Chapter 11
Tara placed a cup of tea in front of me. I sat on a stool at the large kitchen island, my hair still damp from the shower. Steam curled up from the cup, carrying the soft, earthy scent of chamomile. A plate of homemade cookies sat in front of me, and I grabbed one.
“That was quite the day,” Tara said, leaning against the island, sipping from her own cup.
The dogs hovered between us, weaving back and forth to collect pets and affection from whoever’s hand was free.
Tara had the grounded calm of an older woman—someone who’d weathered enough of life’s storms to stop flinching every time the wind blew.
“I’m so glad Rascal is okay,” I said, taking a bite. I’d just gotten off the phone with Daniel. “The vet said they made it just in time.”
Tara nodded and took another sip. She hadn’t changed clothes. Unlike me, she barely had any blood on her—just a few streaks where Rascal’s towel must have brushed her pants.
“He loves those damn dogs so much,” she said. “They’ve got a good life here. Full run of the garden during the day, a warm spot by the fire in his cottage at night. But I do wonder if he’s getting too old for this. Eleven dogs is a lot.”
“He rescued all of them?” I asked, my eyes settling on the older German shepherd missing an eye. The sweet boy had earned a little extra attention from me since he’d been glued to my side for the past hour.
She nodded. “I wasn’t here when he first started rescuing them. I started only last year. But I think after Daniel left for college, Hudson got really lonely. Rascal was his first rescue. Don’t ask me how he’s still alive, but that dog is almost twenty-three.”
“Twenty-three?” I repeated. He didn’t look it at all.
“Hard to believe, right? Hudson must’ve picked up the other dogs over the years. I think he finds them on social media. Videos of dogs needing homes, especially the ones set to be put down at kill shelters.”
“That’s really kind of him.”
Tara smiled. “The fool’s as kind as he is stubborn.” There was affection in her voice. “A great combo in a man.”
I glanced at the dogs, some curled up, some nudging closer for a scratch. “Is there a reason they’re not allowed in the house?”
Tara shrugged. “I think Hudson doesn’t want hair everywhere since it’s not his house.”
I nodded. “I’ll talk to Daniel. I don’t mind them inside. Maybe not the study where Mochi is. They’ll need to get used to each other first. But the rest of the house shouldn’t be an issue.”
Her lips curled into a smile. “That’s very kind of you.”
A sharp bark cut through the room. One of the smaller dogs startled Tara midsip.
“Oh. Right. I forgot to feed them. With everything going on—”
“I’ll do it.” I stood from the stool. “Why don’t you go shower? Or just head home. Whatever’s easier for you. It’ll be dark soon.”
The light outside had softened, touching the kitchen tiles with a faint mix of gold and smoky violet.
“I’ll wait until they get back, but a quick shower would be nice.” She glanced down at the dried blood on her pants. “I’ve got spare clothes upstairs. I sometimes stay overnight if a storm traps me. You really don’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
“Thanks. Their bowls are in the kitchen in Hudson’s cottage. The kibble is in the pantry. Small dogs get half a cup, mediums get one, and big ones one and a half.”
“Got it.” I made my way to the back door leading into the garden. “All right, gang. Let’s go!”
The dogs leaped up, their tails thumping wildly as they surrounded me. I opened the door and stepped outside, nearly tripping over the excitement of paws and wriggling bodies pressing by.
I stepped through the back entrance of Hudson’s cottage.
The place was charming. The kitchen was small and neat with a cast-iron kettle sitting on the stove and shelves lined with labeled jars.
Just beyond it, the living room held a battered armchair with a thick wool blanket slung over its back. The cottage felt lived in. Warm.
Inside, the dogs danced around my legs as I scooped out their food. Feeding them felt like trying to serve dinner to a swirling mass of fur and chaos. The little ones barked orders like they ran the place. The big ones sat politely, heads tilted, eyes locked on every movement of my hands.
“Good boys. Good girls,” I said, rubbing a few backs once the bowls were filled.
I left the cottage through the back door to the sound of happy crunching.
Halfway back to the main house, I paused.
The sun was bleeding out over the ocean.
Everything glowed orange and soft red, and the water glittered in that slow, hypnotic way that made you forget all your worries and just breathe for a second.
My chest rose and fell with a tired but full breath.
Rascal would be fine. The day had knocked me sideways, but in the stillness of that light, I felt a calm I hadn’t expected.
Back inside, I wiped my shoes and stepped into the kitchen. Mochi might want some melon. I sliced a few thin pieces and placed them on a small plate. We still needed to discuss the things he’d said earlier. Ugly things. He was smart enough to know not to do it again, after gentle redirection.
With the plate in hand, I walked through the hall toward the library. My footsteps slowed when I noticed the small wooden door at the far end of the hallway.
It was open.
I didn’t react right away, just kept walking. But then the light from the hallway hit something deeper inside. Another door.
Yellow.
And that one was also wide open.
For a second, I just stood there.
Strange.
I had no doubt it was the yellow door to the basement, the one that Daniel and Hudson had told me about. But they’d also said the door was always locked. Always. Daniel made sure of it. Everyone did. It wasn’t just a habit. It was a safety rule.
I clutched the plate a little more tightly. A cold prickle ran across the back of my neck, like the air had shifted around me. I didn’t know why. The door was open. Big deal. Maybe Tara needed something from the basement.
But then . . . no one was supposed to go down there.
And someone just did.
I set the plate on an antique sideboard.
My steps slowed as I moved forward. I had barely walked through the open connector door when I felt it: a faint breeze, cool and moist, pushed up from the basement.
It carried the scent of old wood and damp stone—the odor of a cellar that hadn’t been touched in years.
The yellow door loomed just ahead, cracked wide open. Only darkness waited beyond it. No light. No window. Nothing.
“Tara?” My voice was steadier than I expected as I stopped in the doorway and stared into the black.
The hallway light behind me spilled just far enough to catch the top half of the endless staircase.
The steps looked even worse than they’d told me: old wood with parts of the railing missing, others barely hanging on.
One of the steps was cracked straight through, as if it had broken under someone’s foot.
“Hello?” I called, a bit louder this time.
No answer.
Then something thudded from above. It was a loud, solid bang, the kind that made your heart leap before your brain could catch up. It sounded muffled. Probably cushioned by thick rugs. But it had weight to it. Something had been dropped.
“Tara?” I called again, louder this time, aiming upward toward the second floor.
Nothing.
I pulled the yellow door shut and then closed the connector door behind me. The lock clicked softly into place.
Before heading upstairs to check on Tara, I peeked in on Mochi.
His cage was still and quiet. He blinked at me once, adjusting his feet on the perch.
No flapping or panic. No omen-like screech.
No thrashing like a horror movie parrot sensing a demon in the walls.
He just looked vaguely annoyed that I’d interrupted his date with a fresh slice of honey melon.
Tara must have given it to him before heading upstairs.
Relief landed in my chest like a warm hand. Mochi had a weird sixth sense. Birds just did—like how they always seemed to flee before earthquakes or storms. If he was calm, so was I.
I stepped past the grand staircase, the railing cool beneath my fingertips, and headed toward the second floor.
The sound of running water came from Tara’s guest room, tucked next to Daniel’s parents’ suite. A warm light glowed beneath her door.
Just as I reached the top step, something made me stop.
His parents’ door stood wide open.
And the light was on.
I walked up to the room, curious but not overly suspicious. Maybe Tara stored things in there. Maybe it was used as overflow space.
But once I stepped inside, I could tell it hadn’t been touched in a long time.
Unlike the rest of the house, it felt like time had stopped in there.
A pair of red heels sat neatly on one side of the bed.
They were glossy and sharp, looking like they’d just been slipped off.
On the other side, a pair of worn men’s slippers rested slightly askew.
A pair of men’s pajama pants was folded across one side of the mattress.
Across from them, a pink silk nightgown shimmered faintly in the light.
The nightstands were cluttered with old things: a yellowed tissue box, a dusty alarm clock, and a glass ashtray.
I moved farther into the room, careful not to brush against anything. The silence didn’t feel calm. It felt wrong.
Losing both parents at once. Being left behind. Then those awful fights over the inheritance. Daniel had been through a lot. Maybe that was why the room had stayed like this. Untouched. Pain preserved in clothes and shoes.
My steps carried me toward the elegant vanity.
Then I stopped.
“But . . .”
The word slipped out quietly as I reached for the pig figurines scattered between old lipsticks and powders.
Ridiculous and strangely detailed, they lined the base of a golden-framed mirror.
One was caught mid-twirl, holding a glass of wine.
Another stood at a miniature easel, brush frozen mid-stroke.
Two of them caught my eye. One was a piglet curled in a stroller. The other was its mother, holding a bottle and smiling down at her baby.
“How is this possible?” I whispered.
I picked up the baby one. It looked just like the one from Cynthia’s office. The one on her windowsill.
Poor Cynthia.
My chest tightened as my eyes began to burn with tears.
Then it hit.
Not a memory. An ambush.
The gunshot exploded in my mind. My hands flew up to cover my ears. Cynthia’s face snapped into view. Those wide, terrified eyes. Then her face. Half of it gone. The blood. The stillness.
“Stop!” My voice cracked. I tried to push the image back, shove it away, but the ringing had already started. High-pitched and shrill, it drilled into the center of my brain.
“Please!” I begged. “Please stop!”
“Silly girl,” came a woman’s voice, loud and clear.
Then the strangest thing happened.
The ringing stopped. Just like that. From one breath to the next. Silence.
Confused, I blinked down at the figures in my hands. A strange nausea swirled in my chest. Had I lost my mind? Were they talking to me now?
“Why touch the stupid dogs if you’re allergic?”
“What?” I lifted my gaze toward the mirror.
And froze.
In the reflection, a woman stood by the door.
She was older, maybe in her fifties. Her skin had the dirty, drawn look of someone who hadn’t bathed in weeks. A worn dress clung to her frame. Her hair was long and silver-gray, hanging nearly to the floor. Deep creases ran across her face, and her icy blue eyes locked onto mine without blinking.
“Just look at your hands,” she said.
I lowered my gaze. The figures were still in my palms. And now, so were dozens of faint red bumps.
They dotted my skin like pinpricks. I hadn’t noticed them before. And they weren’t very obvious. Faint. But now they were there, plain as day, like they’d been summoned just to prove that the strange woman was right.
“Silly, silly girl!” Her voice cracked now, sharp and angry, laced with something feral. “Why do you touch the stupid dogs if you’re allergic?”
I spun around, my heart pounding, ready to face her. To see her in the flesh.
But the second I turned, the ringing came back, violent and overwhelming. The world went black in an instant.
Cold darkness crashed over me.
My body hit the floor.
And then nothing.