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She doesn’t answer me, of course. She can’t. Just like she can’t walk. Even if she could, Lenora is seventy-one. There’s no way she’d be fast enough to hop into bed as soon as I opened the door. A person half her age wouldn’t be able to do that.
Since it wasn’t Lenora and there’s no one else in the room, I know I should blame my imagination. It’s late, I’m exhausted, and it’s possible the house is messing with my mind. But those noises were real. So were the shadow at the door and the blur at the window.
I didn’t imagine them.
I heard them and saw them and know there must be a logical reason for them.
It will all make sense in the morning.
That’s something else my mother used to tell me, back when I was struggling to deal with all the pain and pressure of adolescence. Go to bed. Get a good night’s sleep. It will all make sense in the morning. Usually, she was right. Even when things still didn’t completely make sense, I often felt better in the morning.
This time, though, the advice is dead wrong.
Nothing makes sense when I wake a few hours later with the rising sun poking my retinas and the mattress slid a few inches lower than when I went to sleep. Exhaustion grips me as I get out of bed and start my morning routine.
Showering in a tilted tub.
Brushing my teeth over a tilted sink.
Putting on a uniform that belonged to someone who fled this place.
Before going downstairs, I look in on Lenora, pausing at the door before throwing it open. Like a suspicious lover. Or a distrustful father. Trying to catch her in the act. Of what, I have no idea. Other than typing, she mostly just observes, which is what she does now, giving me a quizzical look from the bed.
The first thing I do is check the desk.
The typewriter is exactly where I placed it during the night.
The page in the carriage, however, sits next to it, typed side up, as if someone had been reading it.
But unlike yesterday, I’m certain I left that paper in the typewriter. I remember seeing the page flutter as I carried the typewriter back to the desk.
I turn to Lenora. “Someone was in here during the night. I’m right, aren’t I?”
She gives me another one of those vague nods that I’m still learning to interpret. This time, I again know it’s to bring the typewriter to the bed. After I do, I place her hand on the keys and let her answer.
you didnt sleep well
I have trouble discerning her tone. Without punctuation, it looks like a statement, meaning Lenora knows I didn’t sleep well. With a question mark—missing because it requires me to press the shift key—it becomes more innocent. A query, likely prompted by the dark circles under my eyes.
Lenora gazes at me, waiting for an answer. Her expression—expectant and confused—tells me it’s the latter.
“I didn’t,” I say.
She starts moving her hand across the keyboard again, eventually typing out a familiar word.
a humdinger
This time, I can tell it’s a question by Lenora’s brows, which arch inquisitively. I nod my head and smile.
“Yes. But even before that, I couldn’t sleep.”
More typing.
the wind
Still more typing.
makes strange noises