. A lot of it sounded like her. Enough of it scared the hell out of me.
I rolled onto my side, staring at the faint glow of the little clock on my windowsill, and tried not to think about the windows—or what it was that had reminded her to be afraid again.
It was 1:09 a.m. I guess I wasn’t sleeping all that well either.
Tap, tap, tap.
I held my breath to keep from making any noise.
Tap, tap, tap.
The sound was coming from my window.
For a moment, I couldn’t move. My body locked up, every nerve firing at once.
Don’t let it own you. I pushed the covers aside and crossed the room with purpose, fighting the goose bumps rising on my arms. I snapped the curtain back and found .
. . nothing. Just blackness pressed up against the glass.
I exhaled, let the fabric fall, and turned back toward my bed.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I spun around and yanked the curtain open again. Eddie’s face was inches from mine. I nearly screamed, clapping a hand over my mouth. My heart slammed so hard it hurt.
He winced. “Shhh. Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out.” His voice came out muffled through the glass.
I fumbled with the latch and shoved the window open. Cold air rushed in.
“You didn’t mean to?” I hissed. “I almost pissed my pants! What are you doing here?”
He gave a small, lopsided smile, like this was obvious. “I told you I’d see you tomorrow.”
“That’s not a reason.” I crossed my arms, waiting for something better.
“Well, when you didn’t get off the bus, I figured maybe you were sick. Or . . .” His face softened. “Maybe you weren’t okay.”
My irritation dimmed. “I went home sick. Like, actually sick.”
“Good,” he said quickly. “I mean—not good. Just . . . better than what it could’ve been.”
“What it could’ve been?” I narrowed my eyes. Then another thought hit me. “Wait, how did you know which window was mine?”
His mouth twitched. “Trial and error.”
“What does that mean?”
“I tapped on all the other ones first.” He lifted a hand. “I know. Bad idea.”
I snorted, despite myself. He had a way of doing that—pulling the tension down just enough to make you forget you were tense in the first place.
“So,” he said, lowering his voice. “Are you okay?”
“As okay as someone who ate a casserole full of maggots can be.”
His face went serious. Not grossed out, concerned. A gust of cold air swept in, but he didn’t react. His eyes moved past me, scanning the shadows of my room. “I told you not to trust the neighbors.”
“I know,” I said automatically, then stopped. “Wait, how did you know they were from a neighbor?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“You shouldn’t have brought it inside,” he said instead.
“I didn’t. My mom did.”
“Once you accept something from them, they’ll never leave you alone.”
“Okay, Mr. Rogers,” I joked, but he didn’t laugh.
He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but then footsteps sounded in the hallway.
“Eddie,” I whispered. “You need to go.”
He hesitated, jaw tightening like he didn’t want to leave it there.
“Go,” I mouthed, pressing my palm to the glass.
After a beat, he stepped back into the dark. I slid the window shut, locked it, and dove under the cover just as my door creaked open. I turned my back to it, breathing slow, fake-sleeping breaths.
Footsteps stopped at the threshold, and I cracked my eyes open the tiniest bit, just enough to see the faint reflection in the window.
A figure stood in the doorway. It was still and silent. Mom. This had happened every night since we moved in. I glanced at the clock on my sill.
1:16 a.m.
She didn’t move.
1:27 a.m.
The silence thickened, pressing in on me. Why was she just standing there? Why wasn’t she leaving?
1:42 a.m.
I tried to swallow, but my throat wouldn’t move. Every instinct screamed to sit up and shout at her, ask her what the hell she was doing—but something darker told me not to move. Not yet.
1:56 a.m.
A tear slid down my hairline. Mom never stood this long. She never stayed past twenty minutes. Whatever this was, it felt different.
2:06 a.m.
My chest rose and fell in careful, practiced breaths. She hadn’t moved an inch. My eyelids grew heavy, fear wearing me down more than exhaustion. I fought sleep as long as I could, but finally, somewhere around the hour mark, my body betrayed me.
The last thing I saw was her silhouette—still in the doorway, still watching me.