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“It’s this house,” she continues. “It freaks me out.”
“It’s just a house, Em. And a beautiful one.”
“Did you get a survey done? When you bought it?”
“Why?”
“There was an awful smell just now. It was like rotting meat. Coming from under the floorboards. Where the nail is. Anyway, it was so horrible I opened all the windows and was nearly sick.”
“If you’re thinking it’s the drains, get a plumber in.” I avoid the mention of the survey. I cut that corner, but there’s no need for her to know that.
“The windows all slammed shut. And the doors.”
“The house is on a hill on a moor. There’s always a breeze there.” My head is starting to ache and I want to sleep. I’ve got too much other shit to deal with.
“Yeah,” she says, defeated. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“There’s nothing else it could be.” She doesn’t say anything to that, and I realize what she’s thinking. Iknewshe’d believed in that Ouija board and I’m glad I burned it. “And please, for god’s sake, don’t tell me you think our new house is haunted.” I rub my hand across my face. And she had the nerve to talk to me like I was a child. “Think about it logically. You’ve been told that post-sepsis syndrome can affect your senses. Which is most likely, that or a ghost?”
“I guess.” She doesn’t sound convinced, but then she’s always had her beliefs in ghosts and mediums and the paranormal, as if that is somehow superior to wanting proof.
“Is this because of what the vicar said? About the house being built on a crossroads? The suicide victims buried under it?”
“No.” She’s indignant. “God, no. I wasn’t thinking about that. It’s just weird, that’s all. Weird shit happens here.” She’s getting irritated again.
“Do you want me to drive back now?” I ask. “I can if you want. I’m sure work will understand.”
“No, it’s fine,” she answers eventually. “You’re back tomorrow anyway.”
We say our good nights and hang up and I ignore the next notification that pings up, turn my phone to silent with Emily on cut-through, and put it on the other side of the room to avoid more temptation.
I have to stop. Iwillstop. This mess can’t get any bigger.
I imagine Emily alone in that big house, all the lights on, afraid, and then think about all the things those post-sepsis brochures talked about. Paranoia. Sensory hallucinations.
Maybe I should speak to Dr. Canning.
33
Emily
I finally drift into sleep as night turns to day, and I’m dead to the world when the phone rings, dragging me blearily back into reality, and when I glance at the clock it’s already ten.
“Hi, Dr. Canning.” My mouth is dry but I try to sound as peppy as possible. “How are you?”
There’s nothing wrong with sleeping until ten, especially for someone just out of the hospital, but suddenly I don’t want to share. I don’t want to explain that I was awake all night raging at my absent husband over a nail. Now, in the beautiful daylight, I can’t really understand why I wassoangry. Why did the nail bother me so much compared to the awful smell and the slamming windows and doors? They freak me out way more.
“Emily?” Dr. Canning’s been speaking and I haven’t been paying attention. I sit up and flinch as my hips spasm slightly.
“Sorry, the signal’s not great. You cut out.”
“I was asking if everything was okay? No problems?”
“No, I’m good.” I sit up straighter, not sure why, but suddenly alert. Something in his tone. Something worried. “A bit tired but I’m actually doing better than I expected.”
Outside a thick, dark cloud spreads across the sun, washing the room in a sudden cool gray. Maybe it’s not such a nice day after all.
“Okay, that’s good.”