She sighed. “I just worry about you, Rebecca.”
“I know.” I was a little bit worried about me, too.
She continued like I hadn’t said anything. “Out there, all alone, in that … that house. Rebecca, are you sure you’re okay? Are you having nightmares?”
“Nightmares?” I blinked, startled at the change of direction. “Why would I have nightmares?”
She seemed flustered. “Well, because of what happened, of course. Who wouldn’t have nightmares after what you went through? You shouldn’t be alone in that house. It’s just not safe. Stefan should be there with you. That’s what husbands are supposed to do; they’re supposed to be there with you. What about …”
This was not going well. “Mom,” I cut her off. “I gotta go. Chrissy just walked in.”
“Okay, but Rebecca, call me. I mean it. Especially if anything happens. I worry …”
“I really have to go. I promise, I’ll call.”
I quickly hung up before she could protest, sucking in deep breaths to try and calm myself in between gulps of wine. I checked my phone one more time, even though I knew it was a futile gesture, to see if either Stefan or Chrissy had tried to contact me.
No missed calls. No texts.
I rubbed my forehead, trying to force down all the doubts and worries that squirmed under the surface.
Stefan loved me. He was as committed to making our marriage work as I was. We just hit a little rocky patch. Nothing to be worried about. All normal couples hit rocky patches. It didn’t mean they were headed for divorce. And, besides, Redemption was to be a fresh start to getting our marriage back on track. Right?
I blew the air out of my cheeks and stared at my empty wine glass, feeling completely, utterly alone.
Chapter 7
Shortly after I finished assembling the Cobb salad, Chrissy appeared. She gave me one-word answers to my questions as she wolfed down the salad, and then disappeared to her room, leaving me to clean up the kitchen alone.
Well, at least we weren’t arguing. Finally, we’d had one conversation that didn’t end in a fight. Chalk one up for the good side. Maybe I was on a roll.
I poured myself another glass of wine and cleaned up the kitchen. Eventually, Chrissy and I were going to have a little chat about household duties, but that would have to wait for another day. Today, all I wanted to do was crawl into bed with my book and my wine.
I had just finished loading the dishwasher when Stefan finally called.
It was a short conversation. He apologized for taking so long to get in touch with me, said things were pretty hectic at the office, and that he wasn’t sure when, exactly, he’d be able to fly back, but assured me it would be as soon as he possibly could. He asked me a few questions about the house and Chrissy, before telling me he had to go, but would call again soon.
All in all, I found the conversation pretty dissatisfying.
I stood in the kitchen holding my wine, staring out the window, suddenly overwhelmed and exhausted by all the events over the past few days. I really should just go to bed. Start fresh tomorrow.
Except … I had yet to sleep on a bed in this house. I hadn’t had the courage yet to venture up the stairs.
I left the kitchen and studied the couch. It didn’t look all that inviting, and I didn’t want a repeat of last night.
But, did I really want to be upstairs? Where I saw … absolutely nothing. A figment of my imagination.
Clutching my wine, I looked at the stairs, squared my shoulders and slowly started climbing.
I surveyed the hallway when I got to the top. Chrissy had taken the room at the far end of the hall—the room CB always had when he visited. It was next to the staircase that climbed to the loft-like space, which Aunt Charlie always called “The Studio,” which was also where I used to spend most of my time, painting. On the other side of Chrissy’s bedroom was the room Aunt Charlie called her “Magic Room,” where she jokingly cast her spells, but in reality, was probably more like an office. If it was as I remembered, it would be full of herbs and dried flowers, complete with a mixing table and stacks of files and recipes. Maybe that was where I would find the recipe for the headache tea.
The next room, directly in front of the stairs, was a fairly-spacious bathroom with both a large tub and a shower, and next to the bathroom was “my” room—or at least, the one I always stayed in. At the end of the hall was Aunt Charlie’s bedroom, which also had an adjoining bath.
All the doors were closed. The hall was silent. I couldn’t even hear anything from Chrissy’s room, although I could see the light on under the door. I figured she was listening to music on her headphones.
I studied the door leading to Aunt Charlie’s room. Clearly, it was the master bedroom. It should be our room—mine and Stefan’s. I was sure Stefan would expect me to set it up for us.
Yet, I hesitated. It still felt like Aunt Charlie’s room to me, and I hadn’t sorted out my feelings about her yet. If anything, the longer I was in her house, the more confused I became. If only I had the clarity I had felt back in New York, when I was fairly confident that she was the cause of all the bad things that had happened to me that summer. To my own surprise, I found myself … conflicted. My emotions didn’t match what I had been told. And, with no memory of that night, I didn’t know what was right.
I opened the door to my old room, instead.
Other than the dust, grime, and overall stuffiness, it was exactly how I remembered.
One big (filthy) window overlooked part of the backyard. Dusty purple curtains matched the purple and blue log cabin quilt that made up the queen-sized bed. Two nightstands with matching blue pottery lamps, a dresser, and a bookshelf completed the furnishing. Standing there, I smelled the dust burning on the hot light bulbs.
I went to the window, and coerced it open with a bit of forceful yanking, allowing the fresh, cool breeze to rush in.
I could sleep here, I thought. I needed to wash the sheets, but was ok with throwing a clean blanket over the quilt for the night, and using pillows from the couch. That would work just fine.
I went back downstairs, grabbed the pillows and some of my personal items, and quickly made the bed. Then, I took a long, hot, much-needed shower, feeling the tension in my neck and shoulders dissolve in the steamy heat.
After my shower, I knocked on Chrissy’s door to say goodnight. She was laying on her bed, headset on, phone in hand. She barely acknowledged me, and I closed the door.
One of these days, I knew I’d need to reach out to her—to try and have a conversation. One of these days.
I got into bed with my book, but only read a few sentences before I found myself drifting off, unable to concentrate on what I was reading, my eyes closing.
I forced myself to open them to turn out the light, and found myself in the kitchen, the light of the moon spilling in through the windows, filling the room with an eerie, soft, white glow. Aunt Charlie was busy at the stove.
“About time you came back, Becca,” she said, adjusting the teakettle. “And I must say you did a splendid job cleaning the kitchen. Definitely worth the wait.”
I blinked. “Aunt Charlie?”
She made a “tsk tsk” sound. “No question you’ve been gone too long. Of course, it’s me. Where else would I be?” She hummed to herself as she started preparing tea. I could hear the clanking of the cups and saucers, as she stirred and measured and poured.
“But … aren’t you dead?”
She laughed. “What a question! Is that the best you can ask me, dear?” She brought the tea to the butcher-block table and set the cup in front of me.
I stared at the blue, chipped pottery mug filled with tea. It was my favorite when I was growing up. I loved the play between the clay texture and elegant shape. Even the chip in the handle somehow added to its charm. Of course, Aunt Charlie would remembe
r it as my favorite.
I could actually smell tea—the aroma of flowers and herbs, and feel the heat rising from the cup. Somewhere inside me, I knew it had to be a dream … it had to be … but all my senses made it seem so real.
“Drink up, Becca,” Aunt Charlie said, picking up her own tea. “You’re going to need it.”
Something in her tone stopped me. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck raise. I looked at her. She was watching me, carefully, over her tea. But there was something in her gaze, something flat and hard, glinting like polished stones. It felt predatory. I shifted away from her. “What do you mean, I’m going to need it?”
She nodded to the cup. “Drink first.”
I looked back down to the tea. It looked darker than before—almost black. The smell was so strong, it was almost overpowering. “What’s in it?”
She smiled, showing a hint of very white teeth—far whiter than I remembered them. “Oh, you know me. A bit of this, a bit of that. It’s for your own good.”
Something clicked inside me. It’s for your own good. Where had I heard that before? And why did it make me instantly afraid?
“I don’t want any tea.”
She sighed. “Always a stubborn one. I blame my sister. She was stubborn, too. And about all the wrong things.”
The smell of the tea was making me dizzy. Even odder, I was starting to feel an overwhelming urge to drink it. I closed my eyes and tried to take a deep breath, but the smell overwhelmed me. I could almost taste it—strong with a hint of bitterness and a touch of sweetness. Oh God, did I want to drink it.
I opened my eyes. Aunt Charlie was staring at me, that slight smile back on her face, those white teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “You want to, don’t you?” Her voice purred low and deep in her throat, like a soft seduction.
I shook my head fiercely. Her smile grew wider, showing more of those white teeth.
White, pointed teeth.
I blinked hard, and tried to get up—to push away from the table and that tea that was compelling me to drink against my will, away from that sly, predatory smile with all those sharp, pointed teeth. But I couldn’t move. My limbs felt thick and heavy, like I was underwater.
I heard a crash from above.
Aunt Charlie stopped smiling and looked at the ceiling. “Oh dear,” she said. “Mad Martha again.”
Another loud, hard crash.
I stared at Aunt Charlie, who was suddenly Aunt Charlie again. The predatory, toothy smile was gone, and there she was, looking old and worn out, her face seeming to fold in on itself. She stared at the ceiling, her eyes sad, and sipped her tea. “Mad Martha?” I asked.
She turned her gaze back to me. “The house is haunted, you know. Haunted in more ways than one.” Her voice was sad. “We struggle and we fight, but in the end, it consumes us. It always does.”
I opened my mouth to ask what she was talking about, but was silenced when all hell broke loose above me. Crashing. Screaming.
Aunt Charlie shook her head. “I really ought to make her some tea,” she murmured to herself. “Chrissy, too.”
Chrissy!
I sat straight up in bed, sweating, breathing heavily, a terrible scream trapped in my chest. Moonlight streamed through my window, cutting a swatch of pale light across the dark-blue carpet, leaching the color from it, and turning it a dark grey. The lamp next to my bed was off. I must have turned it off in my sleep.
I gulped down air and tried to slow my breathing. It was a dream, I told myself. Only a dream. I rubbed my chest, my memory showing me Aunt Charlie’s sharp, predatory eyes in the moonlight, watching my every move, as if she were ready to pounce the moment I showed weakness ….
Crash.
Chrissy! I bolted out of bed and ran out of the room.
Her door stood wide open, moonlight pouring out and pooling in the hallway. I ran to her room, feeling my breath hitch in my chest, my sleep shirt sticky with sweat.
Her room was empty.
For a moment, all I could do was stand there, trying not to drown in the waves of panic that smashed against me. Oh God, where on earth was she? And what was that crash? Nothing in the room was touched. Did it even come from there?
I wheeled around and started flinging open doors, calling her name. She couldn’t be downstairs. Not in the kitchen, sitting at that table with my aunt across from her, that tea in front of her.
She wasn’t in the Magic Room or the bathroom. My aunt’s room? Could I even open that door? Did I even want to? Oh God, what if it wasn’t Chrissy in that room? What if there was … someone else waiting for me there?
I had no choice—I had to find Chrissy. I was just reaching for the knob when I heard another crash, echoing up from downstairs.
I bolted down the stairs, part of me relieved, because I didn’t have to open that door after all.
I found Chrissy—standing in the part study, part library, part family room. It was a huge, strange, L-shaped room, having once been two separate rooms—a dining room and a family room/den. But Aunt Charlie couldn’t stand the thought of a formal dining room, so she knocked the adjoining wall out and combined them. Lined with bookshelves holding dozens and dozens of books, the room housed two overstuffed couches, a big stone fireplace, a television that never seemed to work (Aunt Charlie wasn’t much into television), and a sewing machine complete with a pile of my aunt’s half-finished sewing projects.
Chrissy stood in front of the bookshelves, mindlessly yanking books out, dumping them on the ground and muttering to herself. The room was in chaos, as if vandals had been there—books strewn everywhere, tables turned over, lamps, picture frames, knickknacks, and more tossed about.
I opened my mouth to ask what in God’s name she thought she was doing, but something about the numb, mechanical way she was moving made me close my mouth, and study her more closely. Her eyes were half-closed, her face smooth and pale, almost statue-like in the cold moonlight. Could she be sleepwalking?
I picked my way gingerly through the debris and broken glass, trying not to think about what had broken, to touch Chrissy’s arm. She ignored me, but now that I was closer, I could hear the words she was muttering.
“Where is it? Where did it go? I know it’s here somewhere.”
I gently shook her arm. “Chrissy, let’s go to bed.”
Chrissy didn’t really resist, but neither did she stop what she was doing. She continued muttering.
I grabbed her arm to stop her. She pulled against me, but without any real strength. “Chrissy,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “You’re sleepwalking. Let’s go to bed.”
She stopped and turned. Her half-lidded eyes were empty.
“You know.”
Her voice was clear and sharp, a knife cutting through the stillness.
I felt a chill go down my spine, and shivered. “I know what?” I asked, realizing even as I said the words that it didn’t make sense to have a conversation with a sleepwalker. Not to mention being dangerous. Hadn’t I read somewhere that, if you woke a sleepwalker, something bad would happen to her?
She cocked her head. “The evil that was done.”
I froze. Every hair on my body stood on end. The icy touch of fear crawled down my spine and into my stomach. I licked my lips, my mouth dry. “What are you talking about?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
She kept staring at me, her eyes still empty, the moon casting dark shadows on her face. “Does it matter?”
My eyes widened. “Of course it matters,” I said. “What evil? What was done? What are you talking about?”
She smiled at me then, and it was as empty and hollow as her eyes.
“It’s right in front of your nose.”
As I opened my mouth to question her again, her eyes suddenly rolled up into the back of her head, and she collapsed into my arms.
/> Chapter 8
I rocked gently in the porch swing, sipping my wine and watching the sun slowly set, turning the sky a fiery red. My hair was still damp from the shower, and since I had left it loose to dry, it curled around my face. I was wearing a dark yellow floral jumpsuit I always liked, because it turned my hazel eyes gold, and brought out the blonde highlights in my hair.
In that moment, I was pretty desperate to find something, anything, about myself that I could feel good about.
It had been a grueling two days. After Chrissy collapsed just two nights before, I nearly had a heart attack, sure I had somehow killed her. I held her on the floor, calling her name, stroking her hair, frantically trying to decide if I should leave her on the floor while I called 9-1-1, or stay with her, when she finally stirred, her eyelids fluttering, revealing those deep brown, eyes that so reminded me of her father. Bedroom eyes. He had it in spades, and so did his daughter.
“Mom, is that you? What … what happened? Where am I?” It was like ten years had melted away—all her teenage bravado gone, leaving in its place a hurt, frightened child. My heart broke for her.
“No sweetheart, it’s me. You were sleepwalking.”
“Sleepwalking? What? Rebecca?” Her eyes started to focus, and she pushed away from me. “I don’t sleepwalk. What are you talking about?”
“You don’t remember anything?”
She shook her head, then winced. “Ouch. My head hurts.”
I decided it wasn’t the time to try and convince her she had indeed been sleepwalking. I helped her up and got her into bed. As much as I wanted to push, I knew it also wasn’t the time to ask her what she had been talking about.
You know.
After tucking her into bed, I fetched some water, aspirin, and a cool washcloth. She docilely accepted my mothering, closing her eyes submissively and relaxing against me. For the first time, I could see in her the child she once was—trusting, sweet, obedient. I wondered what had happened to her—how her parents had shaped her, warped her—how they had changed her. A beautiful, shallow mother who was more focused on herself than her daughter, and a workaholic father who cycled between doting on her, and being completely unavailable, physically and emotionally.
It Began With a Lie: A gripping psychological thriller (Secrets of Redemption Book 1) Page 6
