I hold up five fingers.
“Am I holding up three fingers?”
No.
“One?”
No.
“Five?”
Yes.
I drop my arm. “Am I going crazy?” I whisper to myself.
I don’t know.
“That question wasn’t for you.” I sit on the couch and rub my hands down my face. “Are you alone?”
Yes.
I wait for a while before asking another question. I’m trying to soak up everything that’s happened in the last half hour, but I’m still trying to throw explanations at myself.
No keys are pressed while I sit in silence. My adrenaline has never been this high. I want to wake up Layla and show her what’s happening, but I’m reacting to this like I found a stray dog and not some entirely different . . . realm. Layla said that once. That she thinks there are different realms. Fuck. Maybe she was right.
It makes me want to tell her about this even more, but I’m worried it’ll freak her out. She might want to leave. We’ll have to pack our things and get in the car, and then I’ll never get answers to all the thousands of questions that have formed in the last few minutes. Like what is this thing? Who is this thing?
“Can you show yourself to me?”
No.
“Because you don’t want to?”
No.
“Because you don’t know how to?”
Yes.
I run my hands through my hair and then grip the back of my neck as I walk over to one of the bookshelves that line the walls. I need more proof that this isn’t a prank. It’s not that easy to suspend an entire lifetime of beliefs in one day.
“Pull a book off one of these shelves,” I say. A hacked security camera won’t be able to pull that off.
I stare patiently at the bookshelf in front of me.
Ten very quiet and still seconds go by; then the book I’m focused on slides out of the bookshelf and falls to the floor with a thud. I look at the book in complete disbelief.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out of it.
I pace the room for a few minutes. I think about everything that’s happened up to this point, and I think maybe I’m numb. In disbelief.
“Do you have a name?”
Yes.
“What is it?”
Nothing happens. No keys are pressed. I realize the question can’t be answered using one of the piano keys. I’ve started working out a way words can be spelled out using piano keys when I hear a noise. I look over at my laptop, which is sitting on top of the piano. It’s opening.
My Word document pulls up.
Letters are being typed into the Word document.
W . . . i . . . l . . . l . . . o . . . w . . .
I take a quick step away from the laptop.
I’m extremely uneasy now.
Before, with the piano, I felt like I still had a small sliver of a chance at explaining it away. A faulty piano key. A mouse in the strings. Something.
But after the book, and now this—this is a full-on conversation with . . . nothing. No one is here but me, so that only leaves one explanation.
Ghosts are real.
And this one’s name is Willow.
I stare at the computer for so long the screen goes dark. Then my laptop shuts, all by itself, no wires attached, no explanation—this is insane, good fucking night.
I leave the room.
When I get up to the bedroom, I open the drawer where Layla keeps all her medicine. She has three prescriptions. One is for her anxiety, one is to help her sleep, one is a pain medication.
I take one of each.
THE INTERVIEW
“Why did you walk away when she told you her name?”
I laugh. “Why didn’t I walk away when the stove turned off by itself? Or when the laptop shut on my hands? I don’t know. I was a hard sell, I guess. It’s not easy for a person to just change their entire belief system in the span of half an hour.”
The recorder is still going when he says, “Did anything else happen that night?”
I open my mouth to say no, but both of us look up at the ceiling as soon as we hear a crash. I leave the kitchen and run up the stairs.
Layla is still tied to the bed, but the lamp on the nightstand has been knocked over. She’s looking at me calmly. “Let me go or I’ll break something else.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
She lifts her leg and kicks at the nightstand. It scoots a foot across the floor, and then she kicks it again, knocking it over.
“Help!” she screams. “HELP ME!”
She knows someone is downstairs, and even though she knows someone is in the house, she has no idea he isn’t here to help her escape. “He’s not here to help you, Layla,” I say. “He’s here to help us get answers.”
“I don’t want answers! I want to leave!”
I’ve seen her upset since all of this started, but I’m not sure she’s been this upset. Part of me just wants to cut her loose and let her go, but if I do that, it will only mean trouble for me. She’d go straight to the police. And what would my excuse be? A ghost made me do it?
If they don’t arrest me, they’ll send me to a psychiatric hospital.
I take Layla’s face in my hands. My grip is firm, but she won’t be still, and I need her to look me in the eyes. “Layla. Layla, listen to me.”
Tears are streaming down her cheeks. She’s breathing heavily, inhaling shaky gasps. The whites of her eyes have turned red from all the crying.
“Layla, you know this is out of my control. You know that. You saw the video.” I wipe the tears from her cheeks, but more follow. “Even if I were to untie you, you’d be unable to leave.”
“If I can’t leave, then why do I have to stay tied up?” Her voice is tearful—a guttural ache. “Untie me and let me go downstairs with you. You can tie me to the chair, I don’t care. I just don’t want to be alone up here anymore.”
I want to. But I can’t. I don’t want her to hear everything I’m about to admit to the man downstairs. I know she’s scared, but she’s safe in here. Even if she doesn’t feel like it.
“Okay. I’ll bring you downstairs with me.” Her eyes grow hopeful, but that hope fades when I say, “Soon. I need twenty more minutes, and then I’ll come back up here.” I press a kiss against her forehead. “Twenty minutes. I promise.” I put the nightstand back near the bed. I place the broken lamp on top of it, and then I go back to the kitchen. My feet feel heavier as I descend the stairs. The longer I keep Layla tied up against her will, the guiltier I feel, and the harder it’s going to be for her to forgive me.
Is this even worth it? Are answers for me and for Willow worth what I’m putting Layla through?
“Is she okay?” the man asks when I walk back into the kitchen.
“No, she’s not okay. She’s tied to a bed.” I sit down with a thud and press my face into the palms of my hands. “Let’s just get this over with so I can figure out what to do with her.”
“Does she know why I’m here?”
“No.”
“Does she know anything at all?”
“A little. But she thinks it’s all related to her head injury. The memory loss. She doesn’t know it has nothing to do with her.”
“What does she think about you keeping her locked inside this house?”
“She thinks I’m a monster.”
“Why don’t you just let her leave?”
It’s such a simple question to have so many complicated answers. “Because maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m a monster.”
He nods, almost sympathetically. I don’t know how he can look at me without judgment, but that’s exactly how he’s looking at me right now. Almost like he’s seen this before. “After the incident with the piano, did you speak to Willow again that night?”
I shake my head. “No, I fell asleep. Slept for twelve hours because of the pills I took. When I woke up, Layla decided she wanted another pool d
ay, despite her sunburn. She stayed under the canopy and read a book in the shade. I joined her because I just wanted to stay out of the house. I was uneasy after what had happened the night before. But the whole time we were outside, I was on my phone. Distracted by the cameras, waiting for something else to happen. Speaking to people in the forum.”
“Did you speak to Willow again that day?”
“Chad and Aspen ended up showing up around five o’clock in the afternoon. I didn’t even try to communicate with Willow. I tried to forget it had happened, but Willow made that impossible.”
“How so?”
“She joined us for dinner.”
CHAPTER TEN
“You guys have any plans for your anniversary?” I ask. I’m trying to keep up with the conversation—pretend I’m mentally involved in this dinner. But my mind hasn’t been on dinner at all.
“Just practicing our baby making on our road trip,” Chad says, grinning in Aspen’s direction.
“We are not. I’m still on birth control,” Aspen says.
“That’s why I said practicing,” Chad says. He looks at me. “We took a detour to Hutchinson on our way here today. Ever been to the Salt Mine Museum?”
I take a long swig of my beer and then say, “No.”
“We had sex in the mine,” Chad says, shooting Aspen a grin.
I look at Layla. She’s cringing.
Aspen groans and says, “Please stop talking about our sex life.”
“Yes,” Layla says. “Please.”
I want to beg him to stop, too, but I’m honestly barely even in this conversation. Chad was tolerable when they got here a few hours ago, but that was before eight beers.
“I can’t wait until the honeymoon phase is over,” Aspen mutters. “You’re wearing me out.”
Chad laughs and picks up her hand, kissing the back of it. Aspen seems to melt a little with that action.
Layla is still holding her fork, cringing at Chad.
“How’s the stay been so far?” Aspen asks. “It’s kind of weird seeing this place so empty.”
“It’s been good,” Layla says, seeming relieved by the change of subject. “Having the pool to ourselves is my favorite part, even though I’ll probably start blistering if I don’t stay inside.”
“It’s crazy the place is for sale now,” Aspen says. “How cool would that be to own a bed and breakfast?”
“Sounds like a lot of work,” Layla says.
I sink a little at that reply, wondering if Layla really feels that way now. She cuts a tiny bite of her pizza. It’s a homemade pizza—Aspen cooked it. Layla used to make it, but she hasn’t cooked since her surgery. The crust is thick, and the toppings are an inch high, so it’s hard to eat with your hands. Chad is the only one at the table not eating it with a fork.
“I’d hate to live here,” Chad says. “Do you know how far away the liquor store is? Far. And we’re out of beer.”
Aspen grips the bottle of wine sitting in the center of the table and slides it over to him. “There’s a few of these left,” she suggests.
“I’d rather you not drink all my wine,” Layla says. “There’s a liquor cabinet above the sink.”
Chad perks up at that comment. I wish she wouldn’t have said that. Chad reached his limit about three beers ago, but he stands up and heads straight for the liquor anyway.
Aspen pours herself more wine.
I’m staring at Layla, because she just stiffened in her seat. Sometimes when that happens, it’s because of the anxiety.
I stay focused on her, watching her every movement, hoping she’s not experiencing the onset of a panic attack—but something about how she’s holding herself now is concerning me.
She sets down her fork and picks up her slice of pizza with her hands. She takes a huge bite of it. Then another. She holds the pizza with her right hand while she picks up her wineglass and sips from it.
“This is so good,” she says, her voice on the edge of a moan, like she hasn’t eaten in days. It catches everyone’s attention. She shoves the rest of the pizza in her mouth.
Aspen looks at her like Layla was looking at Chad earlier—with a little bit of disgust. Layla lifts out of her chair and reaches toward the pan of pizza, picking up another slice with her hands.
She plops back down in her seat and stuffs as much of the pizza in her mouth as she can. She’s doing that thing again—eating like her life depends on it. Aspen just continues to stare at her in horror as she shovels half the slice of pizza in her mouth.
“Gross,” Aspen says. “Use your fork.”
Layla pauses and looks at Aspen; then she gives her attention to me. Her eyes are suddenly apologetic. Embarrassed. She takes another quick, huge bite and then downs her entire glass of wine in one go.
As soon as Layla sets down the glass, she hesitates. Then her hand goes to her forehead and she groans, squeezing her eyes shut. “Oh, God. My head hurts.” She massages her forehead and then lowers her hand, opens her eyes, and . . . screams.
The unexpected noise makes all of us jump in our chairs.
Her scream makes Aspen scream. “What is it?” Aspen says, pushing back from the table. “Is it a spider?” She crawls up into her chair. “Where is it?”
Layla is shaking her head but doesn’t say anything. She’s staring at her empty plate of food. She stands up and backs away from the table—a look of sheer terror on her face.
“Get her some water,” I say to Aspen as I stand up. I walk over to Layla, and her back is flat against the wall now, her body trembling. She breathes in and then out very slowly, but still hasn’t taken her eyes off the table.
I place a gentle hand on her cheek and pull her gaze to mine. “Layla, are you okay?”
She nods, but her hands are shaking as she grasps for the glass of water Aspen brings her. She downs it all and then almost drops the glass as she hands it back.
“I don’t feel well,” she says, turning to exit the kitchen.
I follow her up the stairs, and as soon as she gets to our room, she goes straight to the dresser and fumbles with her bottle of pills. Her hands are unsteady, and she spills some of the pills when she gets the lid open.
I bend down and pick them up, then take the bottle from her and put the stray pills back inside. She’s crawling into the bed when I close the dresser drawer.
I sit down next to her, and she’s curled into a fetal position in the center of the mattress. I pull the covers over her, running my hand soothingly through her hair. “What happened down there?”
She shakes her head, dismissing my question. “Nothing. I just don’t feel good.”
“You think you ate too fast?” I suggest.
She rolls over and pulls the covers up to her chin. “I didn’t eat,” she says. Her words come out clipped—full of anger and confusion. I want to ask her what she means by that, but part of me already knows.
She’s having blackouts. Silent seizures, maybe? She’s had one before—in the hospital. But it was just the one, so they decided not to put her on medication for it. I should call her neurologist tomorrow.
I turn off the lamp beside the bed and then kiss her. “I’ll come check on you soon.”
She nods and then pulls the covers over her head.
She’s been sleeping a lot. More than usual. Coupled with the blackouts and the strange behavior—I really do think she needs to see a neurologist.
But I’m also afraid it has nothing to do with her head injury.
I sit by her side for a few minutes, hesitant to go back downstairs. Part of me doesn’t want to leave her alone, but I need to go clean up the kitchen.
The wheels are turning in my mind as I make my way downstairs.
Aspen is in the process of loading the dishwasher when I rejoin them. Chad has face-planted on the table, a glass of some kind of liquor in his hand. He isn’t fully passed out because he’s muttering something unintelligible.
“She okay?” Aspen asks.
I don’t ev
en try to cover for Layla because I’m confused and full of questions. “I don’t know. She says her head hurts.”
“I’m sure she’ll have migraines the rest of her life,” Aspen says. “Side effect of getting shot in the head, unfortunately.”
Aspen would know. She is a nurse, after all. I’m sure she’s seen a lot worse recoveries than what Layla is going through.
Aspen puts the last plate in the dishwasher. “I need to get Chad upstairs. Can you help me?”
I shake Chad until he opens his eyes, and then I pull on his arm and say, “Let’s go to bed, buddy.”
He groans. “I don’t want to go to bed with you, Leeds.” He tries to push me away from him, but I wrap his arm over my shoulders.
“I’m taking you to your wife’s bed.”
He stops pushing me away at that comment. He lifts his head and looks around the room until he finds Aspen on the other side of him. “Am I too drunk to fuck?”
Aspen nods. “Yeah, babe. Way too drunk. Maybe tomorrow.”
He drops his head like he’s disappointed in himself, but we get him out of the chair and to a standing position. He mopes the entire time we help him up to his room. Once we’ve got him tucked into the bed, Aspen walks me to the bedroom door. “We’ll probably be on the road before you wake up. If I don’t see Layla, tell her we had fun.”
“It wasn’t that fun,” I say with a laugh.
Aspen shrugs. “Yeah, I’m trying to be nice. Maybe we can stop back by before you guys leave. It’s not too far from Wichita.”
I tell her good night and leave the room, then check on Layla. I don’t know if she’s asleep yet, but she still has the covers pulled over her head. I leave the door to our bedroom open because I want to be able to hear her if she calls for me. I go downstairs to the Grand Room and take my phone out, then take a seat on the couch.
I watch the video from dinner three times on my security app. Every time, I notice small things that make the entire event seem weirder and weirder. There was a change in her posture. A difference in the way she went from being invested in the conversation to completely ignoring everyone around her. The way she held her head before she screamed. The whole thing was strange.
Layla Page 10
