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I tell myself I’m all grown-up now. I shouldn’t be this chuffed to see a (former) celebrity whose posters used to adorn the walls of my bedroom. But I am – God help me, I am!
I strain to listen. But there is no twisting of the door’s handle. No opening of the somewhat whiny door.
He’s standing outside. Waiting.
Not coming in.
It’s a battle of wills. I’m willing him to enter. (No, I’m not.) He wants to enter . . . but maybe he doesn’t. I don’t know. I don’t know him at all. But I hope to. After I’ve read his diary. Which I will return to his study as soon as he goes away from my doorstep.
He stands out there for a good five minutes. I can almost hear his breathing. Then again, it might be Jeffrey. No, I’m sure it’s not Jeffrey. Jeffrey would barge right in, usually with a tray of pretty tasty edibles.
Then the footsteps slowly pad away. I breathe a sigh of relief. I hear the opening of a door down the corridor, and then the quiet shutting of it.
I hope it’s not the study.
I shouldn’t have taken the diary. But since I have, I might as well rifle through it. Maybe he will throw me out on my ass if he discovers I have taken it. Maybe he won’t discover I’ve taken it. I don’t know.
Haste makes me shimmy the diary out from under the sheets and flip through the pages. There are spools and spools of his spiky handwriting. He doesn’t write much. Certainly not every day. My practiced eye glimpses certain phrases that stand out.
I don’t know how much longer I can live like this.
The headaches are getting worse every day. Intolerable.
He was here again. I know he was. He wants to kill me. Take over this house completely.
And then a page right around one thirds into the journal. The writing here is different. The words are angry, jagged.
FUCK YOU.
FUCK YOU.
FUCK YOU.
Followed by a few torn pages.
Unease burrows under my skin.
The journal entries begin again a few pages after.
I can’t contain him anymore. I can’t predict what the triggers are. All I know is that he is becoming more powerful.
6
I manage to sneak the diary back into the drawer of the study desk. I don’t know if Ethan Greene has found out if it’s missing or not. But Jeffrey has not come in to update me on my status as a guest. Since I haven’t been thrown out yet, I can only assume I have not been discovered.
Ethan Greene’s journal entries point to an immense conflict. There’s a huge story here, and the familiar journalistic excitement churns within me again to uncover the truth. Of course, it’s a truth that Ethan Greene may want to keep hidden, but that’s the way of journalism, isn’t it? If there’s a story, there’s a story – be damned the consequences.
But I cannot suppress the sense of guilt that rises like bile to my throat. I am saved by a knock on the door.
“May I come in?” Jeffrey’s voice. Now that I’m up and about, he wants to be certain I’m decent before he barges in on me naked.
“Yes.” I compose myself and aim for a look that is half-ill but not too ill. I don’t know if I have managed to pull it off with aplomb.
Jeffrey comes in. He’s not carrying a tray. I have come to associate Jeffrey with trays. I have so many questions, of course, but I can’t ask Jeffrey any of the really burning ones.
“Is your boss home already?” I ask casually. “So soon?”
“Yes.” He raises himself to his full height. The top of his head almost touches the doorway. “He has requested the pleasure of your company for dinner tonight.”
Oh shit. This is good.
I mean this is not good.
What am I going to wear?
7
I’m nervous as I descend the stairs. It’s quite a feat to make myself up to look pale and wan and not quite as attractive as I would have liked to be in front of this once strikingly gorgeous man. Of course, I don’t know what he looks like now. For all I know, my theory of the sorrowful, twisted Phantom of Pine’s Lookout may still hold true.
I have no excuse to want to appear attractive for Ethan Greene, of course. I do not expect anything from him. Nor do I want him – not in that sense. He’s a total stranger. He’s got issues – I don’t know what they are, but he’s certainly got them. He’s a recluse. He is seriously weird. He’s eccentric. Bad rumors about his conduct swirl around the town, propagating his myth of illicit practices and mayhem. He was even investigated by the police for the disappearance of a hooker, for Chrissake.
It occurs to me that this could be the start of my unraveling. The first footnote in the case of what could be my mysterious disappearance.
