“Your grandma was a freak,” Daya announces before proceeding to hold up old, dusty lingerie. I balk, perturbed by the sight in front of me. My idiot friend is holding the sides of the lacy underwear and flapping her tongue provocatively. Or what’s supposed to be provocative.
I’m far more disturbed than anything right about now.
“Please, stop.”
She rolls her eyes to the back of her head dramatically, mimicking an orgasm, which ends up looking more like an exorcism to me.
“You’re being entirely inappropriate right now. What if my Nana can see you?”
That sets her straight. The panties drop, and so does her expression.
“You think she’s a ghost?” she asks, her wide eyes searching the house like an apparition of Nana is about to play peek-a-boo with her. I roll my eyes. Nana probably would if she could, too.
“Nana loved this house. I wouldn’t be surprised if she stayed.” I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly. “I’ve seen apparitions, and a lot of unexplainable shit happen.”
“You really know how to sober a bitch up, you know that?” she complains, throwing the lingerie in the trash bin a tad aggressively. I smile, pleased by her assessment. Whatever gets her to stop waving my grandmother’s crusty underwear in my face.
“I’ll go make us another drink,” I placate, heaving up a massive trash bag and hefting it over my shoulder. I’m not proud of the huff of breath that shoots from my lungs or the immediate sweat I break out into.
I really need to stop drinking and work out more.
I’ll make it a new year’s resolution. It’s pretty much a given that I’ll try for a week and give up, promising to try again next year. It happens every time.
“Make it extra strong. I’m going to need it now that I feel like there are demons watching me.” I roll my eyes again.
“Just do a little striptease. That’ll scare ‘em away,” I deadpan. A whoosh of air next to my ear sends my hair dancing, and a second later, a roll of duct tape hits the wall in front of me. I leave the room cackling, the sound of Daya’s cursing following me out of the room.
She knows damn well that she’s beautiful, which is why I tend to tease her about being the opposite. Someone’s gotta humble the sexy bitch every once in a while. She’ll get too big for this Earth if I don’t.
I dump the trash bag by the front door and make my way into the kitchen. I grab pineapple juice from the fridge and turn towards the island to start making more drinks.
I draw short. My lungs constrict and ice flows into my veins, my blood flaking into ice chips.
On the island sits an empty whiskey glass with another single red rose next to it. Only a drop of my grandfather’s whiskey remains.
The glass wasn’t here before. Neither Daya nor I have left the second floor for the past hour, both waist-deep in old people things.
I circle the duo, as if they’re a slumbering python and could snap and bite me at any moment.
My heart thunders in my ears as I tentatively reach out and grab the glass, inspecting it as if it’s a Magic 8 Ball and going to reveal the person who drank out of it.
Clearly, no one is in this kitchen with me. I can see the front door from where I’m standing. Yet, my eyes comb through the entire expanse of the kitchen and living room, looking for the person who snuck into my house, grabbed a glass and a bottle of whiskey, and proceeded to have a drink. While my best friend and I were upstairs, none the wiser to the danger lurking below us.
I hadn’t heard anyone come in. Not a single sound.
Angrily, I storm towards the front door and twist the handle. Locked. Just as it always fucking is. Needlessly, it seems, since a locked house isn’t enough to keep a creep out.
“Where’s my drink, bitch? I’m hearing whispers and shit,” Daya calls loudly from the second floor.
“Coming!” I shout back, my voice breaking.
I walk back into the kitchen, still searching as if there’s a wormhole to another universe and the weirdo is going to pop out at any moment.
There’s an entryway on the right side of the kitchen that connects to the hallway on the other side of the stairwell. Darkness spills from the depths of that entrance. The person could be in that hallway, lurking just out of sight. Or hiding in one of the bedrooms even, waiting for me to pass by.
Another surge of adrenaline rushes through my bloodstream. I could be one of those dumb bitches you see in slasher flicks who go investigate that you want to yell and scream at for being stupid.
Do I really want to greet possible death that way? The stupid girl who couldn’t just run out of the house or call for help? Or am I going to be intimidated by some asshole who thinks they can come into my home whenever they please? Drink my grandfather’s whiskey. And leave evidence as if they couldn’t care less if they’re caught.
It makes me wonder—would they even bother hiding? They obviously have a way into the house undetected. What would be the point in hiding out in a bedroom or a dark hallway? They could easily sneak up on me at any point. Come and go as they wish.
That knowledge makes me viscerally angry, and equally helpless. What good would changing the locks do when they’re not a hindrance in the first place?
Sucking in a deep breath, I decide to play the dumb bitch role. Grabbing a knife, I search through the entire house, keeping silent and my footsteps light. I don’t want to freak Daya out right now if I don’t need to.
When I find nothing, I make my way back into the kitchen, grab the rose, rip the petals from the stem, and drop them into the empty glass.
Part of me almost hopes they come back so that they can see my little masterpiece.
“Not gonna lie, I’m scared for you,” Daya admits, lingering in front of the door. She spent the entirety of the day cleaning out the house with me. I rented a dumpster, and we loaded the sucker up until neither of us could lift our arms.
Ten hours and several trips to Goodwill later, we finished cleaning out the manor. My grandparents were never hoarders, but it’s easy to accumulate trinkets and items you think you’ll need but never do.
After Nana died, my mom went through the entire house and either sold or donated most of the things in here. Otherwise, it could’ve taken weeks, if not months.
“Don’t be, I’ll be fine,” I say.
It took me the better part of the day, but after downing a few more mixed drinks, I got up enough courage to tell Daya about the whiskey glass. It would be wrong to hide that someone came into my house while she was in it. It wouldn’t be fair not to give her the option to leave.
She freaked, of course, and then spent the rest of the day trying to convince me to stay at her place. I won’t budge. I’m tired of people attempting to run me out of this house. First my parents, namely my mother, and now some sick fucker who gets off on being a creep.
I’m scared, but I’m also stupid.
So, I’m not leaving.
Honestly, I was surprised Daya stuck it out in the manor. Her eyes were shifty, and she probably said the phrase what was that noise? a few thousand times.
But we haven’t had an incident since.
Now she lingers at my door, refusing to leave me here alone.
“Let me stay with you,” she says again for the millionth time.
“No. I’m not putting you in danger.”
She snaps her fingers at me, anger flashing in her green eyes. “See, that right there. That’s a fucking problem. If you consider me in danger if I stayed here, then what does that make you?” I open my mouth to answer, but she cuts me off. “In danger! That makes you in danger too, Addie. Why would you stay here?”
I sigh and rub my hand down my face, growing frustrated. It’s not Daya’s fault. I’d be freaking the hell out and questioning her sanity too if roles were reversed.
But I refuse to run. I can’t explain it, but it feels like I’m letting them win. I’ve only been back in Parsons Manor for a week, and already I’m being pushed out of it.
I can’t explain why I have the need to stick it out. Test this mystery person. Challenge them and show them I’m not scared of them.
Though that’s a big fat fucking lie. I’m absolutely terrified. However, I’m just as stubborn. And as already established—stupid, too. But I can’t find it in me to care right now.
Ask me later when they’re standing over my bed watching me sleep, I’ll feel differently, I’m sure.
“I’ll be fine, Daya. I promise. I’m sleeping with a butcher knife under my pillow. I’ll barricade myself in the bedroom if I must. Who even knows if they’ll come back?”
My argument is weak, but I suppose I’m not even really trying at this point. I’m not fucking leaving.
Why is it that being in public places and social settings make me want to light myself on fire, but when someone breaks into my house, I feel brave enough to stay?
It doesn’t make sense in my head, either.
“I don’t feel okay leaving you here. If you die, the rest of my life will be ruined. I’ll live on in misery, plagued by the what if questions.” With all the drama she learned from theater, she looks up to the ceiling and puts a contemplative finger on her chin. “Would she still be alive if I had just dragged the bitch out of the house by her hair?” she wonders aloud in a whimsical voice, mocking her possible future self and me.
I frown. I’d rather not be dragged out by my hair. It took me a long time to grow it out.
“If they come back, I’ll call the police immediately.”
Exasperatedly, she drops her hand and rolls her eyes, her mannerisms saturated with sass. She’s angry with me.
Understandably so.
“If you die, I’m going to be so pissed at you, Addie.”
I give her a weak smile.
“I’m not going to die.”
I hope.
She growls, grabs my hand roughly, and pulls me into a fierce hug. She’s letting me go, and all I can feel is immense relief tinged with a little regret.
“Call me if they come back.”
“I will,” I lie. She leaves without another word, slamming the door behind her.
I heave out a breath, grab a knife from the drawer, and tiredly make my way into the bathroom. I need a long, hot shower, and if the creep chooses now to interrupt me, I’ll be happy to stab them for it.
