The Companion

by Katie Alender

  I went as far as the hall, where the light from the window illuminated the wallpaper and made me think of skeletons reaching their skinny bones out of their graves.

  This house was the worst. Honestly. Who could live here?

  I should leave, I thought.

  And then, after swaying precariously at the top of the stairs, I thought:

  I can leave. I could leave now—go outside and sneak into the graveyard and call someone on my fancy new phone. I could call Barrett. He’d help me. Or Kiley. She seemed nice.

  It didn’t matter who I called—the important thing was to leave.

  This decision gave my thoughts a sudden clarity. My body still felt dreamy and drifty, but my mind felt briskly efficient.

  I can’t let Laura know I’m leaving, I thought. I was going to have to sneak past her bedroom, which shouldn’t be a big deal.

  Laura and John’s bedroom, which I’d never been inside of, was at the very far end of the downstairs hallway, past their offices and at least one more parlor. Their room had a large set of wooden double doors that were never open.

  But tonight they were.

  I crept closer and saw a gap of about three inches. Peeking inside, I could make out blue light on one of the walls.

  I knocked.

  “Laura?” I called.

  No answer. She was out somewhere, roaming around.

  I knocked again. And then, when there was no reply, I gently pushed the door open and slipped inside.

  The bedroom was as grand as you could have hoped in a house like this, with a massive four-poster bed canopied in a heavy silver-blue fabric dominating the room’s center. Off to the side were wooden armoires in a long row, and another door leading to a darkened space—a closet or a bathroom.

  But what really got my attention was the laptop. It sat open on a desk, the screen a bright rectangle of light.

  I walked closer, keeping an ear open and an eye on the door in case I needed to jump away. I was well aware that just being in here was disastrous, but if I was near the door, I could at least claim that I’d only stuck my head in to look for her. Sitting at the computer, surfing the internet? Not so convincing.

  If you’d asked me, I would have said I was detoxed from screens. That my time at Copeland Hall had broken through the addiction to the images and content that used to enthrall me. But that clearly wasn’t the case, because I was drawn to the glowing rectangle like a zombie to a nice fresh bowl of brains.

  I walked over to it and leaned down to see the image. I was dying to know what kind of internet content Laura found suitable and interesting.

  But this was just a static image, in strange gray tones.

  Then something about it struck me as familiar—the shapes of the objects. Their relationship to each other.

  A bed. Another bed. Two doors. A desk, two windows.

  This was the nursery. But . . . I didn’t remember seeing a camera in there. If I had, I would have been weirded out and spent every day feeling self-conscious about being watched.

  I noticed multiple tabs at the top of the screen and clicked through them one at a time: The hallway. Agatha’s old bedroom, from a strange, high angle—with Agatha in the bed, asleep.

  Barrett’s bedroom. The foyer. The library.

  And then, the very last feed—a camera placed high in the corner of my tiny bedroom.

  I stood back, watching the live feed with a mix of horror and disbelief. With a growing sense of mortification, I wondered if I had ever changed clothes in that room. Had Laura seen that? Had John?

  Oh, God, and had Barrett and I ever kissed in any of those rooms?

  Yes, yes, of course we had.

  I felt danger mounting with every second I remained at the computer. I knew she wouldn’t be pleased to come in and find me there. But there were more answers I needed.

  On the sidebar, under the link to the security feeds, was a folder labeled SELECTS. I opened it and found a list of subfolders—divided by room. I opened NANNY’S ROOM and was greeted by a list of long, convoluted file names. I clicked one, and it opened.

  I shivered. The image showed Barrett and me, standing close. I knew we were about to kiss. The volume was down, but I could hear tinny versions of our voices.

  She could hear us, too?

  I told myself to calm down. If I asked Laura about this, she could give me a reasonable explanation, right? She had a reasonable explanation for everything. She could explain why the cat had died and why Lily wrote such angry things and why Agatha had to be sedated and . . . I lost my train of thought and looked at the computer again. I was vaguely aware that I had overstayed my welcome.

  I fast-forwarded through a few more selects from my bedroom.

  And then I found something that made me gasp.

  It was me—getting out of bed in the middle of the night. Opening the nightstand drawer and pulling something out. And then writing the word GO on the wall, in black letters . . .

  My mascara. I’d used my mascara. But somehow I had no memory of doing it. I couldn’t have done it—I would never write on the walls—except I had. Every time it happened had been captured in its own little video clip. Laura, I realized, must have fast-forwarded through these feeds every day.

  With a sick, heavy feeling in my stomach, I closed the folder and made sure the screen was set back to the correct camera feed. Then I went to the door, peeked into the hall, and upon seeing that the coast was clear, I padded silently back to the foyer.

  I was beyond exhausted. My body felt like it was made of paper, ready to be blown over at any second. I looked forward to my own bed the way a kid looks forward to birthday cake. But when I entered the nursery, I paused in the doorway and looked around.

  My eyes took in the room compared to the view on the security camera, and I looked up at the shelf on the wall.

  It was full of stuffed animals. I’d heard of nanny-cams—decorative stuffed animals that were actually cameras, used by parents to keep an eye on their babysitters.

  I pressed up against the wall and shimmied around to just under the shelf. There was a toy chest nearby, and I dragged it over. Then I climbed up on it and reached across the shelf.

  One by one, I knocked over each of the stuffed animals.

  . . . The way Agatha had knocked over Blue Bunny.

  The third one in the row, a floppy-eared puppy in a little tuxedo jacket, made a clicking sound as it fell. Keeping its belly aimed down, I pulled it toward myself. Along its back was a strip of Velcro, which I pulled apart. And inside, where in a sweet children’s story you would find a little heart, was the spidery mechanism of a surveillance camera. Its lens was one of the black buttons on the puppy’s jacket.

  I closed up his back again.

  Had Agatha known about the cameras?

  Was that why she hated my bunny? In her confused state, she had associated him with the stuffed animals that kept silent watch over her every move. The ones that her mother used to observe and control her.

  I climbed down from the toy chest and went back around the walls to my own room.

  I lay down on the bed, feeling like the pillow and mattress were rising up around me, holding my body in place in a soft, heavenly mold.

  No, no. I couldn’t sleep. I had to leave. I would leave, right now. I’d get up and walk out the door and never come back.

  For a brief moment, I opened my eyes, but the strength it took to keep them open was beyond me.

  CHAPTER

  28

  “MARGOT?” LAURA’S VOICE rang out from the other side of the bathroom door. “How are you today?”

  I coughed a few times, then forced myself to stop. My throat was raw from all the coughing and throwing up I’d been doing.

  It was day four of my illness, which seemed to be some kind of stomach flu. Even Laura, with her time-t
ested nursing skills, seemed a little squicked out by my never-ending ability to produce vomit.

  “Okay,” I said. My voice was on the verge of giving out. I opened the bathroom door and Laura came in with a clean set of towels and washcloths.

  She sighed when she saw me. “Goodness, you’ve been through it, haven’t you?”

  I nodded. I wasn’t above a pity party. Lay it on me. If the devil himself wanted to give me sympathy, the door was open.

  “Better than yesterday?” she asked. “You want to try breakfast?”

  “No,” I said. “Just something to drink, please.”

  “Got it,” she said. “Already on your nightstand.”

  I’d been surviving on orange-flavored energy drinks, although I’d skipped the last couple because I was starting to feel like I was made from sugar. So I stuck with water and dry toast, eaten in narrow strips, one every fifteen minutes.

  “Is John coming home today?” I asked.

  Laura put her hands on her hips. Her voice was affectionate and exasperated. “It’s so sweet, how you look forward to his return. But the case he’s working on requires his presence in the city. He won’t be home for quite a while. It’s just us girls for now.”

  It was the same answer she’d given me every day. I didn’t know why it seemed important for John to come back, but it did.

  “If you’re feeling better, there’s something I’d like to show you,” she said.

  * * *

  I FOLLOWED HER down the hallway and through the doors to the green wing. Laura opened the double doors with a key.

  A shadow of worry passed over my heart.

  Calm down, it’s just a hallway. I’d been here before. So when she held the door open, I went in.

  “I mentioned to you once that I have a hobby . . .” I followed her to the first door on the right—the sickroom. “Do you like the scented soaps and lotions that I’ve given you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “They’re very nice.” Now my heart was thud-thudding. My spidey sense tingled. What was happening?

  She pulled a small bottle from her pocket. “Oh, try this, it’s lovely.”

  What? I took a small sniff, and the spicy aroma of cinnamon hit my nose.

  “I’ve been thinking about my autumn scents a little early,” she said. “My mother and grandmother always did spiced apples and cranberry, but that seems so old-fashioned, doesn’t it? Every candle store in the country does spiced apples and cranberry.”

  I shrugged a little. I was out of my league. I didn’t spend a lot of time in candle stores, and I didn’t want to offend her with any clueless takes on season-appropriate smells . . . What is going ON? I wondered.

  “So what I’m thinking is cinnamon, vanilla, and . . . you’ll never guess. Smell this.”

  She held up another tiny bottle. I sniffed it.

  Our eyes met. She was bursting with anticipation. “Cloves,” she said, making the word into two syllables: Cllll-oves!

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Right? Oh, it’s such fun. I was really looking forward to doing all of this with Agatha.”

  “Okay, cool,” I said lamely. “I wonder if I should get back to my room.”

  “Probably so,” she said, frowning. “You do need your rest, don’t you? Here, one more.” She held up a new bottle. “This one is subtle. Don’t be shy.”

  I put my nose directly above it and gave it a big sniff. The scent was slightly sharp and unpleasant—not what I would have called subtle.

  She took the bottle away and slipped it into her pocket. “Did you know I went to college?”

  “I think . . . you said once . . .” I stopped talking. My mouth felt awkward and I suddenly couldn’t think of the words I wanted to say.

  Laura turned slowly and watched me.

  “Laura, I feel sick.” My voice rose. “I’m going to throw up.”

  “Here,” she said, helping me over to the bed. “Sit right here.”

  She helped me onto the bed, which (I noticed for the first time) had already been turned down.

  Laura tucked me in tightly. “Yes, I went to college,” she said. “I studied pharmacy.”

  “What’s going on?” I whispered.

  “Just lie back,” she said softly. “Lie back until you feel better.”

  I jerked away. I didn’t want her touching me. I didn’t want to be there. I felt awful, inhuman. Weak and growing weaker by the moment.

  “I’m fine,” I said again, trying to sit up. “Let me go, I’m fine. I’m leaving.”

  I meant it, too. I would have left if it meant crawling down the driveway on my hands and knees, but Laura didn’t give me the chance. She easily pushed me back against the bed.

  “Margot,” she said. “You’re very unwell. I’ve brought you to this room because you’re sick. I can help you, but you have to be a good girl. I’m going to give you some medicine now, and we’ll talk more in the morning when you’re feeling more like yourself.”

  “No,” I whispered, looking away.

  She took hold of my chin and turned it back. “Come on,” she urged. “Look at me.”

  I opened my eyes, but I couldn’t focus on her face. She seemed to be getting closer and farther, closer and farther . . .

  Then she pulled my jaw open and, using some kind of plastic device, shot something into the back of my throat. I began to cough and almost spat it out, but she held my lips shut.

  “Swallow,” she said firmly. “Swallow and I’ll let go.”

  I had no choice.

  “I have a question for you,” she said. “When you get to the institution, what will you tell them about us?”

  She stared down at me.

  “Will you tell them I give Agatha too much medicine?”

  I goggled at her helplessly.

  Her eyes narrowed. “You come into my home. You lie, and steal, and sneak around. You poison my daughter’s mind against me. You make my son forget his duty to his family and entice him to put his hands all over your filthy body.” She was looking at me with hard, glinting eyes. “You make up theories about terrible crimes that you think I’ve committed. You snoop through the house and stick your nose in my family’s own personal business. Our history. Our secrets.”

  I stared up at her in horror.

  “And then you decide one day, after upending our family’s peace and happiness, that you’re just going to saunter out the door? No. No. That’s not how it works, Margot.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “Yes,” she said, standing back. “Good. You should be. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  “Please—”

  “There is nothing you can ask for that you will get tonight,” she said. “You’ve crossed a line. And you’ve hurt my feelings. Now, sit back and relax.”

  I shook my head.

  “You don’t trust me?” she asked. “You think I’m just a clueless housewife? You think I don’t know what I’m doing? Is that what you’ll tell them? That I give my children too much medicine?”

  “No, I won’t,” I said. “I promise.”

  She stared at me. “You will, because you’re a child, and you have no idea how important any of this really is. Families like mine built this country, and if anyone is going to keep it moving forward with dignity and honor, it will be us.”

  Honor?

  “What are you going to do to me?” The loudest I could manage was a whisper. I felt so weak. Exhausted.

  “I’m going to do for you exactly what I would do for my own family,” she said crisply. “Take excellent care of you and make sure you get all the medicine you need to be a good girl.”

  Then, unceremoniously, she walked out. I heard the click of the lock.

  After she left, my head lolled to the side, and I looked around the room. I was far too tired t
o get up and look for an escape route. Now suddenly I noticed that the windows had bars, and the door was reinforced with metal panels.

  No food. No water.

  She’d been planning this. I’d been sick for days—probably her fault, now that I thought about it—and now I was too weak to fight back.

  * * *

  I HUDDLED ON the bed, staring outside through the barred windows. I was still dizzy and a little light-headed, both of which got worse when I started to seriously contemplate what was happening. I’d woken from an unpleasantly deep sleep—I didn’t want nightmares, but some level of awareness was kind of reassuring.

  Otherwise it felt too much like death.

  Gradually, my adrenaline-fueled energy burst wore away, and my eyelids grew heavy. Even after a full night’s worth, I welcomed sleep—I was exhausted and my mind was so strung out.

  But I’d forgotten about the nightmares.

  It didn’t take long to remember—to be slipping into unconsciousness and suddenly sense something waiting for me, just on the other side of the knife-edge drop-off into sleep. This day, it was something dark and wet and horrible; it smelled of death and mud and burnt rubber.

  Once I realized it was there, I tried to backtrack, to claw my way out of sleep. But it was too late. It had sensed me and sent tendrils of leathery black vines to wrap around my ankles and hold me in place. I felt it coming nearer, a lumbering mass of shadow without details.

  It knocked me over and then hovered in the air above my body, savoring my fear, tasting my tears.

  I expected it to have teeth, or claws, or scaly skin. But it was worse than that—it was all gray flesh and endless pockets of darkness, and instead of attacking me, it began to slowly lower itself over me, until I could feel its cold, moist flesh pressing down all over my body. Until its face covered my mouth and nose.

  In the dream, I tried to scream. But when I opened my mouth, a hundred tiny black tendrils appeared and filled my throat, silencing me.