6. The Ghost
The Ghost
Never before have I been overtaken by such a white-hot wanting as when their fingers touched. That boy reached towards her, and she placed her palm against his, so easily, like it was nothing.
Reece. A maintenance worker.
Touching her.
He was easy to track throughout the house. One of the few men on staff, he was even easier to find alone.
It was only once his hand grasped hers that I realized, sometime in the last few days, that I’d come to not like the idea of anyone touching her. Not until I made up my mind about what I wanted to do with her.
He warned her about me. Perhaps he’s too naive to think I’m real.
But she will know I am real soon enough. Soon it will be my fingers meeting hers. Soon it will be her flesh within my grasp. Mine to touch, to take.
After the sun sets, she wanders to the piano. The siren song of the instrument calls her back into its embrace. She can’t stay away long, no, she’s like me. She sits at the bench and doesn’t move for some time.
I almost come out of the shadows. I want to sit next to her.
She’s teasing me. Torturing me.
Just when I begin to grow bored, she exhales a deep breath and sets her fingers on the keys. There’s no music on the deck. It’s all muscle memory.
The first few soft notes of Respighi’s Notturno ring through the air. Delicate, nearly intangible, like the first scattering of snowflakes in a winter storm.
She sways, the blonde ends of her hair brushing side to side. I want to see the way concentration morphs her features. I want to hear her thoughts.
I want to know her.
The song is not even over before I force myself further into the darkness.
Know her.
That’s not something I get to do. That’s not something I’ve ever wanted to do.
I could keep lying to myself. Pretend that she is fodder and nothing else. It would be the wise thing to do.
If the Beauchenes think I am a demon, they are about to find I can be so much worse.