Red Heather Page 10

  “How did you get in here?” I demanded weakly, though my words had felt much more stable before they’d surfaced. I was still clinging to the hope—odd as it was—that whoever this was would, in fact, be human. A burglar. Fightable. “Get out and I won’t call the police.”

  The figure remained motionless, and I had a painful flashback from a few nights before. I don’t think he’s not as tall as the man from the street. Something’s different, I realized, although I wasn’t sure how that was supposed to be reassuring.

  I drew in a shuddering breath. “Look, I don’t know what you want, but you have about five seconds to—” I’d shined the light down the hallway then, but the instant the white light washed out the hallway, there was nothing there.

  My blood ran cold and my words died with the silhouette. I felt my breath shorten in my mouth, drying my teeth. My tongue felt thick and alien. I could taste bile again. My nerves were positively fried. No. There’s no way—

  I didn't know how to finish my own thought. I slipped my tongue over my lips and focused on holding the flashlight steady, the beam still trained down the hallway. I briefly glanced toward the living room and then the stairs just in case he—it?—had somehow slipped away. At this point, I was fully aware that I was just lying to myself about this potentially being a human threat.

  I released a buried sigh as I took one last look down the empty hall and then shut off the flashlight. As soon as the beam died, Mirror Man reappeared not six feet in front of me.

  I cried out and dropped the flashlight, which clattered and rolled dully in a circle. Stumbling backward, I nearly tripped as I watched the figure move deliberately forward, a few of the shadows falling away as it—as he—left the confines of the hall.

  I couldn’t breathe. Every time I drew a breath, it filled my mouth and clogged, escaping before it served its purpose. I was hyperventilating. I was suffocating from sheer panic. And the more I panicked, the smaller my retreating steps became. Mirror Man advanced slowly, towering over me as the distance closed. His features seared themselves again into my brain. Our faces were suddenly just inches apart. I felt his breath on my eyes.

  I took one frantic, instinctive step backward and triggered the sensor near the living room doorway. The camera flash erupted and blinded me. I screwed my eyes shut and bursts of color danced behind my eyelids. I was terrified to open them again and simultaneously terrified to keep them closed.

  I opened them quickly—I had to—and discovered that I was once again perceivably alone. I whirled around to dark, empty rooms, and with a low whirr, the lights came back on.

  My chest constricted. I fell to my knees near the front door, tears streaming from my eyes and hitting my jeans. I hugged myself tightly and forced air in, my breathing loud in the otherwise silent house. Well, silent until my phone buzzed at least.

  I yelped and then groaned when I realized what the sound was, pulling it from my pocket and looking at the notifications. It was a single text from Estelle. I opened the app and looked at her message, which read only, “I found that pic. Hope ur not dead. —E.”

  I snorted faintly and waited until the attached download came through, which was a photo of a photo. I zoomed in and saw what she’d spoken of in the second-floor window that looked out on the front yard from my bedroom. A white face very much like the one I’d just seen stood out against the shadows behind it.

  Drawing in a breath, I briefly considered seeing if she’d take me in for the night before shaking my head and glancing at the camera. I’ll check it tomorrow when I’m not halfway through a heart attack.

  That decision lasted approximately four seconds before I was storming to the living room doorway and taking down the camera. I entered the playback and looked at the last photo taken. Aside from me looking horrified at something that wasn’t there, the frame was empty.

  Refusing to go upstairs, I bitterly put the camera back and proceeded to turn on all the lights in the kitchen and living room in an effort to preserve my feeble sense of control over the situation. I instead decided to hunker down at the dining table over the latest Patch manuscript, reading and sketching late into the night and jumping at just about every sound that issued from the old, rickety house.

  Chapter 10

  I woke up the next morning with my face on my sketchbook.

  It started out as a slow progression to consciousness and then, as soon as I remembered the events of last night, I jerked upright and whirled around the dining area. Sunlight poured in from the windows and back porch doors and, in the daylight, the interior didn’t seem nearly so threatening.

  I carefully rolled my head and felt a series of small pops issue from my neck, wincing as stiff muscles worked back to life. I brushed a hand against my jaw and withdrew faintly gray fingertips, scoffing at the state of my skin. Not to mention my sketch. I looked down at it and noted that the lines were still there, even if they were muddled.

  Leaning back to peer into the living room and then past it to the entryway, I stared at the spot where I’d come face-to-face with…something. Someone.

  I looked down at my sketchbook again and flipped back two or three pages to the second sketch I’d done last night while the figure—ghost. Get used to saying ghost—was still vivid in my mind. The depiction was raw and not yet warped by time or repetition of memory.

  He’d been the only one I’d seen in the house after being grabbed in the basement. Logic led me to believe he’d been the one to do it, but he hadn’t exactly attacked me upstairs, so I found myself hesitating to accept my own conjectures. What Bethaline had told me about him also directly rivaled the type of being that would attack someone the way I’d been attacked.

  I stared down at the image as a chill wove down my spine. What are you?

  A ghost, I persisted in response to my own question. I was tired of telling myself I didn’t believe in ghosts.

  The image in the camera resurfaced in my thoughts—he didn’t show up on film. I still had no proof except for my own account of what had happened and the face in Estelle’s photograph, which someone could easily blame on a trick of the light. Even the burn mark on my arm was gone as of this morning. At the same time, I wasn’t sure what I would do once I actually had solid proof. Track down a moderately skilled exorcist, I supposed.

  I gritted my teeth. No. There has to be something.

  Hastening through the house with a vengeance, I gathered up the camcorders and turned on my laptop, setting everything on the coffee table and eying the technology with something that teetered between fear and finality. Dread. That was the word for it.

  Inhaling deeply, I put in my password and hooked the USB connector into the side of the computer. I picked one of the camcorders at random to start with and plugged it in. It took a moment for my laptop to connect to it—once it did, I opened up the most recent file and the video began to load.

  My living room opened up in front of me on the screen. With a grimace, I tapped the space bar and watched the first two minutes in real time with bated breath, but the only points of interest were the rare times I crossed through to get to the kitchen or sat down to watch TV.

  I fast-forwarded through the next hour’s worth of footage before giving up and shutting off the camcorder. The ghost man hadn’t even shown up on the video and my encounter in the hallway had looked like a psychotic break. Equal parts relieved and disappointed, I hooked up the next camcorder, frowning as the upstairs hallway appeared on screen this time. I went ahead and set it to play at double the capture speed, watching for any oddities.

  The frame remained constant until something initially indiscernible changed. I couldn’t say what it was, but the scene had altered in some subtle way. It only began to make sense when I ran the video back some to see if I could pick up on anything and realized my sound was on. I tapped the volume up a few clicks.

  Skritch. Skritch. Skritch.

  My stomach dropped into my knees. After the scratching stopped, I paused the video and zoome
d in—a trail of scratches had formed on the baseboards just past the stairs. I swallowed noisily and continued to watch as I walked up the stairs the night before, right past the scratch marks, and went to my bedroom to gather up my sketchbook and pencils before going back downstairs. Sunlight slowly filled the hall as the footage progressed into this morning. I watched myself walk up to the lens to retrieve the camcorder and the video ended there.

  I set the second camcorder aside and looked to the third and final one on the coffee table, although I couldn’t help but feel like I was forgetting something. I was battling a lump in my throat as I hooked up the device I'd retrieved from my bedroom bookshelf, more of that familiar dread thickening in my gut.

  The camcorder synced up with my laptop and the video loaded, waiting for my go-ahead. My teeth sunk into my lower lip and worried off the loose skin inside, just another thing I did that was highly counterintuitive—the unevenness that resulted always bothered me. Unknowns bothered me more.

  I closed my eyes and drew in a breath. Just as I was about to open my eyes, a solid thunk came from behind me.

  I jumped and initially looked at the computer for an origin. However, the video was still paused, and the noise had come from behind me anyway. I turned around and spotted a little orange dot wobbling on the wall. My brows knitted together. What the hell is happening now?

  Setting my laptop down on the coffee table, I stood and maneuvered around the couch to investigate, but as I crept closer and my vantage point changed, the “dot” changed as well. It was not a dot at all, but elongated and familiar.

  It was my boxcutter.

  The contents of my stomach stirred as I drew closer and looked at the tab—the razor blade’s full length was embedded into the wall. My breath hitched and I whirled when a smashing sound issued from the TV stand. The small analog clock sitting next to the DVD player was facedown on the floor, tiny shards of glass scattered around it where the face had fallen out.

  Stop calling this coincidence, I demanded of my brain as it tried to rationalize its way out of the truth. Recognize it for what it is and protect yourself.

  I heard a groan to my right and dodged just before my bookshelf collapsed on top of me. It smashed against the floor instead. The video had started on my laptop screen, and I looked to it just as a too-solid shadow appeared in the previously empty frame.

  I moved cautiously toward the back of the couch, my hands resting upon it as I watched the shadow solidify further and then fade in and out on-screen, the edges flickering.

  And then it turned and looked at me.

  No. The camera. It looked at the camera, my brain deflected desperately even as adrenaline started to filter into my bloodstream. But no, its eyes stood out on its face, dark sockets blacker than the rest. And it was definitely looking at me.

  It started to approach the screen. I shook my head, my nails biting into the couch stitching. “No,” I whispered softly, battling denial and losing. Something crashed in the kitchen as the face of the specter came within a breath of the lens, filling my laptop screen.

  Socketed eyes stared out. The image no longer seemed two-dimensional. Not Mirror Man and not the man from the road. This face was more slender with pronounced cheekbones and a more pointed chin. It almost looked feminine.

  My gaze shifted to the laptop keyboard as it seemed to become more defined in my peripheral vision—however, it soon became apparent that the outline hadn’t suddenly darkened. Something was seeping from the keys.

  Black bile pooled beneath the plastic and flooded the keys, spilling over onto the coffee table and thickly dripping like saliva onto the rug. It bubbled wetly, the faceless figure rigid in the frame.

  Another crash sounded from upstairs.

  From the kitchen.

  To my left by the door.

  I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I stepped back, felt something substantial hit my back, and had nothing to scream with. I choked instead and turned around. Mirror Man—the pale figure from the hallway, Estelle’s photograph, and the mantel mirror—was standing behind me and staring down at me impassively.

  I nearly fell over, but somehow kept my feet beneath me, catching my weight on the back of the couch. I was too terrified to turn around and check to see if whatever was coming out of the computer was still coming. Fight-or-flight kicked in and gave me the strength to speak.

  “Please,” I rasped shakily, holding out a defensive hand as the figure continued to stare me down. In broad daylight no less. So much for scary shit only happening after dark. “What do you want?”

  He just stared. An immeasurable moment later, he advanced one step.

  Tears stung my eyes as my heart threatened to crack through my ribs. “Why are you doing this?!” I shouted, edging toward anger.

  Unexpectedly, he stopped. And then he looked at me like I was overreacting. It was such a human thing to do, I almost faltered. Instead, I decided he was toying with me. “I don’t know what you want or who you are or why you’ve been plaguing my life like this, but leave me alone!”

  “‘Plaguing your life’?” he repeated dubiously, nuances of an old English accent laced into his voice.

  …He can talk. And he speaks English.

  I floundered for words. “I… Well, what would you call this, then?!” I demanded hysterically, gesturing toward my computer and broken bookshelf.

  He narrowed his eyes at me, which made me fear again for my life until he glanced at the computer behind me, and then at the clock, and then at one of my paintings as it fell off the wall. “Oh,” he finally murmured.

  I was at an utter loss.

  He looked back down at me and seemed to realize he hadn’t said anything else. “That’s not me. Your house is haunted.”

  Every window, every lightbulb, every glass element of 1 Red Heather Road shattered at once.

  Part Two

  She wouldn’t stop screaming. They never stop screaming.

  If they had stopped, maybe I could have stopped too.

  —from Connor Price’s suicide note

  Chapter 11

  I’ve found something I’m even more suspicious of than moving trucks. In fact, suspicious doesn’t begin to cover it.

  I was rigid. My shoulders actually hurt from sitting the way I was, curled into a dining chair, mug painfully clutched between sweaty palms. Fingers tight and contorted because I was fairly sure I’d drop the damn mug if something unexpected happened, break said mug, and spill coffee all over myself.

  Again.

  The dickhead sitting across from me was the epitome of calm, as always. I’ve started to think that he does it on purpose—emphasizes the calm just to piss me off. Because I’m never calm anymore. Far from it.

  “You know what acts like that?” I’d demanded earlier while slamming the coffeepot onto its base with a shaking hand.

  “What acts like what?” he’d asked in a bored drawl. Probably because it was Day Three of this and I was still reacting terribly every time he popped out of thin air, said a word to me without my initiation, or was doing something normal like lounging on the sofa. My sofa. In my house. Though I’d toss it at the first taker at this point, were any knocking.

  “Predators,” I’d told him, wagging my spoon at him. Some coffee had flown off the utensil and passed right through him to hit the counter and make a mess, which made me even angrier.

  He’d cocked a brow in amusement. “Predators,” he’d repeated dubiously.

  “Yes, predators.” I’d stirred creamer into my coffee and taste-tested it before making a face and dumping in another cap’s worth. “And you know why?”

  “Please. Enlighten me, Miriam.”

  You absolute ass. “Now, how the hell do you know my full name?”

  “It’s on your driver’s license.”

  “You went through my purse?” I’d murmured in disbelief.

  “I got curious,” he’d murmured ambivalently. I’d gritted my teeth and took my coffee to the dining t
able. “Also what else would ‘Miri’ stand for? I thought you were going to educate me on predatory etiquette.”

  He’s actually mocking me, I’d realized miserably. “Go away.”

  I’d heard a chair skid and looked over. He was pulling my chair out for me, trying to keep a smirk off his face and failing. “But I live here.”

  “I live here.”

  “I’ve lived here longer.”

  “You’re not living here at all!” I’d half-shouted.

  “Low blow. Say you’re sorry,” he’d admonished me.

  “You’re so lucky you’re already dead,” I’d griped as I jerked my chair out of his grasp and sat down. He disappeared and reappeared in the seat across from me, staring at me. “What?”

  “That just smells good.”

  “Well…” I’d faltered briefly. “Like don’t get comfortable or anything, but you can get yourself some.”

  He’d given me a you’re-so-stupid look, which I was beginning to realize was one of his defaults. “Are you going to mop up after I’ve had it, too?”

  “You can clearly make yourself corporeal enough to pull out a chair, so you can clean up after yourself, too.”

  Jonah had finally laughed, although it was an exasperated sound. We were now in the aftermath of that exchange, and I was having absolutely none of it. This was insane. Insane.

  At last, he broke his silence. “So, are you—“

  “Predators act like that because of mirroring,” I shot at him.

  His lips pursed minutely as he tried not to smirk again. “Mirroring?” he repeated politely.

  “Don’t bullshit me.”

  “What?”

  “You’re educated enough to know what mirroring is.”

  “Oh, you can tell I’m educated,” he noted.

  “I can also tell you’re bullshitting me.”

  He sighed in defeat. “I’m assuming you mean that by acting calm, a predator can coerce its prey into mirroring that state, making it easier to kill, am I correct?”