Page 65 of We Live Here Now

64

Emily

On the landing, I stare out at the night, pulling my thick cardigan around my pajamas. The snow hasn’t arrived and the darkness is crisply silent. A void. If I opened the window and tumbled out, I could be falling into that void forever. Maybe I’m still in the void of unconsciousness in the hospital. Maybe I never woke up at all. Another crazy idea to contemplate. I can’t sleep, which given everything is hardly a surprise, but with Freddie beside me snoring I couldn’t think either. And I need to think. At some point I have to start trusting myself instead of everyone else. I trusted Freddie and he was lying to me. Mark and Cat have been pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes. Why not trust myself?

There was an awful smell coming from upstairs and even Freddie’s experienced it, because why else would he air out the room when he’s always cold? And why is he always cold when the thermostat shows it’s baking in the house? He’s feeling a little of what I am. Not the writing on the mirror and the books flying and the Ouija board, but something more visceral. And there is something about this house. Something odd.

I know the bird that flew away this morning is the same dead bird I put outside on my first night in Larkin Lodge. There is no way there are two ravens with identically damaged wings. The bird was very dead when it fell from the chimney into the red room, but somehow, when it was in the upstairs bedroom, it came back to life.

This brings me to Mrs. Tucker’s tall tale of her daydream of seeing Fortuna Carmichael killing Gerald and dragging him into that room. I look up at the ceiling, imagining his dead body there. The next day he was fine, hale and hearty. Sure, that could be a child’s imagination, except for that sentence that I keep hearing over and over in my head.

We were happy after I killed him.

But where does all this get me? Even if the upstairs room has some strange power to bring things back to life, that doesn’t solve my problem of the haunting. The dead bodies get up, breathe, and walk—or fly—away. No ghosts.

In bed, I curl up behind Freddie, his back my pillow, and his body moves in a steady comforting rhythm. As much as I find it soothing, I cling tightly to him as I drift into sleep. I can’t deny I’m afraid. Because if all the other odd stuff that’s been happening in the house is real, then what about the message with the books. Was it a warning, a threat, or a prophesy?

You will die here.

Maybe if I solve the puzzle of the house, that threat will be gone. Just like we’ll be gone soon. We’ll have money and a fresh start. We’ll leave the house behind and live our best lives. My period is still notably absent. Maybe two arrived at Larkin Lodge, but three will leave. But first of all, I have to know. I have to find it.