Chapter
Twelve
When I return to my room there’s a pile of wet clothes on the bathroom floor, and the shower is running, steam billowing across the ceiling. I shut off the faucet, taking in the chaos. The entire contents of my suitcase are soaked, every piece of clothing drenched and tangled in a heap, topped with my red thong rolled into a ball like a cherry on top. It was probably Lyle, part of the haunting good time we’re supposed to be having. It could have been Agatha too, sneaking up here while we were dutifully carving pumpkins downstairs, listening to the strange creaking noises this old place makes.
I notice something else—a set of wet footprints, small and delicate, leading away from the pile. They trail across the dark marble floor into the bedroom, crossing the carpet and stopping at the open closet. The empty, yawning darkness of it makes my scalp prickle.
Maybe itwasn’tLyle or Agatha. Maybe itwassomething else. How else would I know about Marissa’s clothes? Was it me—high as hell—orsomething else?
I think it might be something else.Come on, Tori, it’s all in good fun, none of this is real.
While elbow-deep in pumpkin innards, I got told I’ve always had an overactive imagination after I mentioned some of the strange things happening here. Maybe they’re right. Maybe this is all in my head—just like my so-called relationship with Jonathan. It’s hard to trust yourself when everyone is always telling you you’re wrong.
I pull out my phone from my back pocket and take a few pictures. By the time I bring someone back here to see this, it’ll be gone. Wiped clean.
From somewhere in the hallway comes a hollow clunk, like a door slamming shut, followed by the sound of footsteps—heavy, running, and then fists pounding on walls. I try to ignore it.
I wash my hands and arms in the sink, scraping off the stringy pumpkin fibers and seeds caked on my skin. As I rinse, the air inside the bathroom shifts, and a cold, heavy weight settles over me. It’s dense, pressing. I feel it first on my shoulders, a subtle prickling sensation that crawls across my skin like icy fingers, then the sharp bite of it on my neck, the skittering of it down along my spine.
The lights flicker. Buzz.
I turn off the faucet, let my hand drip at my sides. Slowly, I lift my gaze to the mirror, still foggy from the shower. Words are etched in the condensation. Hot sparks of adrenaline shoot across my chest, a knot of dread tightening in my stomach.
"Help me."
Did someone write something before I came in here? Or is someone in here with me now? Or is it something else? The letters are crude, childlike, and within them, a small reflection takes shape—a face, eyes staring back at me.
Long, beautiful flowing hair. Pale white skin. Liliana.
She’s standing right behind me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing down a scream. I’m scaring myself, imagining things that aren’t here. I’ve been drinking, I remind myself. Always drinking.
I take a deep breath, pretending nothing is wrong, trying to convince myself there’s no reason to panic—that nothing is here, tilting my world on its axis. I wipe my hands on a towel, ignoring the chill that’s seeping into my back, burrowing deep into my vertebrae, rooting itself in like an infection.
I force myself to turn around, bracing for whatever I might see. But there’s nothing. The space behind me is empty. My skin prickles with cold sweat. I glance back at the mirror and watch as the words slowly fade away.
The bathroom door creaks open slightly, and a whisper of warm air brushes past me. If there was anything here, it’s gone now.
Trembling, I make my way to the minibar in the sitting area. I grab a bottle of whiskey, then a vodka. The bar is fully stocked, even though I remember emptying it before.If the ghosts are stocking the alcohol, maybe they aren’t so bad. I grab another mini whiskey and walk over to the window. I have to think about other things. This place is getting to me.
A thick fog blankets the garden. It’s dark, but I catch a glimpse of Marissa and Jonathan out on the terrace. She’s sitting on a stone bench, a bottle of water in her hand, while he stands behind her, rubbing her shoulders. I guess they’ve made up. I guess they’re no longer fighting.
It shouldn’t make me angry, but it does.
I look at the clock by the bed; it’s 11:30. We’re all supposed to meet downstairs in fifteen minutes. I open another mini bottle and swig it back without reading the label. I don’t care what it is, I just need to get out of my head, float above it for a while. I’m feeling edgy, can’t sit still.
Hayes. Sex with Hayes will help. It’ll stop my spiraling thoughts. Sex is like a drug for me—it sweeps me away, makes me feel alive in my skin.
I rush to his room and knock on the door. He opens it instantly, freshly showered, hair damp, wearing only a pair of low-slung jeans. “I thought you went to your room to change,” he says, eyeing me curiously.
“I did,” I say, stepping inside his room. “But all my clothes are soaking wet.”
“What? Why?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I say, pulling my shirt and bra over my head, letting my breasts bounce free. My heart flutters wildly in my chest, like a small frantic animal. Too many thoughts about ghosts, I need to feel alive.
“I no longer have anything intelligent to say.” He chuckles, his eyes darkening with desire.
