Page 20 of Possess Me

I shift my gaze to the boat, then back to Syl. “I don’t think he believes me.”

Saying that out loud is a relief. More than that, I think it explains the weird tightness growing inside me since yesterday. An irritated itchiness. A sense of something not being right.

And no matter what he may think, Damien’s not making it better for me. Anger bubbles up, cold and hard. He’s not making it better at all. Not the way he’s supposed to. Instead, he’s just humoring me. And what the hell does he—

“Nik?”

I jump, then glance around, getting my bearings. The beach. The boat. The picnic table.

“Sorry. Mind wandering.” But I don’t meet Syl’s eyes. Instead, I look into my flute so she won’t see the confusion in mine. Because for a moment, I wasn’t here. I was back in the house. I was standing in that living room. And I was making plans to get what I need from Damien.

To get what I deserve.

The thought spins unanchored in my head, and I stand up, then pace behind my chair, idly stroking the snake bracelet.

“You’re freaking me out.”

“It’s not me,” I say, forcing the words out. “It’s the house.”

“You truly think it’s haunted?”

The words seem to hang on the wind.

Yes, I want to say. Yes, dammit, and help me. I want to tell her about my fears. About the journal and Vivien and Basil. But I only laugh and shake my head. “No, of course not. It’s just…” I trail off, then shrug. “It’s just a good story.”

Sylvia doesn’t laugh. Instead, she leans back, her expression thoughtful. “What if you’re wrong?”

I bristle. But I also lean in, intrigued by both her words and her tone. “How do you mean?”

She shrugs, looking more than a little uncomfortable. “It’s just … I don’t know. But, well, if any house is going to hold onto something, it’s that one. The fame. The violence. It’s like you walked into a Blumhouse script.”

I’d lifted my mimosa, but now I put it down without taking a sip. “So you really do think it’s haunted?” Something unpleasant spins in my gut. That half-sick feeling you get when a secret is accidentally spilled.

“I’m just saying that houses carry energy. And Vivien’s life—and death—had plenty of it.”

I glance toward the beach. I hadn’t seen Damien leave the boat, but he’s with the kids now, helping them build a sandcastle. Their laughter dances on the wind, and I can’t help but smile.

I turn to Syl, realizing I know exactly what to say. “It’s just my imagination,” I tell her. “Don’t let my goofiness make you paranoid.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, of course, it’s not really haunted. You’re probably just feeling a little weird since it used to be your favorite star’s home.”

“And she was murdered there,” I add, as fingers of ice seem to tickle my spine. “It’s not haunted…”

“But maybe a little tainted?”

“Yeah. Maybe that’s it.” But that’s not it. Because how can I tell her that I feel more than just history in that house?

I should tell her.

I should tell Damien.

I should tell someone.

But the little voice inside me says no. The voice that I think came with me from the house.

“Come fill your plates!” Jackson’s voice booms out from the boat, and I glance toward the water, where Damien waves in acknowledgment before racing his nephew to the boat while Ronnie looks on and laughs.

I start to stand, but Sylvia grabs my hand across the table, keeping me down. “Let them go first,” she says. “I want—well, it’s probably silly, but I want to give you something. Or, well, lend it to you, anyway. At least while we’re on the island.”