Dawn gives an elongated gasp and lifts her hand to her mouth. “What do you think it is? What’s causing it?”
“Something’s wrong. I’m going to call the doctor today.” I swallow against the lump in my throat. “She just started her period the other night. That could be part of it. But then—” I hesitate before eking out the words. “When Gunnar brought her home Saturday night, she saw me . . . climbing out of the back of Steel’s truck.”
Dawn rolls her eyes, but her mouth edges up at the corners. “The back of the truck?”
“Well, the backseat. Anyway...” I wave my hand in the hopes of quickly dismissing the image. “Annalen has reservations about Steel. She thinks there’s something wrong with him. So maybe this is all just some rebellious streak in her. Fourteen, you know.”
Dawn wrenches her mouth to the side. “Yeah, I remember when Abby turned fourteen. She was kind of a nightmare.”
Dawn’s words coincide with her adult daughter Abby walking into the kitchen. “Come on, Mom, I was never a nightmare.”
Dawn smiles. “Okay, you were just half a nightmare—a mare.”
Abby is tall and leggy like Dawn. Every time I see her, a little ache pings inside of me, and I wonder what my life might have been if, at twenty-three, I’d been like Abby—waiting to marry, waiting for kids.
Smirking, Abby lifts the plastic wrap from a plate of brownies and takes one. Then she leans against the counter and bites into it. “So, what’s up?”
“Claire was just telling me she thinks her house is haunted.”
Abby’s eyes balloon. “Really? Cool.”
Grimacing, I shake my head. “I don’t know that it’s actually haunted, but what’s happening is not cool at all.”
Dawn tips her head toward her daughter. “Abby has some friends who investigate that kind of stuff, don’t you, Abby? What are they called? Paranormal investigators?”
Abby nods, taking another bite out of her brownie. “My boyfriend Jax is a paranormal investigator. He has a YouTube channel and everything. He’s like the technician who measures all the electronic activity and records spirit voices and stuff. I could text him.”
My insides twist at the thought of having to admit something supernatural is happening in my house. It would feel like a betrayal of my hard-won logic and conviction that nothing exists beyond the grave. But then Annalen’s face pixelates in my mind, her chilling words, “It’s too late. He’s already got me.”
“I’ll think about it.” I give Abby a half-smile and rise from the stool. “Anyway, I have to go. I have a client coming early today.”
Still sipping her coffee, Dawn stands too. “Oh, by the way, Agnes is out of the hospital. A bunch of us in the neighborhood thought we’d bring her some food, see if she needs anything.”
“Absolutely. I’ll pick up something and stop by tonight on my way home from work.”
Abby leans against the counter, scrolling her thumb over the screen of her phone. “I just texted Jax. He says you can call him to set something up. His team will come out as soon as they can.” She scribbles down the number on a piece of paper and hands it to me.
I stare at the number and exhale slowly. “Thanks, but you know—there’s probably a logical explanation for everything anyway.”
26
Whitney looks tired and frazzled. Deep circles indent the pale skin under her eyes. A fresh bruise blooms across her hand.
“Thanks for meeting me early today,” she says. “I couldn’t wait until later in the week. Not with everything that’s going on. Especially with my daughter.”
“So, what’s going on with your daughter—which one is it?”
“Jocelyn, my oldest.”
I nod, encouraging her to continue.
“Last night, I kept hearing voices. It sounded like Jocelyn was talking to someone in the hall.” Her mouth hangs slack, her eyes downcast. “And then she was standing over me, looking down at me while I was sleeping. When I took her back to her bedroom, she had wet the bed. I mean, I couldn’t believe it.”
My breath catches, and it takes me a moment to properly and fully inhale. I force the words from my tongue. “A lot of teenagers wet the bed. It’s more common than you think. Nocturnal enuresis affects about two out of every hundred teenagers. It could be hormonal. I suggest taking her to your GP or pediatrician, have her tested for a bladder infection, and rule that out. But if not, there are medications to control the symptoms.” My temples pulse.
Whitney’s forehead lines. “Also, I may have to change my appointment time permanently because I’m starting a new teaching job.”
“That’s good news.”
“I guess so.” She drops her head into her hand. “But I’m so overwhelmed right now. And there’s childcare to think about, and...” she breaks off.
“What about your ex-husband? Can he help?”
Whitney presses her lips together, her gaze sliding off toward the window. “I, um... I don’t really want to ask him for anything right now.”
“Why’s that?”
Her face flushes. “Something happened a few days ago that was not only mortifying for me, but it was very awkward for him. Now he thinks I’m an unfit mother or something.”
She’s uncomfortable talking this through. It’s in her body language—her shifting eyes, blotchy red cheeks, and her knitting fingers.
“What happened?”
“He sort of caught me with the guy I’ve been seeing.”
I sit back. This can’t be happening. I feel like I’m on a show where someone is playing a prank on me. How is Whitney’s life mirroring mine so precisely? Again, I inhale slowly, speak the words carefully, calmly. “That must have been awkward.”
Whitney’s eyes fill with tears. “It was awful. When I saw him standing in the doorway—staring at us...” She puts her hands over her face.
The pain in my temples intensifies, and I fight the urge to press my fingers against them. “How did he get in the house?”
“He still has a key. I’m telling you, Claire, my world just crashed in.”
“Because of the embarrassment?”
“That was only part of it,” she says through her fingers. “I knew I’d lost his respect.”
Oh, please let this session end. “Hm. And that’s important to you?”
She rakes her hands down her face. “Yeah, I guess it is. I guess I figured if I don’t have his love anymore, then maybe I can at least have his respect. Now I don’t even have that.”
I clear my throat, reach for my glass of water, and take a sip. “What about the guy? Is this someone you care about?”
Whitney nods. “Yeah, I do. I mean, it was probably a mistake both times, but there’s something about Steel that just—well, I can’t stay away from him.”
My brain falters. Did I hear her correctly? “Did you say his name is Steel?”
“Yeah. It’s an unusual name, I know.”
“Yes, it is.” The pain in my head is unbearable, and now there’s a shrill ringing in my ears. My words tumble mechanically. “How did you meet him?”
“Oh, his company is redoing my kitchen.” She shoots her hands into the top of her hair. “I mean, I wouldn’t have considered getting involved with him or anyone, but I’m just so attracted to him. He’s got the tiniest bit of a European accent.” She smiles and shakes her head so hard her hair slaps her cheeks. “And then, after he helped me for free, and there was wine, and it all went from there.”
The rest of Whitney’s words are drowned out by my mental hurricane. There can be no mistake. In the whole of Northern Virginia—maybe even the entire DC Metro area—there are probably no more than two or three men with the name Steel. And the statistics lessen greatly when you add in the European accent.
We’ve slept with the same man. Steel is seeing Whitney too.
27
That afternoon, I pick up Annalen early from school to take her to our general practitioner. While I sit in the waiting room, I replay my session
with Whitney. I don’t know how to feel. Should I be angry? Steel and I never said we were exclusive. I just assumed, based on his words, his actions...
I’m relieved when Annalen is sent off to the lab, and Dr. Chakro calls me into her office.
“She seems fine, Claire,” Dr. Chakro says. “Everything is normal. Once we have the labs back, we’ll have a better idea of what’s going on.”
The headache has been with me all day—a band tightening around my skull. “Okay. It’s just her behavior is so strange—erratic.”
She raises her brows. “Anything unusual happening at home?”
I almost laugh. “Well, our neighborhood just suffered a murder-suicide involving a boy that Annalen went to school with. And on top of that, she has a new stepmother, and I have a new...” I stop short of the word, unsure what to call him now. “A new man in my life—sort of.”
Dr. Chakro’s mouth drops open. “Is that all? Good heavens, that’s enough to send anyone over the edge. Add to that she’s just started menstruating, and you have a perfect storm.”
She’s right, of course. I haven’t even mentioned our potentially haunted house.
Dr. Chakro holds up a finger. “But you’re right to be concerned about the sleepwalking. We don’t want her wandering outside at night. Do you want me to prescribe a sleeping aid?”
“No. Not right now. Let’s see how it goes.”
“What about having her talk to a counselor? Is there someone at your clinic she could see? It might be good for her to talk about some of the changes happening in her life.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking that too.” I press my fingers against my eye sockets, trying to push out the pain. When I lower them again, Dr. Chakro is staring at my hands with furrowed brows.
“How are you holding up, Claire? All of this must be affecting you too.”
“I’m doing all right.”
She points. “What about those bruises? Do you have more of them?”
I yank up my sleeve. “Yeah, actually. They keep appearing. I have no idea where they’re coming from. I have them all over.”
“Really?” She holds my wrist and inspects it. “When did this start?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
The creases in her forehead deepen. “That is strange. Have you ever had blood-clotting issues?”
“No.”
Her eyes meet mine again. “I’d like to run some tests on you too. Rule out the serious stuff.”
“What could cause this?”
“Lots of things. Iron deficiency, blood-clots, leukemia.”
I squeeze my fists. “My mom died from lupus.”
She nods. “We should run some tests.”
THAT EVENING, AS I assemble the food to take to Agnes, I mentally sift through Whitney’s words from earlier today. I’ll have to refer her on. She won’t be able to remain my client—conflict of interest. But if I’d never had her as a client, I’d never know that Steel was seeing other women.
My mother once told me she always assumed I studied psychology to work out my own inner demons. Her words surprised me then. I hadn’t even known I had any demons. Now, I realize my painful confusion about all of this is more deeply rooted than just Steel. It stems back to my parents’ “open” marriage and my divorce. After years of seeing clients who seem to stumble into one disastrous situation after another, I’ve often wondered if some people court pain. Maybe I’m one of them.
For now, I’m happy to be doing something for Agnes. For a few minutes, at least, it takes my mind off my own problems.
“Girls, I’ll be right back. I’m taking some food over to Mrs. Frankenson,” I announce.
No one even looks up. All four are glued to a television show. Much to my consternation, Annalen has them all addicted to The Living and the Dead.
I grab the bag filled with rotisserie chicken, mashed potatoes, and salad and head next door. I ring the doorbell and knock and wait several minutes, but Agnes doesn’t answer. Instinctively, my hand drops to the handle, and I press down on the lever. It’s unlocked and opens.
“Agnes?” My voice echoes through the foyer as I drift inside. “Agnes, it’s Claire.”
The foyer is like mine, open with tall windows—except the Frankensons put up blinds years ago. They’re all drawn now, giving the entryway a dull, hazy hue. I close the door behind me and scan the floor. It’s littered with wadded-up paper towels and tissues. Scuff marks from shoes with dark soles streak the white marble.
In the kitchen, casserole dishes and Tupperware containers line the counters. Some of the plates look like they’ve been here several days—possibly even before the tragedy. Many are half-empty or full of food that’s never been cleared away. I’ll offer to come by later and help her clean up. Obviously, she doesn’t need more food delivery.
The sound of a door shutting upstairs sends me out of the kitchen and back into the foyer.
“Agnes? It’s Claire, from next door.” I scan the landing for her small, frail form. “I’m just stopping by to make sure you’re all right.”
I slowly make my way up the stairs. When I reach the top, I pause. A dark stain spreads across the once-white carpet in an area the size of a baby pool. Blood. Sections of it have been removed in small squares.
A chill zigzags from the top of my head to my calves. How can Agnes stay here? How can she look at this carpet every morning and night, reliving what happened? Her grief must be intense. It could drive her into an unhealthy mental state.
“Agnes? I brought you some food, but I also wanted to talk for a few minutes, see how you’re doing.” I step carefully around the stain as if avoiding crossing over a grave.
Police caution tape still stretches across the threshold of one of the bedroom doors. I peer inside. Thomas’s room. One wall is painted black, and posters of BMX bikes and video game images line the others. The crime scene clean-up crew has stripped the bed of its linens.
Something clicks in the corner of the room, and I turn. A computer screen glows bright blue, although only a tangle of cords remains where the heart of the system once sat. The police probably took it for evidence.
My heart jolts. I stare at the blue screen, strangely mesmerized by its glow. This shouldn’t be happening. The screen isn’t hooked up to anything. Slowly, the blue darkens into black, and a line of red scrambled letters emblazons the screen. As blood might do from a wound, each of the letters drips and runs. I shift my gaze to the desk. Spread haphazardly across a science textbook are four or five business cards just like the one I found in my car.
leviat.com
Tommy was responsible for that card? Was he the one sending me those videos?
I squeeze my eyes shut, but images of a teacup with bubbling contents and a wall spattered with blood invade my mind. I feel sick. With a shiver, I turn away and start down the hall toward the master bedroom.
“Help us.”
The garbled voice spins me around. Something is moving in the darkened room at the other end of the hall.
I take a step forward. “Agnes?”
A shadowy form shoots across the doorway.
I blink, process.
Not Agnes.
Abandoning my mission, I grasp the banister and swing myself down the stairs, leaping from the fourth step to the bottom. Yanking open the front door, I tear out of the house, not stopping to look behind me.
28
Once, when I was a little girl, a man came to our house. He’d been very sick and wanted my father to pray for his healing. When my father put his hands on the man’s head and began to pray, the man dropped to his knees, growling and snarling.
“I curse you and your whole family.” Foam spewed from the man’s mouth along with other black substances.
My mother and I were sent from the room, but I hovered in the hallway and listened, terrified the man would kill my father. Dad prayed loudly and endlessly over the man for nearly an hour. When it was all over, the man was calm and grateful, and my father was
covered in sweat and exhausted.
After, I asked him, “Daddy, what was wrong with that man?”
“The man had a demon, honey. It was living in him. It had to be cast out.”
Years later, I rationalized what I had seen and heard by concluding that the man had an undiagnosed mental illness.
But now, what I’ve just seen and heard at Agnes’s house plagues me. This is different. There isn’t a haunted person to explain with a diagnosis. The similarities to the phenomena I’ve experienced in my own house are uncanny, and I mentally scramble for a logical reason that could account for it. I keep coming up short.
When I get home, I call Dawn and relay what I saw—the house’s horrible state, food spoiling in the kitchen, no sign of Agnes. I leave out the part about the shadow and the voices. I’m not ready to go there yet. Dawn says she and Abby will check it out in the morning, make sure Agnes is okay.
Before going to bed, I turn off the computer and pull the cord out of the wall. Then I stare at the screen, daring it to come on by itself.
My aching head won’t let me sleep. I think about articles from medical journals addressing communities affected by radiation or too much lead in the water. The airport is close by. Maybe these anomalies have something to do with jet engine emissions.
In the middle of the night, I saunter downstairs. The television is still playing the show that Annalen loves so much, The Living and the Dead. The girls must have forgotten to turn it off.
I sit on the edge of the couch and watch.
An attractive blonde woman, who I suppose is the star, tells a scared couple that she senses their bar isn’t haunted at all. The noises and flickering lights are caused by mice in the walls eating their wiring. “Most of the time when someone calls me to investigate,” she narrates for the camera, “we end up debunking their claims or finding alternative reasons for the alleged haunting.”
Good to know.
Before I realize it, I’ve watched the entire show.
The Neighbor: A terrifying tale of supernatural suspense Page 13
