He hissed.
We were off to a great start.
“We’ll have to catch him and get him to the shelter,” Diane said.
“Can’t you keep him?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I’m allergic.”
“Well, don’t you know anyone who might want him?”
She frowned. “I can ask around. You know lesbians and cats—it’s one of those stereotypes that I’ve actually found to be true.”
“Let’s try to find a good home for him rather than drop him off at the shelter. In the meantime, I’ll take care of him.” I’d never had a cat, or any pet at all for that matter, but how hard could it be?
* * *
Why didn’t you pick up the phone, Jax? my sister whispered in my ear.
Then she had her hand around my wrist and was pulling me down, down under the brackish water of the pool. It was dark and deathly cold as I struggled against her. But Lexie was stronger. Lexie was winning. Water filled my nose, my mouth, my lungs, and Declan’s nightmare fish creatures were there: black with sharp teeth in open mouths, long tentacles reaching out, wrapping around me, helping my sister pull me down.
I sat up, gasping for breath.
A dream. A guilt-fed, grief-driven dream.
Forcing myself to take deep breaths, I saw that I was in my summer childhood twin brass bed where I’d fallen asleep exhausted hours before, intending to rest a few minutes, then get started on picking up the mess.
I rubbed at my wrist, sure I could still feel the tight grip of Lexie’s fingers wrapped around it like a manacle.
“You can’t stay here,” Aunt Diane had said, spreading her arms, gesturing to the chaos, her bracelets jingling. “It’s not fit for human habitation. Come to my place. I insist.”
“I want to stay here. This place was a second home to me growing up.” I swallowed my next thought: that I’d always thought it would be my home one day. Until my sister got it all. And now she was gone. “I can start cleaning. I need to be here,” I’d assured Diane. “It was Lexie’s home. If I’m miserable, I can switch to your place tomorrow. Besides, I won’t be alone. I’ve got Pig. We can look after each other.” I’d finally lured the cat out by leaving an open can of tuna on the floor. He gulped it down, eyeing me suspiciously between bites.
“There’s no way I’m leaving you here on your own,” Diane said, looking almost panicked.
“Please,” I said. “It’ll help me start to process everything. It’s what I need to do.”
Diane had relented at last, insisting that I call her if I changed my mind. “Or just get in Lexie’s car and drive over, anytime, even if it’s the middle of the night.”
Now here I was, deeply regretting my decision. The moonlight cast a dim blue glow over the room—the small pine dresser with a mirror above it, the shelves once lined with Nancy Drew books and the treasures Lexie and I found in the woods behind Sparrow Crest: a cut-glass doorknob, a silver fork, broken china, pieces of blue ceramic tile with a flower pattern, a porcelain faucet handle with COLD printed on it. We knew that years ago, before Gram was even born, an old hotel had stood in the very spot where Sparrow Crest now was: the Brandenburg Springs Hotel and Resort. People came from all over by train and car to stay in our little valley, to take in the healing powers of the water at the springs. I found it weird to think about—that something else had existed on the same land before Sparrow Crest, before our family. Gram didn’t like to talk about it, and whenever we asked her about the hotel, she’d shake her head and say, “That’s ancient history.” I remembered showing Gram our treasures, excitedly telling her that they were from the hotel.
“You shouldn’t play back there,” Gram warned. “You don’t want to cut yourself on old metal and end up with lockjaw.”
The bookshelves were empty now. I sat up, listening. The house seemed to be holding its breath. Lexie’s was the room next to mine, our beds pressed against the same wall. We’d go to sleep tapping out goodnight codes, knocking again in the morning to say we were up. Lexie wanted to build a trapdoor in the wall. “Like what priests have for confessing. A secret door for whispering the things we’d never tell anyone else. Not even each other in the light of day.”
I tapped lightly on the wall and listened.
Nothing. No one.
What had I expected?
* * *
Falling asleep again felt impossible. It was odd—being all alone in that big house. I missed my mother fiercely and wished she were still here. She’d been the rock in my life, the picture of clear thinking and sanity. I missed Gram and the way she’d always called us Jacqueline and Alexia; the afternoons we’d spent with her working in the rose garden while she told us the name of each variety: Snow Queen, Old Blush, Apothecary, Queen of Denmark.
And my sister. I missed my sister most of all.
I lay in the dark, listening to the house tick and hum around me. A sink dripped; the sound amplified as it traveled the still house. Outside, something made a high-pitched screech, then banged—once, twice, three times. My heart jackhammered. The sound broke out again. An eerie screech, then a bang. Moving as if underwater, I forced myself out of bed to investigate.
I flipped the light switch. No light. I slowly made my way out of the room, shuffling along with bare feet, my body knowing the way by heart. I felt for the hall switch and flipped it. Again, nothing. I stood at the top of the stairs, holding still in the dark, listening, willing my eyes to adjust. Was the power out? Had Lexie forgotten to pay the bill?
There it was again: squeal, thump; squeal, thump; squeal, thump.
Maybe it’s a banshee, Lexie whispered, trying to scare me. Always insisting ghosts were real.
No, not actual Lexie, the memory of her.
Being back at Sparrow Crest was blurring the lines, bringing the past to life.
What’s the difference, I wondered, between a ghost and a memory?
I reached for the banister, made my way carefully down the curved wooden steps. At the bottom of the stairs, my feet got wet. The puddles I’d noticed when we first entered the slate-floored hall hours ago. But… was there more water here now?
A smell, a terrible, damp, rotting smell filled the hall.
I fought the urge to run back up the stairs, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over my head just as I’d done as a child.
Don’t you hear that? That squish, squish, squish of footsteps? She’s coming for you. Coming for us both.
But I wasn’t a little girl anymore. I was a grown woman. A social worker, for Christ’s sake. I took in a breath, steadied myself.
My eyes adjusted enough to see the cat standing in the hall, back arched and fur raised.
“Hey, Pig,” I said, the sound of my own voice calming me.
The cat looked past me, golden eyes focused on the front door. He let out a hiss.
I kicked at the papers, clothes, the overturned table. Tried the front hall lights, but they were out, too. “Shit.” I stumbled in the dark.
I made my way to the front door, shuffling through the debris to keep from tripping, and looked out the tiny square window: the driveway was empty except for Lexie’s yellow Mustang, which seemed to glow, casting its own pool of light. The yard around it was dark. The only movement was off to the right. The door in the white wooden fence that surrounded the pool was open, swinging in the breeze, the hinge squeaking as it banged against the fence. I let go of the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. It was only the gate.