The visions play behind my eyes, the air heavy and suffocating with the feeling that warmed my body back then—when my parents were happy. When our family was whole and content.
But it wasn’t until after Tristan was born that things started to change. The slight shifts in my parents’ relationship seemed loud and obvious, but I was the only one of their children to notice. And what my twenty-two-year-old self witnessed the night before she disappeared will forever haunt me.
As I walk down the sidewalk, everything fades, blurring into oblivion because the laughter is dead.
The memories are dead.
This house is dead.
There may not be a body, but I know she is, too.
Because she promised she’d come back.
And she never has.
I hustle with my head down, fumbling with my key in the lock, and enter the house, heading straight for the back door.
I focus my mind. Get in. Grab the things she’ll want. And get out and back to work.
Lifting my head, I see the beautiful black lab lying on the other side of the glass door on the deteriorating deck with its head on its paw.
It must hear me because as I near the door, its ears perk up, followed by its head, revealing the white patch of fur on its stomach. But just when I think it will bark and get territorial, it stands up, its tail wagging back and forth, comforting my unease.
Nice and easy now.
Slowly peeling back the sliding glass door, I keep my eye on it while the animal keeps its eye trained on me.
I expect its eyes to darken with suspicion, but they’re calm. We exchange a look that relaxes the muscles in my back as it comes closer and sits in front of me. I tilt my head, glancing underneath it—orhim, shall I say.
Reaching for his head slowly, I begin scratching his head with my black-stained fingers from working on the tractor.
“Hey, boy,” I greet gently.
He licks my arm, his tongue leaving hot trails that chill my arm a second later. The little slaps and nibbles almost make me smile.
Taryn lives alone, for Christ’s sake. She should have a dog that protects her from monsters like us.
After digging through the pantry to locate the dog food, I feed him a bowl that he scarfs down while I stroll into her room curiously. I push open the door, the old hinges creaking.
She slept in here. It may have only been a few nights, but it was long enough for her scent to soak into the sheets. The sweat that glistens on her skin, the hint of perfume she wears, the rose shampoo she uses—because it’s labeled in the shower—all blend together, creating her distinctive, lingering scent, hitting my bloodstream like a drug.
The first time I got a whiff of the sugared vanilla and citrus radiating from her, I wanted more.
And admitting that was my first mistake.
It only becomes an addiction if I give over dominance.
But before I know it, I’m standing in front of the mahogany dresser, running my fingertips over the wood before they drift of their own accord to the brass handle of the top drawer.
Pulling it toward me, my breathing ragged, an array of colored lingerie is folded neatly in piles. I reach in, runningmy calloused and dirty hands over the perfectly clean garments, trying to picture what set she is wearing right now.
Picking up a red pair, I rub the see-through lace on the pads of my fingers and draw it closer to my face. But I stop, gritting my teeth.
My eyes fall closed. Tilting my head side to side, the taut muscles stretching and pulling, I crack my neck to clear my head, which has been slowly deteriorating since I saw her email pop up in my inbox.
Clenching the material in my hand, I toss it back into the drawer and slam it shut, rattling the floorboards under my boots.
Obsessions have the power to destroy you, and Little Ghost will not become one of mine.
