Page 65 of Play Nice

I consider my responses. I could tell him how pretty he is, change the subject. I could be combative, say I’m not grieving because it’s impossible to grieve someone I didn’t know, whose memory is shrouded in lies. Or I could confess that I think my house is in fact haunted. That for all her mistakes, all her fictions, all the chaos she created, Mom might have been right about Edgewood.

But if I tell him that, and he doesn’t believe me, this will be over.

If I tell him and he does believe me, I’m not sure what then.

“It’s not grief,” I say, which is truth adjacent. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m not avoiding the house because it makes me sad. I’m just used to the city. To constant movement. People everywhere. I’m a social creature.”

“Fair enough,” he says. He’s not convinced, but he can take a hint. “Lucky for you the neighbors are friendly.”

“Lucky me.”

—

Austin accepts my invitation to sleep over. I take him to Leda and Daphne’s room, press the two twin beds together. It’s not comfortable, but it’s fine. More comfortable than being here by myself.

The house feels different with him here. It’s smellier—he stinks of diner grease and weed and sweat. Louder—he snores. Warmer—he spoons me, which usually I hate but currently don’t mind, and is also necessary given the size of the mattresses.

I drift in and out of restless sleep.

At some point in the night, the door creaks open, the hinges holding out the note, and I become aware that there’s something in the room with us.

I keep my eyes shut tight, try to ignore the suspicion and go back to sleep.

I’m almost there when I feel the blanket slowly falling away. My feet are exposed. My ankles. It’s cold in the room, though I swear it wasn’t a second ago. Sweat freezes at the nape of my neck, at my temples. My toes go numb. A weird sensation travels up from my heels to my calves, a phantom tickling.

There’s breathing that could be my breathing. That could be Austin’s breathing. But then, why do I feel breath on my face? He’s behind me, and I’ve been holding in an exhale for so long my lungs are burning.

I could be dreaming. I could be imagining things. I could be remembering.

One night, I woke up to Mom stumbling down the stairs, down the hall. Heavy footsteps. Thud thud thud. I never slept with my door all the way shut, and I opened one eye to see the slice of light from the hall was interrupted by her figure. She stood in my doorway, watching me, breathing intensely. Panting. I shut my eye and pretended to be asleep. But I could feel her watching.

Eventually, I opened my eyes, and she was gone.

I open my eyes now, anticipating nothing, an empty room. What I see are two giant pale eyes staring back at me.

The next thing I see is the floor. It comes up to meet me. The impact makes everything dark.

“Shit! Are you okay?” Austin gently turns me over onto my back. “Fuck. Did I knock you out of bed? I’m so sorry. Clio? Breathe.”

I gasp. I only remember how to inhale.

“Clio,” he says. “Breathe. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

The exhale is cut short by a sob.

“Clio. Hey.”

“I’m fine,” I say, sitting up and pushing my hair out of my face. “Bad dream.”

“How’s your head? Your face? Do you want ice?”

“No, I don’t want ice. I don’t even have ice,” I say, looking around the room to see where it went. If it went. Whatever might have been here. “I’m fine.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of movement. A shape. A shadow. A strange protrusion. Long and narrow. It moves like a serpent behind the wall. Under the paint. It glides toward the door, and then it vanishes around the corner into the hall.

“Okay,” Austin says.

“Okay…” I don’t want him to know that I’m afraid. He can’t know. I manage a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.