Page 26 of Play Nice

I overheard the other teasing him, using language I won’t repeat here.

“Whatever, man,” he responded. “I hate this house.”

When they were done, I thanked them and paid them their fifty bucks each. The kid who lived down the street started to walk home, and I called out his name.

“Why do you hate the house?” I asked him.

He stuttered.

“It’s okay. You can tell me,” I said.

“Just stupid kid stuff,” he said, shaking his head. “Empty house at the end of the street.”

It wasn’t an answer, but I nodded and thanked him again, and he picked up his pace.

I went inside and unpacked for a while, then poured myself a glass of wine and put on a record. Little Queen by Heart. My girls and I loved Heart. I’d play their favorite music when I missed them, when they were at their dad’s.

You might not realize, but I was very conscious about playing you and Daffy and Leeds music by female singers and musicians. I wanted you to know you could be rock stars, or whatever you wanted to be.

But the record kept skipping. It had never done that before. I was beside myself, worried my record player had been damaged in transport. I couldn’t afford another. I got up to look at it. I put on a different record, I forget which one, and it did the same thing. It would start to skip, and then make this noise. Almost a hissing. Like a hot kettle with something to say, trying to form words out of steam. It was utterly bizarre and frustrating, and after a long day, and an even longer year, I’d had enough.

I finished my glass of wine and put myself to bed, lying on my naked mattress that I hadn’t had the time or energy to make. And I cried. I let loose. Loud, hopeless sobs. I was in an empty house—so I thought—there was no one to judge me.

Bottle. I will be honest with you here.

I don’t know how long it took for me to hear it. Or perhaps I didn’t hear it but sensed it. The other sound. The other voice. It was almost as if it were attempting to harmonize with me. Or intentionally hiding beneath my sobs, obscuring itself. I bit my lip, covered my mouth to silence my own voice, to listen for it. But when I was quiet, it was quiet.

When I let go, fell back into my wailing, surrendered to my grief, to my tears, it came back.

Laughing. Throaty, hideous, soul-chilling laughter. Evil. Someone, something, laughing at me as I cried.

10

My phone rings—a jump scare. It’s Daphne. The book unsticks from my grip, and I pick up the call.

“We were promised coffee,” she says. She’s mildly annoyed, which is my favorite Daphne. She gets a little plucky when she’s pissed. “Why does it take you forever to do anything? Where the fuck are you?”

She drops her voice to a whisper. “Dude. Are you at the house?”

“Yes.” I’m too rattled not to tell her what happened.

“So, I was right. Only it was a mouse instead of a spider.”

“You’re focusing on the wrong thing. I felt…it felt…off in there.”

“The house doesn’t need an exorcism, Clio. It needs an exterminator and an electrician,” she says. “You just freaked yourself out.”

“Yeah, but when’s the last time something freaked me out?”

She’s quiet for long enough for me to ask if she’s still there.

“If you changed your mind after seeing how shitty the house is, you can just say that. No one will care.”

“Forget it.” I start the car. “I’ll be home soon. What do you want from Starbucks?”

“Nothing. There’s a better coffee place near Dad’s,” she says. “I’ll text you. But pay attention to the road. You suck at driving.”

“I’m a Manhattanite.”