Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
ALICE
Now this is a lucky typewriter.
I decide to call her Little Red, and I dote over that typewriter in the guest room for a good ten minutes before I realize there are other things I should be doing. I haven’t talked to my family all day—or yesterday—and I always check in when I’m out of town. Which means it’s time to right my wrongs.
I stick with my siblings, opening the text thread I started for us a few years ago.
Alice: I hope everyone’s having a good day!
It’s just supposed to be a warmup message, a greeting to get us started, but once I hit send, I realize I’ve done this all wrong. My tone is off, for starters. Super Cheerful Alice has struck again, but that’s not my biggest mistake.
There’s nothing to respond to.
When it comes to my sisters and brother, questions work best. Or sharing news right off the bat. Anything that gives them a reason to respond, a natural reaction besides the bland thumbs up I get from Marcus and Nicki.
Though I guess that’s better than what I get from Emma: silence.
Before I can try again, my anxiety gets the better of me. Are they busy? Am I bothering them? Does everybody hate me?
I don’t usually feel this nervous about my siblings, but everything is different between us since I helped Nicki hide her eye condition. Especially with my sisters. But I don’t give up. Most days, if I didn’t text first, I’d never hear from them at all.
I switch to their individual text threads. Reaching out one by one to ask how they’re doing because it feels less intimidating that way. The responses I get are basically interchangeable.
Marcus: Busy.
Nicki: Fine.
Again, Emma doesn’t say anything…until she does. Proving once and for all that there’s something far worse than silence.
Emma: Stop texting me.
That one stings. Emma is the only person I know who could cut me to my core in three words or less, and I close my text app for good. At least for now.
I’m not sure what to do after that. The response I got from Emma sits with me longer than it should. Even messing around on my new typewriter doesn’t cheer me up.
It’s time for a reset.
I’m good at these. My mother likes to joke that my sisters know how to go to war, but I know how to rally. So that’s what I do.
I start by opening all the windows in the guest room. It’s a beautiful day outside, the mountain air cooler than you’d expect. But the best part is the sound of the creek in the distance, the one that runs along the back edge of Charlie’s property. The faint babble of water soothes me instantly.
I’m off to a good start, but I know how to make this reset even better. It’s clawfoot-tub time.
I’ve been eyeing that beauty since I got here, and it’s time to take the plunge. There’s a little basket of bath bombs under the sink that Lydia told me I could help myself to. I pick a lavender one that I know won’t do me wrong and pop it into the tub as it fills. The smell of lavender that surrounds me is the stuff of miracles.
After I light the candle by the sink, I listen to music while I soak in the tub. By the time I’m done with my bath, the day feels fresh again, full of possibility. Maybe a few bad things have happened here and there, but a lot has gone right. Today can still be incredible.
It isn’t until I climb out of the tub to get dressed that I realize I’ve made another big mistake: I forgot to grab a new shirt. But it’s fine. Lydia won’t get off work for hours, and I shut the guest room door before I got in the tub. This is no big deal.
I pull on everything else and sneak back into the bedroom. The windows are still open, but gauzy white curtains are pulled shut over top—I’m fine. This is fine.
Until it isn’t.
I lock the bedroom door, and I’m halfway to the dresser when I spot my first sign of trouble. There’s a potted succulent on the nightstand by the window, and it’s lying on its side. Plant toppled. Dirt everywhere.
That’s odd.
It’s worse than odd. It feels eerie. Like I’m watching a thriller, and this is where the music shifts, when the protagonist finally gets proof something isn’t right.
I try to ignore it. The curtains rustle with the wind, and I tell myself that’s the problem, that the wind is to blame for knocking Lydia’s plant over. Because that’s how heavy clay pots and light summer breezes work…right?
Deep down, I know that can’t be true. It defies every possible law of physics and common sense. But I recite that lie to myself anyway. Several times.
It’s just the wind.
It’s just the wind.
I should leave—I should grab my shirt and go. Instead, I inch toward that plant, creeping closer and closer to danger. Just like in the movies.
Something’s wrong in this bedroom. Something strange is going on, and the first possibility that pops into my head is the wrong one. The first culprit I want to blame doesn’t even exist.
Tommyknockers.
I can’t stop picturing that creepy wooden doll from the museum. I catch a glimpse of it in every dark shadow around the room. I hear it scuttling in each curtain rustle and gust of wind, but I know I’m being ridiculous—even if Charlie got the lore wrong. Even if I googled it before I got in the tub and found out some people thought they were malevolent spirits instead, not helpful at all.
That when they blew out your candle in those mines, it was because they never wanted you to find your way out.
As I get closer, holding my breath, I realize there’s something strange about all that spilled dirt on the nightstand. There are marks in it—little scratches everywhere—and a paw print. A very large paw print.
A light breeze stirs the air in the room, and a familiar scent drifts toward me. Is that… baby powder?
A growl echoes near the bathroom door, and I turn around to face my enemy. The ghost squirrel that’s waiting for me isn’t a squirrel at all. Sure, it’s got “fur as gray as smoke and eyes as black as pitch” like Muriel said. But that’s how raccoons always look.
“Hey there,” I whisper to the very large, very agitated trash panda a few feet away. As if I’m hoping we can be friends.
He isn’t interested.
I swear that raccoon recognizes me. He has a list of all his enemies, and I’m right at the top. This is what I get for trying to corner him in Muriel’s attic multiple times. This is my punishment for being a helpful neighbor.
And so the hunter becomes the hunted…
The raccoon hesitates before it darts toward me, and I screech in terror. Racing for the bedroom door, I unlock it as fast as I can, fumbling with the knob as I yank it open. Practically tripping over my own feet as I run for my life.
I’m halfway down the stairs before I realize my shoulders and stomach are colder than they should be. That my shorts-and-a-bra ensemble doesn’t actually count as an outfit. Too late now. There’s no way I’m going to stop running—not while I’m being chased.
The only thing worse than indecent exposure is a wildlife attack, and I tell myself a million sweet little lies as I run for my life. This isn’t that bad! It’s like wearing a swimsuit!
My bra is full coverage, and it’s fully lined. I’m not showing anything you couldn’t see at the beach. This is nothing…except who am I kidding? I’m a tankini girl. This is everything .
It’s a nightmare of epic proportions, my wardrobe version of the apocalypse. If that raccoon wasn’t growling and shrieking behind me like it was possessed by tommyknockers, I would’ve gone back upstairs for a shirt a dozen times.
He’s still chasing me as I reach the bottom of the stairs, and I keep running, fleeing all the way to the mudroom. I almost lunge outside, but I hear voices in the yard. So many voices. Is Charlie throwing a block party?
I make a beeline for the washer and dryer in the corner instead. It’s time for a laundry miracle. One clean shirt, that’s all I need. Even if it’s wet, I won’t mind.
No such luck. Everything’s empty, and there isn’t even a hamper I can plunder. There’s nothing .
The raccoon pauses in the mudroom entrance to catch his breath. That or he’s trying to draw this out and savor it. Time stands still, and it’s showdown time in the Old West. I eye the front door a few feet away, and the raccoon eyes me. The only question now is which one of us is faster.
This is it. It’s run-for-my-life-from-a-raccoon time. I pray for a total solar eclipse outside and sprint toward the door, ready to run into the yard shirtless if I have to. Anything’s better than dying of rabies in this mudroom.
As I reach the door, it flies open on its own. Charlie is standing in front of me, stunned. I’m not sure what throws him off more, the terror in my eyes, the raccoon in the distance, or my strawberry-pink bra. And I don’t ever want to find out.
I want to die right here in this doorway, please and thank you.
It couldn’t get worse, but then all those voices outside drift closer—and this is definitely worse. Charlie isn’t the only person who’s going to see me half-dressed today. Apparently, his entire neighborhood gets that honor too.
Before I can faint or close my eyes, Charlie springs into action. Reaching for the hem of his t-shirt, he yanks it off fast and pulls it on over my head to cover me up. Barely getting me decent as his older brother and twenty million other people wander into view.
While I stand staring at a very breathless, very shirtless Charlie Roscoe.