I say crossly to the letter in my hand, “If I knew what all my thunder and lightning were telling me, I wouldn’t have asked you for advice!”
Maybe Dante was sent to prison for being criminally irritating.
With a sigh of frustration, I slap the letter down on my desktop and stare glumly out the window into the rainy afternoon.
More damn rain. It’s like the weather is in on some evil plot to drive me even nuttier than I already am.
It’s been two weeks since I’ve had contact with Aidan. Every day that passes is drearier and more depressing than the last. I’ve developed a severe case of insomnia to go along with all my other problems, and I still haven’t found a therapist.
The other day when I visited the building where Eddie said Dr. Letterman has his office, there was no Dr. Letterman listed on the directory.
I don’t know why I went to that pothead Eddie for help, anyway. He probably only has a single functioning brain cell left.
Not that I’m in any position to judge. I’ve been drinking so much wine, I should buy stock in the grape industry.
When I hear the sound of laughter, I lift my head and look toward the window. The laughter comes again, bright and bubbly, though I can’t see anyone out in the yard. Curious, I go to the window and peek out.
The little blond boy in the red rain slicker runs across the lawn in front of me.
I gasp and fling myself against the wall, flattening my back against it. My heart pounds. Adrenaline floods my veins, leaving me shaking.
If anyone had told me before this moment that the sight of a cheerful toddler would strike such terror in my soul, I’d have laughed in their face. The guy in the trench coat doesn’t even scare me this much.
It’s not a ghost. He’s too happy to be a ghost. Didn’t Fiona say something about spirits trapped in this dimension being sad?
Panicked, I argue with myself that I’m being ridiculous, but it doesn’t help.
Then I have such a horrifying thought, it stops my pounding heart cold.
Is that the child I miscarried?
Am I being haunted by the spirit of my dead son?
I know it doesn’t make sense. My child hadn’t even been born yet, much less grown to a toddler. But what do I know about ghosts? Maybe they continue to develop into the person they would have been if they’d lived?
But where would they get clothing? Did this kid visit some otherworldly kiddie store to pick out his little rain jacket and yellow boots?
I slap a hand over my eyes and groan. “Stop it, Kayla! That is not a ghost! Now go outside and find his mother!”
The sound of my voice cuts through some of my panic, enough to galvanize me into action. I straighten my shoulders, take a deep breath, and turn back to the window.
The little blond boy stands a few feet away, looking right at me.
We stare at each other through the glass. My heart feels as if it’s about to break my rib cage. It races so fast, I can’t catch my breath.
Why is he so scary?
The boy points at me. He lets out a high, bloodcurdling shriek, his mouth stretched open and his blue eyes wide in terror.
Then he turns and bolts, disappearing from sight.
I stand rooted to the spot, hyperventilating, until anger overtakes me. I shout at the window, “Fuck you, too, kid!”
Immediately, I slap a hand over my mouth. I can’t be that lady who hollers at children on her lawn. We had one of those on our block when I was growing up, and everyone hated her.
I run through the house to the back door. Barging through that, I launch myself off the porch and look around the yard. There’s no sign of the boy. I run left and look around the side of the house, but he’s not there either. So I head in the other direction, my breath steaming out in a white cloud in the cold air.
There’s no sign of him on the other side of the house. He’s not in the front yard when I search it. He’s not hiding in the bushes or running down the street.
He vanished into thin air.
Standing wet and shaking in the driveway, I sense a presence behind me. When I whirl around, I’m alone.
Then I happen to glance up at the second floor.
In the window of my master bedroom, the little blond boy stands staring down at me.
There are no such thing as ghosts. There are no such thing as ghosts. There are no such thing as ghosts.
Rain pelting my upturned face, I shout, “Stay there!”
He backs away from the window and disappears from view.
Gnashing my teeth, I run back inside the house, take the stairs to the second floor two at a time, and storm into the master bedroom.
It’s empty.
I search everywhere, every nook and corner of the house, but that little son of a nutcracker is gone.
When I review the camera feed, it shows nothing but static.
Deeply shaken by the encounter, I go around the house obsessively checking locks, drawing drapes closed, and generally acting as paranoid as I feel. I assume the boy came in through the back door after I went through it, but I can’t come up with an explanation for how he got out. I should’ve run right into him coming down the staircase, but didn’t.
He literally vanished into thin air.
I’d call Jake and ask him to install more cameras on the inside of the house, but considering how badly our last meeting went, I doubt that’s such a good idea.
So I pour myself a vat of wine, lock myself into the bathroom, and draw a bath. Hunkering low in the bubbles, I hold on to the overfilled wineglass with shaking hands and try to pinpoint exactly when it was that I began losing my mind.
Because I can no longer convince myself I have a firm grip on reality. If I’m seriously considering that the ghost of a five-year-old kid is haunting me, I’ve lost it.
When the lights above the vanity flicker three times, I stifle a sob and guzzle the wine, needing Aidan with an ache that feels terminal.
That night, I dream that I’m drowning.
It’s vivid and horrifying. I wake up sweating, with a scream stuck in my throat.
For the next three nights, I have the same dream. By Saturday morning, I’m a wreck. I haven’t been able to work at all. Every little creak of the house scares the bejesus out of me. The burning smell when I run the dryer changes to a stench of something putrid, like sewage.
Only in my heightened nervous state, it smells like rotting flesh.
When I investigate, I can’t find the source of it.
If I turn on the television, it turns itself off. Every gust of wind outside sends a cold draft through the house, making the curtains rustle and whisper. At least I think that’s what’s making that whispering sound, but I’m too scared to go look.
I’m so jumpy and strung out, I scream when a fly lands on my arm.
Desperate for contact, I send Aidan a text.
I miss you.
He doesn’t respond for so long, I think he won’t at all. But then his text comes through with a little chime that has my heart leaping into my throat.
I miss you, too.
He sends a white rabbit emoji along with it. For some strange reason, that brings tears to my eyes.
Can I come over?
This time his response is instant.
You still wearing that ring?
No.
Did you take it off right before you answered me?
Shit. Why does the man have to be so insufferably intelligent?
Please, Aidan. I need to see you. Please.
Sorry, bunny.
I stare at the screen, biting my lips. He doesn’t sound very sorry. Maybe I need to sweeten the offer.
May I please come over…master?
My phone remains silent.
I wonder if I should send him a snap of my booty or boobs, but the thought of taking a series of unflattering nude pictures in desperate search for one good enough to entice a man into allowing me to run to see him leaves me even more depressed than I was before.
How did I get to this point in my life? What the hell has happened to me?
When the doorbell rings and I find the step empty when I open the front door, I decide the only logical thing left to do is get drunk.
If I’m going insane, there’s no reason to do it sober.
“Kayla? Kayla dear, can you hear me?”
I open my eyes to find Fiona bending over me with a concerned expression on her face. It’s morning—apparently, Monday morning—and I’m lying on my back on the living room sofa with a splitting headache and a mouth that tastes like ashes.
“My,” she says, chuckling. “You look a sight. Had a wee bender over the weekend, did you, dear?”
“It was more than wee.” I sit up. The room tilts, and my stomach lurches along with it. I cover my mouth with a hand and produce a loud, unladylike burp.
“Everything all right?”
“Oh, yes, everything is splendiferous. Absolutely top-notch.”
She purses her lips and gives me a disapproving look. “I must say, sarcasm is very unbecoming on you.”
“You’ll have to cut me some slack. I recently realized my brain has gone missing. Even worse, I realized it’s probably been gone for quite a while.”
“There’s not a thing wrong with your brain, my dear. Now, get off that sofa and pull yourself together. I don’t like to see you moping about.”
“I’m not moping,” I mutter, knowing that’s exactly what I’m doing.
When Fiona turns to walk away, I say, “Would it be okay if I asked you for some personal advice?”
Surprised, she turns back to me. “Of course. What is it?”
I exhale and drag my hands through my hair. Leaning over, I prop my forearms on my thighs and stare at the carpet while I gather my thoughts. “When someone says they’re giving you space, but you don’t want the space they’re trying to give, how do you handle that?”
“You mean they’ve closed a door, but you want it to open?”
I nod, liking that imagery.
When I glance up to meet her gaze, hers is soft and sympathetic. She says gently, “My dear girl. You knock.”
Just then, the doorbell rings.
Fiona smiles. “Or you ring the bell. I’ll get it.”
When she turns and walks away, I call after her, “There won’t be anybody there!”
“One never knows,” she says, chuckling as if she’s enjoying some private joke. She leaves the room. A few moments later, she returns, shaking her head.
“Well, you were right. There was nobody there.” She pauses, staring at me meaningfully. “That I could see, anyway.”
I groan and drop my head into my hands. “Okay. You win. We’ll do the séance.”
The doorbell rings again. The television turns itself on, volume thunderous. From the hallway comes the distinct pop of a light bulb exploding in one of the fixtures.
Fiona says somberly, “I think that’s a very good idea.”
