“You mean the ghost from your bedroom? The one that hates you? What are you gonna do, Violet? Are you gonna let her win?”
I swallowed, my dry throat flexing as I stared ahead. Normal people didn’t understand this fear, the fear of Sister. I had never told my parents about her. I had never told Vail or Dodie, because Sister had always appeared to me, not them. If I didn’t tell my siblings, then Sister would stay focused on me. Only me, and she would leave them alone.
In my head, that was the deal. Me for them. Come to my room, and in exchange for my silence, never go to theirs.
So my siblings didn’t know what she was capable of, how she could make you curl up in the dark, crying softly, trying not to wet yourself. How I’d wake up and see her standing in my bedroom, her back to me, always her back to me. Just the shape of her, with her hate and malevolence coming off of her in waves.
My bedroom door would be shut, even if I’d left it open when I went to sleep. The curtains would drift where there was no breeze. The closet door would creak as it moved. The dresser would shuffle a few inches along the wall, making a soft scraping sound. The lamp would flicker on, then off again. There would be a hiss of breath, close, as if in my ear, even though I could see her across the room. A clicking sound I couldn’t identify, cold and sharp.
And I would crouch in bed, trying not to make a sound, because if Sister noticed me—if she turned around—then she would—she would—
I closed my eyes. Was it Sister’s baby who had been stolen? Was that why she was so angry? No, I had seen Sister before Ben was born. Was Sister connected to Ben at all? How could she be?
Had she killed Ben? Had Sister taken my little brother from his hiding place that day?
“Violet?” Bradley asked.
The answer was close, so close. Alice had told me so.He’s been telling you and telling you,Alice had said.
And,Three of you went into the house. Only two of you will leave.
And,Violet, you can do anything.
“Violet?” Bradley asked again.
“Ask your father,” I said, my eyes still closed. “Ben was born in 1963. We got him as either a newborn or very close to it. Our parents told us that Ben’s birthday was July 31, but that might not be true, since there’s no birth paperwork. If they stole a baby, why would they tell us his real birthday? My parents were liars.”
Bradley was quiet.
“It was summer,” I continued. “July or August. He was still drinking formula and didn’t start on solid food until…” I put a hand to my forehead. I could remember feeding Ben solid food, but the timeline was blurry. The house always fogged my memories. “Thanksgiving? I don’t know. I’ll try to remember. But if he wasn’t born on July 31, then the baby would have been born in June, July, or August of 1963. Not before and not after.”
“Okay,” Bradley said. “Dad and I will look into it. What will you do?”
I dropped my hand and opened my eyes. A headache was starting in my temples. If only two of us were going to leave the house, then something was after one of my siblings.
Unless the person who wouldn’t leave was me.
If the house wanted me, then so be it. But it wasn’t going to take Vail, and it wasn’t going to take Dodie.
“Take me back to my car,” I told Bradley. “I’m going home.”
23
Vail
My very first memories were of the figure standing over my bed.
I don’t know how old I was, but the light was bright white, and at the same time my vision was cloudy, as if someone had placed a layer of gauze over my eyes. I couldn’t make out details, only shadows. There was just the light and the shape standing there, looking down at me.
I remember being afraid. In the beginning, on the nights the figure came, it didn’t move or speak. I’d open my eyes to the light and see it there, like a bad dream, and no matter how I tried, I couldn’t move.
Maybe it was the same shadow every night. Or maybe there was more than one.
After a while, the fear changed into a tired resignation. Every time I closed my eyes at night, I knew the figure might come, that I might wake frozen in the light, and there was nothing I could do. There’s nothing kids can ever do about their situations. There was no point in talking about it, just as there was no point in talking about my parents’ hatred of each other or the fact that no one everasked me whether I had done my homework, or about the time my father looked at me with a bleary, hungover gaze as if he’d never seen me before and said, “I thought I’d be a Hollywood actor. What happened to my life?” There was no point talking about anything.
Later, on the bad nights, I’d open my eyes and see the figure moving. Sometimes the light would shift, as if someone was adjusting a lamp. There were whispers, words I couldn’t hear, as if there were more of them outside my vision. They never touched me, only left me frozen in terror before the light went out.
I had periods when they came frequently. Then weeks or months when they never came at all, and I’d think it was over.
