Mom didn’t have security cameras installed—not that I’d know how to access them if she did—because she didn’t feel unsafe in this house. Being by the water, the door sensor system came in handy, notifying her if the lakeside windhadswept the doors open. It would also help ensure the doors were secured for our dog, who had passed since she installed the system. Eventually, I assume she got used to having it: the Robot Woman to keep her company when she had no one else.
I continue to listen for a noise, hearing only the sharp ringing of nothingness.
The silence is piercing; I can’t even hear the screens battering against the windows from the wind anymore. All is still.
I stand up, ready to make a move. But a queasiness rises at the thought of walking out there and being seen by someone through the big windows. I muster what could hardly be considered courage and sneak around the corner to see… the empty living room.
No noise, no movement, nobody.
Somehow this almost seems scarier than the alternative. Curse of the not-knowing.
I slowly make my way across the room, skeleton jumping out of my skin at the sight of my own reflection in the glass door leading to the balcony, mirroring against the outside’s darkness.
Worse, the door is open an inch.
That wasn’t all in my head.
I yank on the handle and pull the door into its frame, imagining that as soon as I do, a hand will appear on the other side to stop me.
But it doesn’t happen.
I flip the lock as fast as I can before scrambling to the other doors in the house to ensure they are all locked as well. As I do, a wave of dread falls on me.
What if I’m locking someoneinwith me?
I call Amelia. She picks up on the second ring.
“Hey, are you coming home soon?” I ask, knowing full well she is on her way.
“I’ll be getting off the highway soon,” she says. “I’m probably, like, fifteen minutes away.”
“Could you hurry?” I press. “I don’t think I’m alone.”
7
IMOGEN
A crash of glass.
Mom screaming my name.
The boy’s bloodied face.
My eyes shoot open, hair stuck to the nape of my neck. Like a spell of sleep paralysis, my lungs feel like they’ve been crushed. I can almost see that ghastly, signature sleep demon sitting on my chest, sucking every inch of air from me as I look around in a panic. I can hardly see anything, but I catch my breath as I begin to recognize my surroundings: Amelia’s childhood bedroom? My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I see the clock by the bedside: 6:29 a.m.
The relief of not being inside The Nightmare is quickly replaced by longing for it. The visual of Mom rushing to my side, yelling,Imogen!replays in my head. It’s not a positive situation, whatever happens in my dream. But a world where Mom is there, running to me, can’t be that bad.
I rub my eyes and look around. The shape of a figure lying between me and the clock, and before I can get too spooked, I see that it’s Amelia, sleeping soundly. The memories of last night come flooding back.
I sat in sheer terror awaiting Amelia’s return, worried that someone else was in the house with me. I didn’t understand why someone would break in during the daytime hours, or in general. But I didn’t want to let my guard down. I locked myself in my bedroom until I heard Robot Woman speak again to tell me that Amelia was home, coming through the front door. Naturally, I was hesitant to believe it was her. Until I heard her voice.
“Imogen? It’s me,” she’d called out.
We walked every inch of the house together, searching for anything that could explain the door popping open. When we couldn’t, I went back to one of my original theories: the blasted wind. And then I felt like an idiot, overreacting over something as simple as not securing the door after taking photos at the dock. Still, my panic persisted as night settled in. To ease my concern, Amelia invited her boyfriend, Wes, out to spend the night with us. After all, three’s a crowd. And I felt like I could use a crowd.
I look around my sister’s overtly feminine room again and notice another dark figure. This time, it’s horizontal on the floor beside Amelia’s bed. As I stare, I begin to make out their features. Rounded nose, short hair, boyish good looks—though I know he’s nearing thirty. It’s Wes.
Last night, the three of us ate sushi on the couch, packed up some boxes together, and brought as much laughter to the house as we could before collapsing to sleep in the same room for ultimate safety.
