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I can’t explain it, but I’ve been in the attic quite often throughout this past week, with the renovations finally moving forward. Even if I go up there at nine A.M., I always get the feeling that I’m not up there alone. It’s like I can feel someone’s eyes boring holes into the back of my neck, even though logically I know I’m there by myself. I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching and waiting.
I know the floors are old and creaky, but they don’t creak like it’s windy or the house is settling. The floors creak like someone is shifting their weight from one foot to the other. No matter how hot the rest of the house is, the attic is freezing.
Eleanor is the only person other than me who’s spent extended periods of time up there. I need to know I’m not going insane.
“You mean the attic? Yeah, it’s unsettling, especially when you consider how it was such a significant location for Beatrix and Martin.”
“I never feel like I’m alone when I’m up there. It’s weird. I feel like I’m being watched.”
Eleanor looks up at me, her dark eyes shining in the firelight. Crowded over the newspaper, our faces are close. I can feel her breath warm and sweet, wafting over my top lip when she speaks.
“The eyes on the back of your neck feeling, isn’t it?” she asks.
I nod slowly. I reach out and trail my finger along her delicate jaw. We’re close enough to kiss. All I need to do is close the distance between us, but that would be wrong, wouldn’t it? Doesn’t the library have some sort of anti-fraternizing policy? I back away at the last second, leaning back onto my palms.
Eleanor clears her throat and readjusts her bun. It’s awkward, but the moment passes.
“Exactly,” I say. “How did you know?”
She stares at me head-on. “Because I feel it, too.”
I can’t sleep, as always. My mind is filled with visions of Eleanor and our almost kiss. I feel foolish. I should’ve gone for it.
I close my eyes and picture Eleanor, standing at my doorstep wearing a sheer nightie, as I reach my boxers and grab my already-throbbing cock. I work my hand along the shaft as I fantasize about capturing her lips in mine and pinning her up against the wall. My hands roam her soft curves, squeezing the flesh of her ass. I slip a hand beneath her nightie and play with her nipple. She moans in pleasure. I elongate my strokes as I imagine her writhing and melting at my touch.
In my fantasies, she reaches down and frees my cock from my boxers before kneeling before me and taking me in her mouth. I picture how her soft lips would pucker as they circled my cock, the warmth of her lips around me, and I come with a grunt, spilling my seed onto the sheets and wiping my hand with a tissue from the bedside table.
When I do finally fall asleep, I dream of Eleanor. I’m kissing the back of her neck. My tongue trails along her shoulders. I move her hair out of the way, and she turns to face me.
She grabs my face between her hands and forces me to look at her. The flesh of her face is peeling off in bright red ribbons. Her cheekbones are exposed. I can see the layers of muscle, the bright yellow of fat. One of her eyeballs is loose in the socket. I can see the vein twitching as she forces me to confront her.
She brings me close. Her breath smells like something rotting. I reach out to touch her, and when I draw my hand away, there’s a loose flap of her skin resting on my index finger. Panic grips like a vice around my neck. I’m frozen in terror. My muscles are screaming at me to do something: run, push her, move at all, but I can’t move an inch. A cold sweat breaks out across my forehead.
She kisses me, but her teeth are much too sharp.
I scream.
I wake up in a cold sweat.
Chapter 5
Eleanor
Twoweeksaftermypresentation, the island is covered in an ochre blanket of bright leaves as the chill of fall settles in the air. It’s gorgeous. On the days that I work from Idylewylde Hall, I spend my lunch break roaming the beach. The air is biting and chilly, but it feels atmospheric.
Even though it’s only mid-September, I discover that the residents of Weatherby love Halloween. Plastic pumpkins nestle in the front window of the grocery store. The library digs up its cache of books about modern-day witchcraft and a first edition of Edgar Allan Poe that a distant Idylewylde relative supposedly donated.
Houses turn their front lawns into graveyards and puts sticky, fake blood on their front windows.
The only place in town that doesn’t want to take part in the festivities is perhaps, the only legitimately haunted place in town: Idylewylde Hall itself.
While Iphigenia gushes about the paper spiderwebs,he hangs in the windows, Joseph scowls and says he probably won’t even leave out candy for trick-or-treaters this year.
I’m upstairs, digging through my suitcase to find a warmer pair of tights, when I hear the rich timbre of the doorbell for the third time this morning.
“What do you want?” Joseph harrumphs.
“I-I-I was supposed to ring the doorbell for a d-d-d-dare,” a child stutters, clearly terrified. Now that Halloween is drawing near, the number of local children and tourists who want to get a look at the island’s very own haunted house has increased tenfold. Dozens of neighborhood children ding-dong ditch at all hours of the night.
