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I’ve been reading about hauntings, and several books have mentioned how some “spirits” are less likely to make their presence felt when around a home’s true owner.
Which could be why they’re only making those terrifying noises, I think wearily, when Mr. Rochester’s away.
“Perhaps you’re missing me too much,” Mr. Rochester suggests.
“Yeah.” I don’t even have the energy right now to lie about my feelings. “That could be it.”
A pause, and then Mr. Rochester asks abruptly, “What’s wrong, Jane?”
“Nothing—-”
“Do you need to see a doctor?”
“Huh? No!” The jump from Point A to Point Z makes me dizzy. “I’ve just been having a hard time sleeping.” The idea of telling him about the hauntings doesn’t even occur to me. Even now, it still sounds silly to my ears, and besides he’s coming back tomorrow anyway.
So just one last night of haunting, I remind myself, and then it’s done.
“What time’s your flight?” I ask.
He tells me, adding, “But I’ll need to drop by the office first.”
An idea occurs to me, and I say slowly, “Is it okay if I wait for you here? I mean, I want to sleep in the office tonight.” The more I think about this, the more I’m convinced it’s the perfect solution. I’m so tired of the ghostly noises, and I just want to sleep eight hours straight for once.
“Why would you want to?”
“Because I, umm...” Shit. What excuse can I give? Racking my brains for an answer, I blurt out the first idea that comes to me. “I...want to give you a...a...welcome fuck?”
As soon as the words are out I want to kill myself.
“A...welcome fuck?” Mr. Rochester echoes the words blankly.
I can’t blame him. What the hell, Reed? Like, what the hell? But since I’ve already said it, might as well stick to it.
And so I say, “You heard me right.”
Mr. Rochester sighs. “You’re obviously lying, but...I’ll still take you up on your offer. I’ll let Maria know about the arrangements so no one will bother you. I’ll have Sam deliver a change of clothes to you as well.”
His thoughtfulness surprises me as always, and I say awkwardly, “Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do,” he murmurs devilishly, “when I have a welcome fuck to look forward to.”
The line goes dead before I can answer, and I stare at my phone for several moments, wondering if hitting my head with it will perhaps knock more sense into me.
Welcome fuck! Had I really promised Mr. Rochester a welcome fuck?
The realization makes me cringe, but even so it’s not enough to get my mood down. With every minute that passes I find myself increasingly buoyed by the knowledge that at least for tonight I won’t be troubled by any kind of hauntings.
By six in the evening everyone working at the penthouse floor has left, and an hour later I’m having dinner alone at the staff kitchen. Just being there makes me feel nostalgic—-
Everything started here, I think wistfully.
And so much has changed then.
Bunking in Mr. Rochester’s office that night turns out exactly as I predicted, and as soon as I curl up in the couch I drift into sleep, one that’s peaceful and completely uninterrupted by any kind of haunting.
The morning after, however, is a different matter. It’s around five in the morning when I hear sounds.
Shit.
Not again, and not here, too?
For long moments I remain under the duvet while waiting for my eyes to adjust the darkness. I see the faintest ray of light streaming from the windows, but it’s not enough to throw out the shadows in the room.
Eventually, I spy a figure near the desk—-
My heart stops.
Oh God. So this time it isn’t a ghost but an intruder, and the slight figure is bent over the CEO’s desk, ruffling through Mr. Rochester’s drawer.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
What do I do?
I fight to keep still when the figure suddenly turns towards my way.
Oh God. What if the person has a gun? What if he shoots me for no reason?
The figure keeps moving closer.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Closer and closer—-
Until I realize I’m not staring at a man. The intruder turns out to be a young female, and I almost gasp in surprise.
What the hell?
She doesn’t even seem a day older than sixteen!
My mind boggles at the idea, but I manage not to give myself away as the girl continues to stare at me.
Finally, she turns away, and I watch the intruder move towards the door, actually tiptoeing to keep her footsteps noiseless.
I bite my lip hard, struggling in my own fight for silence.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
The door closes behind the intruder.
I wait a few seconds, fearing it’s a trap and the intruder is just waiting to see if I’m awake.
A few more moments pass, and when nothing happens I jump off the couch, hit the emergency button, and tell security that an intruder’s been to Mr. Rochester’s office.
