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“It’s three in the morning. Did you have another nightmare?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Beatrix howling about how our children are demons, the usual.” I try to pass it off as a joke, but the concern etched in Joseph’s face tells me otherwise.
“You were thrashing. You ripped the comforter. You clawed at me.” He shows me his good arm covered in scratches. I look at my desecrated nails.
“I don’t know what’s real anymore,” I whisper.
“Whether I’m awake or dreaming, it’s all blurring together. There’s no use trying to tell it apart. The only thing that feels real is Beatrix. She’s coming for me, for us.”
“It will be okay. You heard my mother. We will figure out how to get her out of this house once and for all. You, uh, you’ve got your book!”
“It won’t help. She’s right. She is the house. She’s too powerful.” I’m sobbing again. Joseph holds me close.
“Just last week, you were ready to prepare a ragtag group of paranormal experts for an at-home exorcism.”
“I don’t know what to do now. What if we aggravate her, and it gets worse? We both know things have been escalating.”
“That’s all the more reason to figure this out once and for all,” Joseph says. “If not for us, then for my dad, for everyone who Beatrix has terrorized for centuries. None of us deserve to live like this.”
He kisses my forehead and tells me to go back to sleep. I hang off the edge of sleep for a while, terrified of what might await me in my dreams. Finally, I’m too exhausted to keep my eyes open. I awake when my alarm goes off at six, accidentally clutching a handful of the shredded comforter.
Iphigenia mentioned something about Evan knowing a psychic, so I cornered him during our shared lunch break at work. He’s in line behind me for the microwave, waiting to heat a container of stuffing. Beatrix’s ‘note’ burns a hole in the box on my desk.
“We need to talk,” I demand as the microwave beeps, and I remove my mismatched container of miscellaneous Thanksgiving sides.
“No holiday niceties? Just straight to the crux of the matter? I appreciate it, honestly. What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you after lunch,” I say. Evan and I inhale our leftovers and practically drag him over to my desk by his wrist.
“Look,” I say, pointing at Beatrix’s note.
“The suicide note? You showed me this already.”
“No, look closer. Look at the ‘o’s, see how they’re narrow?”
“Yes, what’s that got to do with anything?”
“That’s not Beatrix’s handwriting.” I unearth the deed from the box and hand it to Evan, “It’s Martin’s.”
He studies the two documents side-by-side and whistles.
“Holy shit,” he says, “This is incredible. I, damn! We’ll have to show the board. What else did you want to talk to me about?”
A victorious smile escapes my lips before I move on to the next question. "Do you think Idylewylde Hall is haunted?”
Evan nods, “The short answer is: hell yes. That place is as haunted as the day is long. That’s why we put out a national call for archivists instead of looking within the community. No one who lives here would touch your job with a ten-foot pole.”
“Thanks for that,” I mumble as I return the deed and the letter to their original plastic sleeves.
“Why are you asking me this now?”
“Things have been escalating. I was talking to Iphigenia, and she mentioned that you know a psychic who lives in Seattle?”
“Oh, he doesn’t live in Seattle anymore. He lives here; he’s my boyfriend, Dante.”
“Since when do you have a boyfriend?” Evan is so gentle. It’s hard to picture him dating anyone.
“Since this whole time! You never bothered to ask. I can give you his number if you want. I’ve wanted to give it to you for a while now, but Dante says I can’t interfere with the process. Clients need to come to him, not the other way around.”
