Chapter Twenty #2
Nora reappears with her bag and we all trudge out the back and across the lot to Amelia’s house. Nothing feels funny or remotely
light out here in the dark and cold. The moon is a suggestion behind a wispy cloud. And I am thrust back into the possibility that
demons are already out and about, soul sucking.
Except Virginia said Amelia sacrificed herself to bring me back here.
Virginia is not of sound mind, I remind myself.
But I believe her.
The garden gnome eyes aren’t glowing tonight. I don’t know if that’s a good omen or bad. I shudder at the thought and move
quickly inside once Logan gets the door unlocked.
I make a move for my room with Logan on my heels. He ducks into the lone bathroom attached to my bedroom. I pull out my suitcase.
“You’re really not going to argue about going to spend the night in an antique store?” I ask quietly, because the door is open so he’s obviously not looking for privacy. “That doesn’t seem like you. I thought I’d have to expend a lot more energy to convince you.”
He’s quiet for a while, then appears with his toiletry bag. His expression is very serious.
“We’re agreeing there are demons, right?” he says.
“Yes,” I say. “Obviously.”
“And that your dreams have connected you to these demons, this town, and our grandmother in a way, for your whole life?”
My chest tightens, but I can’t deny it. And I don’t want to deny it. I just don’t want that worry in his eyes. But there’s only the truth. “Yes.”
“Then no matter how many objections I voice or how many doubts I have, I’m going to be right by your side.”
I swallow at the lump of emotion that takes up residence in my throat. “You can be there and still complain. You usually do.”
He almost smiles. “I’ve scheduled my complaining for the morning. I’m at my best then.”
Logan exits, and I can hear the low voices of him and the others talking while Logan collects whatever else he needs.
I might as well bring everything I brought from New York in the first place.
God knows what some ancient antique store is going to have as far as amenities go, even if there are beds.
Antique beds. Donated by God knows who and now for sale.
I’m sure I’ll sleep better in the middle of all that discarded history with
my travel mask.
It takes me a while to pack up my suitcase. I’m just about done and then I remember the locket Harrison gave me that I’ve
been keeping under my pillow. It’s supposed to give me protection, and I certainly need all I can get. I lean over the bed
and shove my hand under the pillow, expecting to close my fingers around cool metal.
Instead, I feel something . . . furry.
I let out a screech as I jump back and then stumble even more because my suitcase is behind me.
Jack is the first one in the room, taking up the entire door frame. Logan is right behind him, and I can hear Nora demand
to know what’s going on from even farther back in the tiny hall. They’re all concerned about me—my safety, not my sanity.
It’s almost disorienting. I send Jack a sheepish smile.
“Sorry. I just felt—”
I shake my head and move back to the bed. Gingerly, I pick up the pillow. I try not to flinch as I brace myself to find some
kind of dead animal.
Visions of that shredded raccoon and writhing possum tail are hot behind my eyes.
Instead, it’s just the locket. But it’s open.
And there’s a lock of hair inside. That’s what I must have touched. I shudder, even though it’s a much better option than
what I was thinking.
Or marginally better, anyway.
Everyone has pushed inside the room and we’re all crowded in here, peering down at the locket. I should pick it up. Tuck the
hair back inside and click it into place, but I’m very hesitant to do so.
I don’t really want to touch it again.
“I wonder whose hair that is,” Nora says, but not in a way that screams it’s really fucking weird there’s hair in there. No, she seems to simply be curious.
Jack is the one who finally steps forward, pushes the hair back into place, and closes the locket with a snap. He hands it
to me and I take it, but only because I feel like I have to. I definitely do not want to.
And there’s no way in hell I’m hanging that thing around my neck.
He turns away from me, picking up my suitcase with offensive ease, and then leaves the room with nothing said. Logan follows him, but Nora comes to me.
“It’s just hair,” Nora says, reassuringly. “It was a really common thing to do in the past. Harrison even has hair wreaths
in the shop.”
This does not reassure me.
Especially since I am apparently sleeping in said hair shop tonight.
But we head out of the room, then out of the house. Logan locks up and the boys heft all our stuff into the dark of night.
Except I note that, just like Nora did the other night, Jack follows the line of light across the yard, around the knitting
shop, and onto Main Street.
Jack lets us in through the front of the diner. There are only a few people still eating, and Jack lifts his hand in a wave
to Braxton working behind the counter.
“I’m going to help close up,” he tells us, but he’s mostly looking at Nora. “Show them upstairs?”
Nora nods. “Follow me, guys,” she says.
She leads us through the empty diner into the hallway. Jack doesn’t follow. I glance back at him rather than out the window
where I know a lit-up clock tower will be waiting. Watching.
He’s pinching the bridge of his nose while Braxton speaks animatedly. I hear something about the scotcheroo menu debacle.
It makes me want to smile.
Nora said we have to live anyway, and small-town discord over diner menus seems like living to me. Especially now that I’ve picked a side—pro scotcheroo on the menu forever, obviously.
But Nora is already halfway to the antique store. I have to hurry to catch up. I follow her—and my grim-faced brother—through the door into the antique store. Then up a set of rickety stairs to the second floor of the antique shop.
“Is Harrison not here?” I ask.
Nora shakes her head. “Jack convinced him to go home after he closed up. His balance gets worse when he’s not resting, and
we’re both worried he hasn’t been doing any resting since . . .”
Since you got here hangs in the air, even though she doesn’t finish the sentence.
I trudge upstairs, feeling a little guilty, even though being here isn’t my fault. Not really.
I look around as we walk. I knew the second floor housed more antiques, but I haven’t been up here to poke around—and wouldn’t
have come, if I’m honest, as the creep factor is too high. Anyway, my mornings with Harrison are always spent on the main
floor.
“This part used to be an apartment, but Harrison and Grandma always lived at the house up on the bluff,” Nora explains as
we go. “So there are rooms here, but they turned them into little showrooms. They’re stuffed full. But fine to sleep in, at
least the ones with beds. After our grandmother died, we stayed here with Harrison some nights. He’s really too old to be
sleeping in these questionable beds with all this stuff around, but it gives him comfort. Anyway. It’s not too terrible.”
“Great sales pitch,” Logan mutters.
We both ignore him. Nora starts down the little hall that goes through a sprawling showroom of even more antiques than downstairs.
But up here, the arrangement of the pieces seems to have more of what I’d call a woman’s touch. A curated feel. It’s a lot more museum and a little less junkyard, and it’s all divided up into little rooms.
“There is only one bathroom to share,” Nora says, pushing open the first door we find. Logan and I peer inside. “It’s got a shower and hot water, so it’s not the worst thing in the world.”
“Again, you’re really selling it,” he says darkly.
She leads us down a few doors and stops. “Logan, I think you’ll like this room,” she says, pushing the door open. She smiles
up at him so sweetly that I believe she’s chosen a space that will be perfectly suited to Logan and all his unique Logan-ness.
I don’t even know what that is, but I truly believe she’s found it.
Until I look around the room.
I would say it’s completely decorated for Christmas and that should be comforting, or at least not unsettling, except . . . there are elves. Everywhere.
A line of them are sitting on a dresser, all in orange, with fur beards and painted faces. Plastic red and yellow elves with
red eyes hang from a fake tree. A few are notably mangled, like they were chewed on by a decidedly un-festive wild animal,
and yet they are still on display.
They all have wide grins. Horrifying flat, red eyes.
The bed itself is made up in hideously cheerful Santa-themed sheets—the kind of Santa that looks more like a maniacal drunk
uncle. The red pillow shams are trimmed in white fur. The light on the nightstand is weirder still—it takes me a moment to
realize it’s made to look like a deformed version of an elf face.
I can’t decide if I want to scream or cry.
Nora’s expression is placid. Like she really does think Logan’s happy place is filled with elves that look like they feast
on human flesh in a room that looks like a 70s Christmas threw up. Violently and repeatedly.
Logan’s eyes are wide and get wider as he takes in the pageant of festive horror. Nora, by contrast, looks very innocent.
Angelic, even.
And I am going to start laughing hysterically in a minute.
“I know it’s not much,” Nora says in the same sweet tone. “Certainly not what someone of your standing is used to. But I hope it’ll suit for tonight. You seem like a guy who just really, really likes elves.”
My brother’s jaw is locked. His gaze sharpens from horrified surprise to something else, something geared at Nora.
“This is perfect,” he replies through gritted teeth.
His pride is getting the best of him, I think. Much like his addiction to things like revolting roadside pizza.
But he drops his things on the bed. Then, more amazing still, throws himself on the mattress and lounges there like he’s in
a five-star hotel.
Nora links her arm with mine and beams at him. “Wonderful. The elves will take good care of you, I’m sure. Jack closes the