Page 16 of Possess Me

I tell myself it was only a dream. The stories about Vivien’s murder. The strangeness of this house. The bracelet and the journal. All of that meshing together as my mind weaves a spiderweb of tales. Me, Vivien. Damien, Carlton. But it’s not real. It’s only my mind playing tricks. Nothing more than dreams and imagination.

I lay back down, my body pressed against Damien’s as I close my eyes and try to slide back into sleep. But the words keep me awake. Soft words like whispers. A dream, I think, wondering if sleep has finally come for me. But the whisper is far away, and my body goes tense as I try to listen. As I try to make out the words that are just beyond the edge of hearing, curling through the dark like an insidious secret.

I tell myself it’s not a voice. Just the sounds of the night. The wind. An owl. The house settling or a breeze ruffling the leaves of nearby trees.

But I know it’s something else. Something worse.

Something terrifying.

I hesitate, taking a moment to make up my mind. I know I should stay beside Damien. I know I should ignore it—whatever it is—because most likely it’s my mind playing tricks.

But even knowing that, I can’t ignore the lure of the whispers, and I slip out from under the covers, doing my best not to disturb Damien.

My bare feet meet the cool wood floor, and I shiver. The air feels colder than before, almost damp, and the sensation of being watched prickles at the back of my neck. I glance back at Damien, wondering if he’s awake, but he’s still lost in his dreams.

I slip on the sheer robe, then ease out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me and wincing at the creak of the hinges. The hallway stretches before me, and shadows dance in the light thrown by the wall sconces.

I move slowly, the uneven creaks of the floorboards beneath my feet marking each tentative step. I’m not sure where I’m going or why. I only know that I need to keep moving forward toward some unknown goal.

When I reach the living room, I let out a small sigh of relief. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but seeing the furniture in its familiar layout seems to ground me. At the same time, though, something feels off. As if the room has been holding its breath, waiting for something.

Perhaps even waiting for me.

I tighten the belt of the robe, fully intending to turn around and go back to bed. Instead, I settle into the armchair, then pull the soft, knitted blanket onto my lap. Vivien’s journal sits beside me on an end table, and I pick it up, the leather shockingly warm in the cold room. The weight of it surprises me, too—it’s heavier than it looks, as though it carries more than mere words within its pages.

Wistfully, I trace my fingertip over the snake imprint, still wondering why I hadn’t noticed it back at the hotel.

Not that it matters. All that matters is what’s on the pages.

I need to see what’s on the pages.

The words fill my head, yet I have the strangest sensation that they aren’t my words at all.

I push the disturbing thought down. This is Vivien Lorainne’s journal. The actual book she wrote in with her own hand. Perhaps she even sat in this very chair as she wrote. And now I have the chance to read her words. To get in her head. To come as close as possible to actually being my Hollywood idol.

I shiver, telling myself it’s from anticipation, not fear. And then I take one deep breath and start to open the book.

Except I can’t. The journal sits in my lap, my hand on the cover, but something is holding me back. I’d been so excited to win it, to own a piece of Vivien Lorainne’s life, but I can’t deny the cold fingers of dread that seem to creep up my spine.

I tell myself I’m being silly, then flip the journal open before I can talk myself out of it. The pages are yellowed with age, and I catch the faintest scent of old paper. The ink is faded but legible, and Vivien’s script, though small and curly—is readable.

I start at the beginning with Vivien’s thoughts about the post-war world and how the film industry was booming. She was excited by several projects, and was even starting her own production company.

I smile as I read, fascinated by not only her thoughts on her career and the world, but on the little things she included, such as the menu for the Thanksgiving dinner she held that year, and the guest list, which is a Who’s Who of Hollywood and politics.

Mostly, I’m enjoying reading entries on the routine of her life, such as the very first entry:

November 3, 1945

Spent the day at home, as Carlton insists I rest. He says filming Carousel drained me, and I suppose he’s right. The part was exhausting, and I keep replaying the final scene, wondering if my performance was enough. Carlton, of course, says I was perfect. And what I so love about him is that he truly believes that.

I can’t help but smile, loving how such simple words humanize the silver-screen goddess I’ve idolized for years.

Eager for more, I flip through the pages, skimming the entries even though I know I’m going to go back and read every word from the beginning. I’m about a month in when I see an entry that stops me cold.

December 4, 1945

Carlton’s restlessness is becoming trying. In so many ways he is still the tender, sweet man I fell in love with. And yet he’s been harsh lately in a way I can’t quite define. I fear that he is jealous, as he’s mentioned Basil again. I have no memory of the man, but Carlton insists that he made an appearance at the garden party last month, and that he has been lingering around the studio. I suppose he could be a fan, though it is frustrating that Carlton insists that I must have seen him, and when I deny knowing even what the man looks like, he fumes, clearly not believing me.