Page 23 of Possess Me

The tee is covering my face, and I yank it down, then stand, turning in a circle as I try to find the source of the sound. I tell myself it’s Damien. He’s decided to chop up an apple, or he went outside to deal with some pipe or something that needs to be banged back into place.

But that’s just me making up stories.

I know where the sound is coming from. I know everything about this house. Which means I also know that there’s no place to hide. No place at all.

A cold shiver races through me, and I blink, trying to recall my last thought. Something about the house. But the thought is gone. Out of reach, like the string of a helium balloon drifting higher and higher, just beyond my grasp.

That doesn’t matter, though. Whatever the thought, I still know where it was leading —the attic.

I look up, and I know I’m right. Whatever that thumping is, it’s coming from above me.

I hurry out of the bedroom to the small hallway with the large storage closet. I yank the door open, then sigh with relief when I look up and see the string hanging down. The strange thumping has stopped, but that doesn’t matter. I want to know what—or who—is up there.

I tug on the string, then cough as a cloud of dust descends on me. I brush it off, unfold the stairs, and eagerly make the climb.

The attic is large, and the scent of age and decay fills the air. I pause at the top of the ladder, my head and shoulders in the space while the rest of my body waits below the attic floor.

“Hello?” Immediately, I feel foolish. Of course, no one is here. It’s just old house noises.

And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—is watching.

Get a grip!

With that quick and dirty pep talk, I climb the rest of the way into the dark space, then straighten when I realize I can stand without bumping my head. The room is dim, but a few shafts of light stream in through two small, dusty windows. My eyes adjust, and I see the single light bulb suspended from the ceiling. I reach up to pull the cord, surprised to find that the bulb still works, and it casts the room in a dim, yellow light, illuminating the dancing dust motes.

Discarded furniture hides beneath dusty sheets, and boxes are stacked precariously against the walls. One dusty trunk stands out by virtue of not being covered. I move carefully to it, fearful of rotting boards. The attic feels heavy with secrets. As if it’s been waiting for someone—for me—to uncover them.

I shiver, then order myself to get a grip.

The trunk is brown, its leather straps cracked and worn. I see a lock and silently curse, only to realize that the padlock is hanging open. I take it off, then draw a deep breath, this moment feeling somehow solemn. Then I open the latches and lift the lid.

Inside, carefully folded and surprisingly well-preserved, is a collection of clothing. Evening gowns, silk gloves, delicate scarves. My breath catches. These aren’t just any clothes. These belonged to Vivien Lorainne.

I reach in, gently pulling out a rose-gold gown that I remember from Starlight Serenade. My breath catches as I recall the scene in the grand ballroom with Vivien standing tall in that dress. Elegant. Timeless. Alive.

The unease I’d felt earlier is back, sharper now, like the point of a knife pressing against my skin. I lift a gown from the trunk, its cream-colored fabric shimmering faintly in the dim light. As I hold it up, a sudden chill races down my spine, and I spin around in time to see a drape flutter to the floor, revealing a dresser with an attached mirror.

She’s there.

Vivien.

She’s looking straight at me. And all around, I hear overlapping whispers of her voice. And then, cutting through the chaos, one phrase rises clear and sharp, cutting through me like ice:

“You shouldn’t have come.”

10

Damien paced in front of the living room fireplace, the crackling fire providing the only illumination. The scent of burning cedar filled the space. A scent he usually relished, but which tonight felt heavy. Cloying.

He’d hoped to spend the rest of the day after brunch with Nikki, enjoying a walk on the island or just lazing in the cottage’s backyard, soaking up the sun, reading, talking. And, hopefully, shaking off this strange sense of discontent that had gotten its claws in him.

Instead, he’d spent the day alone while Nikki poked through boxes of Vivien Lorainne’s dusty wardrobe. He didn’t begrudge her the excitement of finding such a treasure, but dammit, he’d wanted to spend time with his wife. Now it was well after dark, and he’d barely seen her.

He ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated with both her and himself. She was excited by her find, and he was acting like a teenage boy whose feelings got hurt when his girlfriend decided to go shopping with friends instead of spending the day with him.

He stopped in front of the fireplace, then leaned forward, his hands on the mantle. It was dotted with framed photographs, and he picked one up—a sepia photo of Vivien Lorainne standing on a movie set, resplendent in a slinky gown that clung to every curve. Her luminous smile hinted at secrets, her gaze sultry and knowing.

He held the frame with one hand, the fingertip of his other tracing over her face. She was so beautiful. So like Nikki.