“Fuck it, I’m getting a martini,” I say aloud in Bea’s ear.
She lets out an exuberant cheer while she does a little happy dance in her seat.
“Now there’s the Kat I know and love!” she chirps.
“Ok, ok, just don’t kiss me again or she’s going to spit in my martini.” I glance pointedly at the bartender and Bea erupts into a fit of giggles.
3
MESSENGER
KAT
Iwas sure of two sensations: shadow and pressure. Someone is in the house with me, in this very room. I could feel their heavy presence, their looming shadow coming closer from the corner of my bedroom. I could smell their scent. Like redwood trees in the rain. It was distinctly masculine and vaguely threatening, and yet, I wasn’t afraid.
The presence reaches out, with long fingers unfurling towards my throat…
I awake gasping, my eyes flashing open, and nothing. Nothing is there. Of course there isn’t. I scan the dark corners of my room, my eyes bleary from sleep. My oak armoire stands there like always, and I spot my own reflection in the gleaming primrose mirror mounted above it. My image stares back at me—a ghostly pale face wreathed in a halo of dark hair. My slippers are beside the bed, where I left them last night. Nothing is out of the ordinary.
But I still can’t shake the feeling that someone was here with me. I reach for my glasses and once on, I take a second slowsweep of the room, just in case. Maybe I am going crazy. Grief can do that to people. Grief can do a lot of weird things to people.I should know.So can trauma. Like, the trauma of your father hanging himself in this very room. And you are now sleeping in said room every night because you moved into his goddamn house.?For some probably extremely fucked up reason.
Ugh.It never ends well for me when I try to therapize myself. My patients? Yes. My own brain? Fucking forget it.
Letting out a low groan, I bury my face in my palms.I have to stop picturing it. Picturing him, here.I tell myself for the umpteenth time that no one could have stopped him from doing what he did. I tell myself it wasn’t my fault.
But I don’t believe me.
I glance at my phone on the nightstand: 4:07am. I sit up, swing my legs off the king-sized bed, and slip my cold feet into my waiting shearling slippers. I head straight towards the black double French doors, twist the lock, and pull the large brass handles. The smell of moss and fresh, wet pine fills my nostrils as I step onto the deck. I’m grateful for the thick platform soles of my slippers, as the slickness of the mossy scum on the wood makes my steps a bit uneven. I cross the deck, making my way to the railing.
I stare out into the line of trees, just across the ravine from the porch. A heavy mist clings to the towering spruces and pines there, drifting eerily down from the lower branches to kiss the tall grass and thick brush of the forest floor.
Idly, I wonder what it would be like to disappear into those dense trees. To be free of my grief, my past and my nightmares—and walk out in nothing except for my sheer silk nightgown and sweater, and simply be enveloped into that mist, never to be seen again. Just… disappear.
Peaceful, I think.
A normal thought to have first thing in the morning, surely.
A subtle movement catches my eye in the periphery, and I jerk my head to the right, training my gaze deeper into the forest. Nothing is there, but after a moment, I sense it once again. It’s then that I see it clearly. A giant stag emerges at the tree line, carefully navigating its massive antlers and dipping its head low. He ambles forward, turning his regal head to look right at me. Even from this distance, his deep brown eyes pierce my own. My breath catches in my chest, and I still—watching him, watch me.
The stag stays perfectly still for a breath as we regard each other in the early morning light. And just as suddenly as he appeared, he turns to retreat into the wall of mist between the monstrous trees. I slowly exhale the breath that’s been lodged in my throat. Wrapping my thin sweater tighter around me, I clutch my arms around my body in a feeble embrace, as if I can somehow hold myself together and keep from falling apart—from crumbling.
Later that evening, I sit at the oak dining table with my MacBook screen glowing at me. I set down my glass of white wine with a gentle clink and roll my neck. I’ve been trying to get caught up on my therapy notes for weeks. And just like everything else—I am failing miserably. My client caseload is big, and I just can’t seem to focus for any length of time these days. My nightmare-ridden sleep and early mornings don’t help things either. I have woken in a cold sweat before five for the past six mornings. Maybe I should consider ditching the Sauvignon Blanc and try Ambien instead.
Mental note to Google “Ambien side effects” later tonight.
I had seven back-to-back sessions today, ending with Josh’s. I shudder at the memory of that one and gently roll and stretch my neck once again. Among other things, Josh detailed a childhood memory of slowly squishing his brother’s hamster to death with his bare hands. He had the strangest expression in his eyes when he described the murder. The image of the dead,helpless little thing merges with an image of my father’s body—pale and lifeless.
I stop typing and slide my fingers underneath the thick frames of my glasses, pinching the bridge of my nose.Let’s not go there right now, Kat.You can go to the bad place later. You have four notes left. You can do this, bitch. Come on.
I straighten my back and my glasses and begin typing once again. Not a minute later, a loud creak sounds from the back porch, somewhere by the bedrooms. My fingers still. But the only thing I hear is the soft patter of the light rain just beginning to fall on the roof. Pearson House is old, and sometimes the house creaks.
I place my fingers back on my keyboard to begin typing again when I hear it once more—a louder creak. The exact same noise that happens when someone walks across the ancient wood of the back porch. A soft but distinct thud follows. Almost like a body hitting the deck—or slamming against a door.
Fuck.
I stand and slip over to the kitchen to grab the biggest knife I can find in the cutlery block. I’ve read enough true crime to know a sinister sound when I hear it.
Silently, I slide the knife out of the block and turn around to face the living room. If there is an intruder on the back porch, I don’t want to tip them off to my whereabouts in the house. Hardly daring to breathe, I slide out of my slippers and softly tiptoe barefoot down the thick runner rug. I finally reach my father’s—no, my bedroom door, and...it’s closed.
