Page 60 of Some Kind of Haunted

She takes a pull from her wine as punctuation.

And something sweet and warm winds through me. Because they’ve changed the subject for me and turned this into something fun. Normal.

Not demons, not mental breakdowns, just boys. I lean into Nora.

“When the pickings are slim, sometimes you have to cast a wider net,” Nora says, clearly teasing Cleo. “Besides, he likes you.”

“He’s twenty-three. He likes breasts.” Cleo sounds disgusted, but her mouth curves like she’s enjoying the teasing. “How about this? I’ll entertain the invitation if you spill on the mystery man who keeps you from taking up anyone’s invitations.”

Nora’s face gets very blank. “Even if I had invitations, which I don’t, I also don’t have a mystery man.”

Cleo leans close to me. “She totally has a mystery man,” she stage-whispers, loud enough to be heard in Jack’s diner across the street.

Nora pretends that she has to wipe down the entire table right this second while Cleo laughs at her.

And it’s the most blessedly normal thing that’s happened to me in ages. This whole evening has been. First, the Knit and Sip, where I could just be, and now this. Because even before this whole Iowa trip, things were always a tightrope walk. Never normal. Never easy. Just routine. A routine arranged around the inevitable night terrors that, sooner or later, always found their way back to me in new and revolting ways.

This is different. And I know it isn’t just because they’re teasing each other about their love lives. That’s fun, sure. But I know that I could start talking about clock tower demons and all the slurping and they wouldn’t blink an eye.

For the first time in my life, I don’t have to censor myself.

It kind of feels like flying—and I don’t think it’s the wine.

I don’t want it to end, but eventually the wine is gone—mostly thanks to a valorous effort by Nora and me, since Cleo has to drive back out to the airport. She talks about not wanting to leave for a while, and then stands up from where we’ve taken over the end of the table.

“How often do you guys do this?” I ask while Cleo shrugs on her coat. I note she made almost no progress in her knitting—a basic one-color scarf that doesn’t even require a pattern—and I remember what she said about not having a crafty bone in her body.

She isn’t here for knitting, I understand. Cleo’s here for Nora, and roped me in, too, because Nora wouldn’t presume. And she’s probably also here for the same thing I felt here tonight. Camaraderie.

I think about the scowl she would turn on me if I said that out loud to her, and smile.

“Once a month for the official Knit and Sip, but you’re always welcome to stay after hours and drink and knit with me,” Nora says happily.

I want to take her up on that. I will take her up on that. “You’re on,” I tell her.

I trail after them as Cleo marches toward the back. She’s saying her goodbyes as she opens the back door, and then a horrible screech fills the air.

Pained. Horrifying.

We all crash to a stop in the doorway and look around, trying to locate the source of the noise. It’s continuing—something out there is gasping and screeching in pain. I have the wild thought that the garden gnome is to blame, but then I catch sight of a gross, hairless tail wriggling in a shaft of light.

“Just a possum,” Cleo says, but her voice is strangled.

I look closer, across the yard. Only the tail is visible, because the rest of the poor creature is clearly being pulled into the shadows against its will.

The shadows that seem to have a heft they shouldn’t. And a body.

My stomach lurches. The possum screams.

“Guys . . .” But I don’t know what to say.

I grab their arms and hold on for dear life. I think we should close the door, but then I’d have to let go of one of them to reach out and shut it and everything in me insists that if I do that, we all die.

It’s Nora who breaks whatever spell is keeping us in one place. She nudges Cleo and me back into the store and calmly shuts the door.

Cleo sounds like she’s having the same trouble breathing steady that I am. “Nora, I still have to go.”

Nora doesn’t argue with Cleo, so I do.