Except she’s not.
After standing, she crosses to the front window and peers out the drapes. The rain hasn’t begun to let up. She darts her eyes to me and seems to consider her options. “While you wait—I just baked cookies. Would you like one? And something to drink?”
“Sure.”
She strides to the kitchen and hollers, “Milk okay?”
“Great.”
A cupboard opens with a thud and shuts the same way. Glasses clink together; then, like a Stepford wife, she reappears with a plate.
Timid, I take the milk and a single cookie when I want to devour the entire batch. “These look delicious. What kind are they?”
“Homemade.” She grins. “My mother’s favorite—snickerdoodle.”
Tilting my head, I’m unsure what type of cookie this is. It sounds more like one of those designer dog breeds mixed with a poodle I see prancing around the neighborhood like miniature ponies.
“Cinnamon sugar.”
“That’s what smelled so good.” Hurriedly chewing a bite, I decide they’re the best cookies I have ever tasted. My mouth inhales one before I greedily grab another. Focused on chewing the cookie, I swallow it down with the milk.
Quiet looms between us for a moment, the television emitting the only sound.
“I take it you like her recipe?”
“They’re delicious.” My stomach grumbles, and we both laugh. “I guess my stomach agrees.”
“What part of town do you live in?”
“About fifteen minutes from here.” I lick the cinnamon and sugar from my lips as I stare into the flames.
She taps her palms against her legs, as if my time is up. “Do you need a ride to the bus stop?”
“Nah, I just wanted to wait out the storm.”
She mumbles something, but the loud wail of sirens engulfs whatever she said. I freeze for a second, at first assuming it’s a squad car and forgetting that this isn’t my neighborhood.
But our time together is not up, according to the weatherman on television, whose voice has taken on a tone of urgency, and he directs us to seek shelter immediately. A red emergency bulletin flashes across the bottom of the screen, announcing that the tornado watch has been elevated to a warning after a funnel touched down in the vicinity.
Charlotte starts to shake violently, and I glance at her with concern. This sounds like a potential Wizard of Oz scenario, and I don’t know what she’s worried about, when I’m the one stuck with the evil witch. I don’t want to be trapped in a basement with this nutjob any more than I want the roof to cave in on the house.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I don’t like basements.” You and me both, I think.
“It’s okay; it’s just a precaution,” I say, setting down the plate of crumbs on the side table. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. It’ll be over before we know it.”
“I’m going to get a flashlight.” She strides across the room toward the kitchen, and meanwhile I take my own deep breath. Is going down in a basement with Charlotte worse than a potential tornado? Both have the potential to do collateral damage.
After reappearing with a tool kit and a plastic flashlight in hand, she fumbles with a metal lock on what must be the basement door. Turning her head, she looks surprised to see me still frozen in place.
My mouth gapes open. “Why’s it locked?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. It’s lucky I don’t add my next thought, which is creepier yet: Why is it padlocked?
“The door?” Tilting her head, she considers this. “Is that weird? I guess it might be. It’s just . . . there are too many things that can hurt someone down there.” Her hands shake like there’s a motor underneath them, while I’m trying not to lose my shit as I consider all the negatives and none of the positives of going downstairs with Charlotte.
The shrill sound gives me a headache as the wailing increases. Rubbing a hand over my face, I make up my mind that there’s no way in hell I’m following her downstairs.
My eyes dart toward the front door, and the rising panic is coursing through my veins, screaming at me to run.
CHAPTER 4
Charlotte
I open the door, flip on the light switch, and exhale sharply. As I start my descent, the single light bulb flickers off, then on, then goes out entirely.
Halfway down, I see the outline of cardboard boxes and furniture covered by faded sheets, mimicking ghosts. Both remind me of my own haunted past, and I shiver.
I can’t be down here, and I certainly can’t bring the girl down here.
Groaning, I turn on my heel and reappear at the top of the steps. With a shove to the door, I slam it behind me, surprised to see she hasn’t moved an inch. “It’s not safe down there with the lights out. I don’t want you to trip and fall.”
Elle stands eerily still, her body glowing from the dim light of the still-lit candles, making her resemble one of those figures in a wax museum.
She stutters, “Um, d-do you mind if I just take cover in the bathroom? I didn’t see any windows in there.”
“Of course. It’s probably the best place on the first floor. Even the laundry room has windows in it.” As we enter the small space, the only glow comes from the flashlight I prop on the counter. I settle my back against the closed door as Elle tucks herself into the corner by the toilet. The wind has picked up, and between the scratch of trees scraping the exterior and the blare of the weather alarm, the noise would drown us out if we spoke. So we remain silent.
My nerves are shot as I aim to center myself. Hyperventilation in this small space, even a room in my own house, terrifies me. The tile floor is cool underneath my fingernails as I rub a small circle on it to keep myself grounded. My hands make contact with the striped wallpaper, the grainy texture a stark contrast to the smooth floor. Another exercise my therapist instructed me to do to regain control.
But I am in control, Doctor, I most certainly am! I shriek in my mind.
I also like to home in on the people in my surroundings, in this case the stranger across from me.
Focused on Elle, I watch as she chews a fingernail. “Nervous habit?”
Bewildered, she shoves her hands into the pockets of her hoodie, I notice. “Yeah, I guess.” She shrugs. “I forget I’m doing it.”
“I used to suck my thumb.” I tap my foot anxiously against the tile floor.
“As a toddler? I think everyone did that.” Elle reaches into the back pocket of her jeans, fumbling for something. She pulls out a cell phone. “I think I’m going to call a ride.”
“In this weather? It’s not safe.”
She turns on the flashlight feature of her phone by tapping a few buttons, which then bathes the room in more light. Staring at me, she asks, “Aren’t you worried about your husband?”
“Noah had to go to Texas.” I smack a hand to my forehead. Idiot. I rock back and forth against the wall. I shouldn’t tell this girl anything personal. She could rob me or tell a group of her friends I’m alone, and they could case my house. That same scenario happened on an episode of Dateline recently. It’s hard being companionless during the week. Until this instant, it hasn’t hit me how much I miss having someone to confide in. The telephone doesn’t offer the same sentiments or affection.