Three nights and three mornings come and go, and with them come calls and letters. Every single answer is the same. Heavy breathing. Not a single word on the other end. And outside my window, it’s always the same view. A man leaning against the tree, looking toward the house, smoking cigarettes.
I’m starting to think he might be a ghost. Someone who used to live here, someone whose life wasn’t pretty, who forgot who he was, and now all he gets to do is torment the living.
I’m still scared. The line still doesn’t work, and every letter I send asking for help is answered by The Caller, warning me that help won’t come for me. I still don’t know why he is haunting me.
The house is still quiet during the day and loud at night. The only difference now is the thin layer of dust over the shelves. I keep hoping to see Margaret and Victor, to go outside into town, maybe find a more comfortable nightgown to sleep in, or shorter jeans, maybe even something with color instead of the black and white shirts I have now.
But mostly, I want to ask them about the man. I want to know why he could be interested in someone like me. I want to ask him myself, but every time I find the courage to step outside and walk to the tree, he disappears.
The open window lets in the sound of Victor’s car getting closer to the driveway, and because the past two days have been sunny, the stones and mud have dried. I can hear the crackle beneath the tires as the car approaches.
I stand from the bed and tuck L.R.’s diary beneath it, then slowly walk out of the bedroom and toward the stairs. By the time I reach the top, Margaret is already walking inside.
“Good morning, Miss Vale,” she says, her eyes scanning the letters in her hands. “How was your week?”
“Okay,” I say, walking down the stairs toward her.
“Good.” She lifts her gaze to me, then turns and disappears into the hallway that leads to the staff’s kitchen.
My lips part. I want to call her back, to ask her about the man, but she’s gone before I can find the courage to speak. I keep moving, my eyes drifting to the bottom of the stairs.
“Aurelia.”
The male voice makes my head lift. I look toward the door and see Victor standing there with a bucket of garden tools in his hand.
“Huh?”
“Are you alright?” he asks in his Spanish accent.
“Yes.” I force a fake smile, and nod at him.
“Want to join me in the garden while Miss Danvers works inside?” he asks, motioning toward the door.
The sun is shining a little too bright today, and my eyes squint as I approach the front door. My hand rises to my forehead, trying to block the light, and I follow him outside. The moment my foot touches the ground, I notice his hair and beard are no longer black. They are dark brown.
“You’re not much of a talker,” he says as he hands me a pair of gloves, then nods toward the rose bushes. “For the roses.”
“I talk more when I get to know a person,” I say, walking beside him.
“That’s fair.”
“Can I ask you something, Mr. De la Cruz?” I stop and turn to him, my hand still shielding my eyes from the sun.
“Please, call me Victor.” He smiles and keeps walking, and I follow.
“I keep seeing this man outside my window.” I point toward the tree near the cliffs on the right. “There.”
Victor looks toward the tree, one eyebrow lifting. “What’s he like?”
“He’s always in a black suit,” I say. “I think his hair is dark, but I’ve never seen his face.”
He stays quiet for a moment, staring at the tree. “It’s strange,” he says. Then he goes silent again before turning to me, his eyes locking with mine. “The owner had a brother. He grew up in England, and he came here at some point.” He smacks his lips. “I used to see him with the owner’s wife, sneaking around. Then one night, he just disappeared.”
“Do you think it’s him?” I ask, tilting my head.
“Perhaps,” he says. “Perhaps it’s someone else watching the house. It was listed for sale before, so maybe they just wanted to see if it was in good condition.”
He kneels, takes a tool from his bucket, and digs into the ground, rubbing the soil between his fingertips. “People here come and go. Everyone is curious to see if the stories are true.”
