Then, I dash across the kitchen to the knife block and pull out the biggest one, spinning around and scanning the kitchen and dining room.
Nothing seems out of place. I silently thank God for the open floor plan of Pearson House, which allows me to see fully into the living room from my spot in the middle of the kitchen. I briefly close my eyes in an attempt to tap into my intuition and sense if someone is in the house with me. But I feel nothing. I open my eyes and wait for another long moment. Then, ignoringthe wine, I quickly walk towards the back sliding door and check it. It’s closed and locked. I run up the stairs to the loft to the other sliding glass door leading to one of the balconies. Closed and locked.What?I know that the front door was secured, because I had just unlocked it when I came home not ten minutes ago.
My feet descend the last few stairs, and upon reaching the landing, I stare down the hallway. That leaves…. my bedroom door, which leads onto the back deck. The same deck I swore I heard someone walking across just a few days prior.
I let out a tight breath and head slowly to the bedroom. I enter and immediately switch on the side table lamp, which floods the room in a soft golden glow. Everything appears normal in here as well. I stride over to the French doors and inspect the brass handle and lock. Closed and locked. Just like the other three doors.What the actual fuck?
Had someone been in my home? To what, just pour me a glass of wine and then leave? And how could they leave, except for shapeshifting into a gas and passing vapor-like through a window? There was no sign of forced entry anywhere. It makes no sense.
“Am I going insane?” I softly ask myself.
As if on cue, a gentle littleprrreowemits from behind me. Bundy leaps softly onto my bed, purring, staring up at me and looking quite at ease.
“Hey Bundy,” I start. I reach down and briefly scratch his velvety head. “You’d tell me if someone was in here and touched my wine, right?”
He looks at me with his big green eyes, gracefully sitting down and beginning to purr more loudly. “You’re supposed to be my guard cat. Don’t forget that,” I murmur.
He meows again. Scooping him up, I head back towards the kitchen, Bundy’s warm body tucked securely under my arm. I sethim down on the kitchen floor and survey the glass of wine for a long moment. Is it safe to drink? What are the chances that whoever broke in here and poured it for me also poisoned it?
I consider dumping it out in the sink and getting a fresh glass. I hesitate.Why, though?I open the fridge to check out the bottle, no real idea of what I’m looking for. It appears to have been poured from the same bottle I opened last night. Nothing else seems out of place. Could I have poured it for myself this morning and somehow forgotten?God, you need to get a grip, Kat—that didn’t happen.Plus—the wine glass is chilled. Icy cold. Indicating a recent pour.
I steel myself and stride over to it to take a sniff. I set the knife down on the counter and bring the glass to my lips, taking a tentative sip. My shoulders instantly drop as the familiar notes of butter and golden apple wash across my tongue. I take another slow sip and feel my blood pressure start to lower.
A few sips in, a wild thought crosses my mind:Could this have somehow been… Josh?Or, wilder still,could Pearson House be haunted?Images of the intricate chandelier over the table, gothic wainscoting, and ornate iron balconies flash through my mind. God, I used to imagine this place was haunted when I was a little girl. At least I had hoped that it was. I remember dreaming that the shadows I would see playing across my walls at night were really dark spirits awakening to dance and revel in the moonlight.
I take another long, satisfying sip of the wine.Could it perhaps be my father, haunting this place?My father, the now ghost, sensing that I had had a long day, and tapping into some heretofore unseen semblance of fatherly affection, poured it for me? That somehow made more sense than Josh, or an invisible stalker creeping in through locked doors. I quietly mutter more to myself, “If this was you, thanks Dad.”
And wine in hand, I walk over to the sofa, Bundy trailing just behind me.
____________________
I jolt awake, ripped from the clutches of another nightmare. Pale, ashen light seeps through the window—too grey and dim to be morning, too cold to be comforting. Pre-dawn.Again.My dream was once again dark and disturbing. The same one that haunted me for months now, a man’s thin face with sharp features. Appraising me. Watching me with the cold, dead eyes of a shark while he cackles a soft and menacing laugh that vibrates throughout my body. The Demon. Then, he lunges for me across a table, and I wake.
God, what I wouldn’t give for a good old-fashioned sex dream at this point.
I look to my nightstand, where I notice a blinking flash on the screen of my phone. A buzz sounds and I reach out to grab the phone. I squint to read the text, not wanting to fully wake up my brain by putting my glasses on just yet.
Unknown
Evening, Doc. Question for you: Do you usually pull a knife before imbibing?
My mouth falls open into a little O. I look at the time stamp and notice it says 12:02am. I had passed out reading a mystery novel on my e-reader sometime just before midnight, I think.
What the fuck? Am I dreaming? I blink my eyes rapidly and squint again trying to make sense of the text message banner displayed on the dim phone before me. I tap on the thread and see three dots appear—they’re typing.
Unknown
Hope you enjoyed it. Sweet dreams. XO
XO. The same sign off that Bea always used.Could this be her texting me from a new phone? If so, then why not just say so? And why on Earth would Beatrice Collins, a polished, successful thirty-year-old psychologist be texting me from a burner phone? I push myself up onto my elbow and furiously type out:
Me
Who is this??
Almost instantaneously, three little dots again appear and disappear, this time with no response.Was…andthis almost seemed too crazy to even think—was someone watching me?Could this be the mystery someone who poured me the glass of wine last night?
Here I was thinking it was a specter from the astral plane, or even my recently departed father, when it turns out its some fucking creeper with an iPhone. Or maybe it was just Bea. She certainly knew about my proclivity for delicious Sauvignon Blanc. But if it was her, how could she have known about the knife?
