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I’m trapped.
Her cheeks are pale with the unmistakable pallor of death. Her long dark hair hangs in strings over her eyes, and her eyes are as dark as a starless night; there’s no separating the pupil from the iris. Her eyes are black holes. The whites are tinged yellow. She opens her mouth, and her jaw pops with a sickening crunch. She tilts her head to the side, studying me.
I am frozen with fear as she reaches out one bloated finger and traces it along my jaw. I can hear the death rattle of her breathing, her exhausted lungs heaving, taking all the air they can, even though she knows her time is long gone.
It’s freezing. I can see our breath mingling together. For a moment, I wonder if she’s here to suck the life out of me. She takes my jaw in her clammy hand and looks me in the eye.
“Give me back what’s mine,” she yowls. She wrenches my neck to the side like she’s trying to snap it, grabs a hold of my braid, and yanks it back. I cry out as pain hisses its way up my skull.
“I’m trying to help you,” I squeak.
Beatrix shakes her head. “Go back where you belong.” She yanks my braid back again, and I feel the blood rush to my scalp. I clap my hand up against the back of my head and look back. But before I know it, she’s gone.
Chapter 2
Joseph
Theinsipidgirliscommandeering the coffee maker when I enter the kitchen the next morning. I glare at the percolating pot.
“Oh, sorry. Do you want some?” she asks. She’s wearing a black dress with a Peter Pan collar, and her bright red hair is twisted into two neat braids. She wears a pair of vintage Oxfords and black socks bunch at her knees. I stop myself from telling her that this house doesn’t need her dollar-store Wednesday Addams antics. We’ve got enough spooky shit without her sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.
Silently, I retrieve a mug from the cabinet above the stove and pour myself a cup of coffee. It occurs to me briefly that I may be judging her unfairly, but I know her type: she’s no better than the money-hungry podcasters and journalists who are itching to make a quick buck from my family’s lifetime of pain.
The only thing that separates her from a gossipy podcast is the shield of Idylewylde Foundation funds and the prestige of the centuries-old library. I suppose she’s competent. I looked at her resume before my mother hired her, and I was impressed: top of her class at Rutgers with a thesis on storytelling perpetuating myths in rural communities. When she saw the job posting for us, she must have thought she stumbled upon a pot of gold.
Wordlessly, she hands me the container of creamer. My breath hitches involuntarily when our hands meet. Despite myself, my cock stirs in my khakis. She’s pretty, with wide brown eyes and a smattering of freckles across prominent cheekbones. She’s trying to hide her curves beneath that dowdy dress, but it’s not working. Her full breasts and curves strain against the fabric. She’s gorgeous, but she looks exhausted. Already, there are dark circles beneath her eyes.
“Did you sleep okay?” I ask, trying my best to be courteous. Mother chewed my ear off last night after Eleanor went to bed. She said if she had to choose a house guest, it wouldn’t be me—I at least had a Penthouse in Manhattan to return to.
“I had Mother replace the mattress before you got here. I think the last one was from the fifties. We don’t have many guests here for, uh, obvious reasons.”
She pauses, chewing on her plump bottom lip. “I … the room’s great. I just had some weird dreams.” She choked on the word weird, and it gave me pause.
“Weird, how? Did my mother keep you up with her scary stories?”
“Not exactly. It was probably nothing. I mean, I used to sleepwalk in high school, and I used to get these horrific nightmares where it was, like … I was frozen.”
“You mean sleep paralysis?”
“Kind of, well, last night it happened again for the first time in years. It felt like someone was sitting on my chest. I could feel their kneecaps digging into my collarbone.” Her face pales.
“I get weird dreams when I travel sometimes,” I offer. It’s true. I’ve had trouble sleeping since I was a child. I’ve tried everything from melatonin to herbal tea that Ida, the receptionist at the ferry’s office, brews. Still, nothing will give me a full doctor-recommended eight hours of sleep. I’ve resigned myself to the life of an insomniac.
Eleanor’s shoulders relax. “Yeah, that’s probably it. I’m sure I’ll pass out tonight just fine.” She pours the rest of her coffee into a ceramic to-go mug and shrugs. “It’ll be fine. I need to get going, anyway. I can’t be late for my first day.”
“Good luck,” I say awkwardly moving to the side so she can slip out the door.
“Thanks,” she calls over her shoulder, offering a brief smile. I study the gap in her front teeth, feeling the glow of her attention. Idylewylde is usually freezing, but I can feel sweat clinging to the back of my neck.
I’ve been here for a month, but wrangling Wi-Fi never gets easier. By the time I convince my laptop to boot up for a video call with the investors for my latest app, I feel like I’ve run a marathon.
“Projections for this quarter may surpass quarter two,” my assistant Alan quips, his voice garbled through my laptop’s shitty speakers.
“Excellent, and the investors' dinner is still set for this Friday?”
“Yep, we’ll Photoshop you in.”
“Thank you for understanding. Again, I apologize for my absence. You think this fucking island would have at least one decent contractor.”
