by Angie West
“Oh sorry, kitty…” Kate crooned as the cat danced away from her, shaking its head with all the vigor of a German Sheppard fresh from a bath. The vague amusement Kate was riding high on died a slow death, though, when her new pet went absolutely still.
“Gollum?” she murmured, leaning heavily on the smooth, dark wooden railing, her eyes switching back and forth between the suddenly defensive cat and the ordinary looking second floor hallway. Something had made the cat go on high alert, but Kate didn’t have the first clue of what that “something” could possibly be.
The light was on, and from her sort-of-halfway-up-the-stairs vantage point, she could see the empty, silent hallway; all of the doors were closed, just as they had been earlier. Or had they been? She frowned, goosebumps raising on her bare arms as the cat hunched its shoulders forward and gave a feral sounding hiss at…nothing.
The bottle began to grow heavy in her grasp, and Kate decided she’d hung out on the stairwell long enough. With one final, teeth-baring hiss, Gollum turned tail and fled back down the stairs, leaving a trail of wine-colored paw prints in his wake. The pounding had resumed and Kate touched a hand to her head, wanting nothing more than to get somewhere—preferably a bed—and lay down. Tightening her grip on both banister and bottle, she half walked, half dragged herself the rest of the way up the stairs.
She took two steps away from the staircase, until her toes grazed the edge of the ancient runner that lined the entire hallway, its tea-rose and stem pattern badly aged. She’d thought a good vacuum would put some life back into the rug but it hadn’t made much of a difference at all, she mused. The light fixture above her head flickered but went unnoticed. Instead, her gaze followed the faded rose pattern to the end of the hall, to the very last door; this one was open a crack. The glass room.
The narrow strip revealed nothing but a thick, heavy darkness.
She didn’t want to go into that room. Olivia and Lindsey had cracked jokes about the room—and its many possible uses. And in the safe, secure light of day, Kate had smiled and laughed along with them, but now she shivered, peering through the partially open doorway. There was something darkly foreboding about that room…and without realizing it, she found herself standing close enough to reach out and touch the scarred wooden door.
Viola had spent a small fortune on the glass room—why hadn’t she replaced the door? Another mystery, and one Kate knew she was unlikely to ever solve. Chill fingers brushed across the back of her neck, setting off another round of shivering through her shoulders and, the next thing she knew, her outstretched hand pressed a little harder on the door. It swung slowly open, the creak echoing through the hallway like a shot. The glass walls reflected the light from the hallway, making the room brighter than it would have otherwise been.
The bottle thunked loudly against the glass as she set it on the mirrored floor. Stop. Turn around. Leave. Something—probably the more coherent part of her alcohol-fogged brain—cautioned. But almost against her will, she began to slowly move forward.
She advanced further into the room at a halting pace, loath to leave the relative safety of the doorway. Like the first time she had entered the room, the floor took some getting used to; the seamless glass of the walls and ceiling was strange enough, but there was something especially disturbing about a glass floor.
The mirrored surface reflected the bottoms of her feet back at her and somehow felt insubstantial, like she was stepping forward into a void, like she would fall through at any moment.
But the floor held, and Kate continued to move deeper into the room. Even in her hindered state, it was impossible not to wonder at the origins of the glass room. What had it been before? Her brow furrowed; she couldn’t recall what this room had looked like before. Probably like the other bedrooms on this floor, she guessed, the memory a hazy, gauzy film in the darkest corners of her mind.
She spun in a slow, vertigo-inducing circle, stumbling once and reaching out to grasp…herself. At least, that’s what it seemed like.
Her hand shot out and connected with the mirrored wall at the back of the room, and she pressed with her fingers until her palm was in full contact with the glass, until it was flush with the reflection of her own hand. The cool, smooth glass grew cold—icy—beneath her palm, and the pounding in her head intensified. But, no…Kate frowned and listened intently. Her fingers flexed against the glass, and some of the alcohol-induced fog cleared. The pounding wasn’t in her head. It was coming from downstairs. Someone was banging on the door.
Her head swiveled toward the sound—and she froze. Beyond the door, a shadow moved, spilling over the carpet until the darkness slid across the threshold of the room. Downstairs, the noise stopped, and her heart leapt as the long shadow darkened the mirrored floor at the entrance of the glass room. The woman glided into the room a second later.
Kate gasped, certain she was having a hallucination. She turned back to her own reflection, putting her back to the room, squeezing her eyes shut and vowing to never, ever, drink wine again.
Count to three…she opened her eyes, pupils dilating when the hallucination kept coming toward her. Kate’s breathing hitched painfully, audibly, as the translucent woman advanced steadily across the room. She wore a filmy white sundress; her blonde hair was the same shade as Kate’s own tawny mane, and was smoothed over one shoulder. The two women were nearly identical. Smooth, strong, toned frames, side swept bangs, lightly tanned skin. Kate’s hand came up and unconsciously fingered her own loosely waving hair; in contrast, the ghostly woman’s hair was stick straight and looked smooth as satin.
Kate’s breath rasped out to create a small circle of fog in the mirror, and the blonde woman’s berry-colored lips curved into a tight, self-satisfied sort of smile. The expression was clearly bitter, resentful…cruel. She’s not real. She’s not real…
Her feet slid over the floor until she stood directly behind Kate, their eyes remaining locked in the mirror. Please… Kate silently implored, not certain what she was even praying for. Through the mirror, she saw the light flickering crazily in the hallway, growing dim and then too bright, power surging through the old house one second and then teetering on the edge of a total blackout the next. Her eyes became wide, terrified orbs, and fear made her vision gray around the edges. She was going to pass out. The woman’s dark violet eyes—moving faster than should have been possible—cut to the side, then back again.
Kate shivered, afraid to move. Afraid to breathe. The power winked out a moment later, leaving the room dimly lit with an eerie silver light that defied all logic and explanation.
The blade the blonde woman produced, seemingly from the thin, frigid air, glinted lethal and sharp. Kate’s mouth formed a round, horrified “o” a split second before the woman slammed the blade into her side. The ghost-woman may have looked wispy, but there was nothing insubstantial about the cold steel blade as it pierced Kate’s skin. Pain lanced through her, and she gasped as the woman pulled the now-dripping blade away. Spider web cracks shot through the glass a foot in every direction as the knife clattered to the floor. Drops of deep crimson splattered the glass, and Kate doubled forward, staring in the mirror in fixed horror at the blood stain spreading across her midsection, soaking the soft fabric of her tank top in angry, vivid red.
She collapsed, the wound in her side pulsing painfully, pumping her blood—her life—onto the floor around her. She tried scream, but couldn’t draw in a deep breath. She tried to move, but managed only to turn over as the light began to fade. The last thing she saw was the blonde woman’s feet, dirty and bare as the apparition moved toward the door, black dirt streaking the glass in her wake.
Chapter Thirteen
Reflection
Light filtered in from the hallway; the sixty-watt glow reflecting off the mirrors of the glass room and shining straight into Kate’s face the minute she cracked one eye open.
She gasped and came fully awake, instantly on the verge of hysteria as she sprang into a position that
was an awkward cross between sitting and reclining. Stomach acid and the remnants of last night’s red wine churned in her gut as her hands moved over her stomach and sides, probing—frantic.
She was unhurt. Sitting up all the way, she grasped the hem of her white tank top and yanked the cloth clear up to her neck. The glass was hard and cold beneath her knees as she rose up and twisted this way and that, running her hands over her body, and sagging in relief when her fingers met only smooth, unblemished skin.
Just a dream… Kate eyed the doorway, her eyes dropping lower as she noticed the wine bottle on its side a couple of feet away from the door. The contents of the bottle lay spilled across the glass in a rich, dark stain. Red wine—not blood. Kate gulped as a wave of dizzy sickness washed over her skin, leaving her hot and then cold.
She climbed unsteadily to her feet, wincing at how icy the floor was as she padded across the room to retrieve the now-empty bottle. She started to bend over, but quickly found out that was an extremely bad idea; her stomach leapt to her throat, and bile rose to gag her.
Abruptly, she straightened, blinking back the sudden moisture from her eyes before making another go for the bottle. This time, though, she was careful to bend at the knee in a cautious, slow crouch. Lord, how much had she drank last night? The relatively scant amount of wine on the floor, and the throbbing at her temples, answered that question for her.
Memories of last night flitted through her mind, and she cast a nervous glance behind her. Bottle in hand, she turned and walked back to the far wall, knelt down…
Her heart began to pound at her ribcage as she traced the fingers of her free hand over the network of thin, spidery cracks in the glass.
“What in the hell…” she breathed, eyes wide.
Kate glanced from the wine bottle she clutched, to her own splintered reflection in the damaged glass of the floor. How? She frowned. There were only a few likely possibilities. The wine bottle…but there was no wine spilled or even drops splattered near the glass…or anywhere on this side of the room, for that matter. Had she maybe—for some unknown reason—punched the glass last night? But her hands didn’t hurt, and she had no visible injuries. Could she have flown into some sort of alcohol-fueled rage and hit the floor hard enough to crack it—and not be bruised, or at least sore? Was that even possible? The glass covering the floor looked thick and strong; it would have to be, wouldn’t it?
The only other explanation was that the floor had already been broken when she’d moved in. As explanations went, it was on the flimsy side of plausible, but it was the only thing that made sense.
Rising to her feet, she staggered out into the hallway, shutting the door to the glass room and then leaning against it, as if the scarred wood at her back was the most substantial, solid thing in her world. It didn’t last. An instant later, the door flew open and Kate was propelled backward, her rear end—and then her back—making hard contact with the floor. The empty bottle rolled away from her, and she stared up at the mirrored ceiling—straight into a reflection with cold eyes a shade or two darker than her own, and long, straight hair.
Kate screamed, and the vision was gone. She looked like herself again. Scrambling to her hands and knees, she practically crawled over the threshold and reached up to grasp the doorknob. She pulled herself up, shivering, and yanked hard at the door, this time making sure the latch clicked into place.
Her stomach lurched, and she spun around and ran down the hallway, barely making it to the bathroom before she threw up. What the hell had she just seen? She shoved unsteady hands through her sweat-dampened hair and flushed the toilet.
During broad daylight, now? Her breath shuddered out before she rose to sit on the toilet seat. Fingers shaking, she reached out to twist the knobs on the bathtub. A shower. Things would look better after a hot shower. Once she washed away the stench of alcohol, maybe the rest of the night would fade, too.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she stood and crossed to the sink, intending to quickly rinse her mouth while the water ran in the tub. But she lingered over her reflection in the age-spotted vanity mirror, slicked her hands over hair that was just long enough to reach the tips of her breasts—pulling the strands down until they were taut against either side of her head. Laying down…her hair could be mistaken for being straighter than it actually was.
Yes, that was what she had seen. Nothing more. Ghosts—real ghosts—didn’t exist. They were stories; midnight tales whispered by candlelight in order to spook the living. That or make life more interesting, depending on how you chose to look at it. Feeling somewhat steadier, Kate stripped out of her shorts and tank top, pulled up the faded chrome knob to divert the rush of hot water to the showerhead, and stepped carefully under the spray. Squirting a good size dollop of mango-scented shampoo into her palm, she proceeded to give her hair a vigorous scrubbing.
At least the old place had plenty of hot water and decent water pressure. Not that it mattered, because she wasn’t staying any longer than was absolutely necessary. In fact, she would call a realtor as soon as she was done with her shower. Kate ducked her head under the powerful spray and squeezed a torrent of soap suds from her hair. The excess water hit the tub with a satisfying splash, and she watched the fragrant, soapy water as it swirled around the drain.
Her recently-empty stomach lurched anew at the thought of what the future held. She would sell the house—go out West, and then what? Before, her days—her entire life, really—had been laid out in a clear, concise path. All other problems and fears and insecurities aside, she had at least known, more or less, how things were “supposed” to go. But now… She swallowed and gave her hair a final rinse. Now, the future stretched in front of her in an endless, murky sea. She didn’t know what these new, dark waters held; she didn’t even know which direction she was supposed to go from here, and that terrified her.
The last time she had felt so adrift was right after her mother had passed away. At least back then she’d had Lilly and—Kate froze, eyes widening as the full implications of her thoughts hit her. She shut off the water and reached absently for a towel. Back then, she’d had Lilly…and now, she was alone. No, she reflected, thinking of Lindsey, and Olivia…of Lilly, and the rest of the family. She wasn’t alone. Not really. Not exactly. Lilly was out doing her own thing now.
But…that was what was supposed to happen, right? Children grew up. They moved away from home; they spread their wings. Lilly was supposed to go out and live her own life. That had been part of the plan, hadn’t it? To finish raising Lilly.
Kate sucked in a deep breath, inhaling a lungful of thick, steamy air as she wrapped the towel tight around her body, tucking one corner in at her bust, near the crook of her arm. There was no denying that all of this—Lilly’s flying the nest—was a bit sudden. Hell, Kate pressed a freshly scrubbed hand to her temple, “a bit sudden” was an understatement if there ever was one. Lilly hadn’t just flown the nest—she’d leapt out of it, headfirst, and dove for the concrete. Really, all that was left to do now was damage control. So she’d sell the house. She’d follow her little sister—and Chad—to Reno. Kate’s teeth snapped together at the thought of what her first meeting with Lilly’s husband was sure to be like. Maybe—just maybe—she would be able to avoid kneeing him in the groin. But probably not.
On that thought, she threw open the door, and a rush of cold air washed over her skin as she stalked down the hall to her bedroom, very much afraid that she was going to throw up again before this morning was over. So what, she reasoned on a shallow breath as she began to dress, if she needed to throw up, then she’d throw up. It wasn’t like she’d never been sick before. She’d go downstairs, pop an aspirin or two—or three—and fix a pot of coffee. Then, she’d search “real estate offices near Crystal Cove, Florida” on the yellow pages website, and after that, she’d type a letter of resignation to turn in to the hospital tonight. Kate groaned as she pulled a purple cotton t-shirt, worn soft from hundreds of washings, over her head. She
was so not up to going to work tonight. For the first time since she’d arrived in Crystal Cove, she was grateful for her morgue babysitting detail. She could at least spend the night hunched over a desk, in silence. And then, tomorrow…
She paused as she slid her feet into a pair of white Crocs. Tomorrow…what? She would feed the cat, catch a few hours of sleep, and get up for work the next night, and the next, and the next after that? Kill time for the next few weeks until it was time to leave for Nevada? And then what? That was the real problem, Kate realized, hugging her arms around her waist and lingering a moment by the bedroom door. She’d done what she’d set out to do; Kate hung her head. Lilly was eighteen years old. Kate’s visions of drop-kicking Chad and helping her sister obtain a quick divorce evaporated like smoke in the wind.
So things went back to the way they were before. What then? In a few years, Lilly would have been graduating—would still be graduating—and she’d be venturing out on her own. Because, truth be told…her sister may still need some occasional help and guidance now and then, but she’d done her job and finished raising Lilly. That part of her life was over. Trouble was…she’d never given any thought to what she was going to do after.
Chapter Fourteen
One Step Closer
The coffee machine hissed and sputtered, signaling that hope was at hand. Kate inhaled the scent of the strong, fragrant hazelnut brew she’d picked up at Publix the day before, when she’d bought the wine, and she smiled. She poured a cup and carried it over to the kitchen table, where the legal pad and the ballpoint pen were set up and ready to go.
