After I played the video, Layla was terrified and confused and became even more combative toward me. It’s been a day and a half since I showed her the video, and she’s still upstairs screaming. Her voice is hoarse now. She’ll go through small bursts of hysterics, then she’ll be angry, then she’s too exhausted to feel anything at all. Every hour, she moves through the entire spectrum of emotions.
Willow took over her body long enough to make sure Layla was getting food, but we aren’t sure when the man is going to show up. He indicated he was on his way, but from where? It’s almost dark out now, and I’ve received no messages from him since the one he sent yesterday. Every minute that passes is another minute I feel terrible for torturing Layla the way that I am.
I walk upstairs to go keep her company. I’ve been sitting with her periodically, trying to reassure her. I feel like if she can see that I’m calm, then maybe it’ll help her to not feel so afraid. When I showed her the video yesterday, she just kept saying, “That’s not me, that’s not me, that’s not me.”
I didn’t want to put her through more agony, so I didn’t force her to watch it again. It took me days to become open to the possibility of Willow.
I can’t expect Layla to accept it immediately, especially while being tied to a bed and held against her will.
When I open the door, she stops yelling. She keeps her eyes trained on me as I walk to the bed. She flinches as if I’m going to do something to her.
I sit down in the chair next to the bed and brush the hair from her eyes. “I am not going to hurt you. I’m trying to help you.”
Her eyes are swollen from the toll the crying has taken on her. “If that’s true, then let’s leave,” she pleads.
“When?”
“Willow doesn’t want us to leave until I help her talk to a guy about her situation. I’m hoping he’ll be here tonight.”
“Willow wants to talk to him?”
I nod.
Layla laughs, but it’s kind of a frightening sound considering the situation. “Willow,” she whispers. “Willow. I called myself Willow in that video.” She cuts her eyes to mine. “Did you drug me?”
“No. Willow is a spirit trapped in this house who sometimes uses your body to communicate.”
“A spirit.” She says it flatly, as if I’ve lost my mind.
“You saw the video, Layla. There’s no other way to explain what you saw.”
“I saw a video in which you drugged me and forced me to say things I don’t remember saying.”
I sigh and lean back in the chair. “I wouldn’t do that to you.” I say that, but at this point, I’m not sure it’s something that’s beyond my integrity.
I’m not sure I even have a shred of integrity left, to be honest.
“If you let me go, I won’t tell anyone,” she says. “I promise. I won’t go to the police. I just want to leave. I won’t even use the car, I’ll walk.”
“I’m not going to keep you tied up forever. As soon as the man gets here and does what he needs to do, I’ll let you go.”
Her face hardens, and she looks away from me.
A light shines across the wall, pulling both of our attentions toward the bedroom window. The curtain is closed, so I walk to the window and push it aside.
There’s a man climbing out of a white pickup truck. He’s a large man
. . . tall, not wide, with a bushy beard. There’s a hat on his head—some sort of cap that seems to match the logo on his work truck. He tosses the cap into the pickup before running a hand through his hair and looking up at the house. He sees me in the window.
He nods once, then starts heading for the front door.
“Help!” Layla’s voice is desperate and loud. So loud.
“Please be quiet.” I rush over to the bed and cover her mouth with my hand. “The quieter you are, the faster he can help. I need you to promise me you’ll be quiet.”
She’s still screaming against my hand. I look around the room for the tape I brought up with the rope yesterday. I didn’t want to do this, but I’m going to have to. I can’t have a conversation with this man downstairs while Layla is screaming her head off upstairs. I tear off two pieces of tape and cover her mouth with both pieces.
I hold her face gently in my hands. “I am so sorry, Layla.” I kiss her on her forehead and then leave the room.
The doorbell rings just as I reach the bottom of the stairwell.
I open the door, not sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this guy. He’s in his late thirties, early forties. He’s wearing a Jiffy Lube shirt, and he smells like motor oil.
“Sorry about the smell,” he says, waving at himself. “It’s the only body I could find when I got into town.”
It’s the only . . . what?
He pushes the door open and squeezes between me and the door. He chuckles at the expression on my face. “You thought I was like you?” He looks around the foyer and into the Grand Room. “Nice place. I can see the appeal.”
I close the door and lock it. “You’re like Willow?”
The man turns to me and nods, but then his attention is pulled to the top of the stairs. Layla is beating the headboard against the wall. There’s no denying her muffled screams. We can hear them clearly, even from down here. “Who is that?”
“My girlfriend. Layla.”
“Why is she making all that noise?”
“I had to tie her to the bed.”
The man raises an eyebrow. “Is she gonna be an issue?”
I shake my head. “No. She’s just upset with me, but I don’t need you to help with her. I need you to help with Willow.”
“Where is Willow?”
“She’s here. Layla needs to rest, though. I don’t want to use her yet, so I’ll answer whatever questions I can until you need to ask Willow specific questions.”
The man walks to the kitchen table and sets a briefcase down. He opens it and pulls out a tape recorder.
I wasn’t aware everything I would be telling him would be recorded.
I have my girlfriend tied to a bed upstairs, and the only thing I know about this man is that his username is UncoverInc. Now he’s about to record everything I’m about to admit to?
“How do I know I can trust you?” I ask him, eyeing the recorder.
The man glances up at me. “You don’t have any other choice, do you?”
