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She came to me and set the letters down on the narrow writing desk I was standing beside.
“Is it Adelaide’s letters you’re interested in, or Augustus’s?” she queried.
Both.
But I said, “Augustus’s. His last.”
“That would be this one,” she told me, pulling an end of the blue ribbon. It came untied and fell away. She removed it entirely and then offered me the second set of gloves. “If you don’t mind,” she murmured.
I said nothing. I simply took them from her and put them on.
She handed me the letter that was on top of the stack.
“Is that all?” she asked.
I took her in.
It was like she’d come in here to do just this for me.
It was a strange feeling, and I didn’t like it in the slightest.
“Since I got here, every night, I’ve had dreams,” I shared.
“Yes. I told you. This house can be overwhelming.”
“I don’t think it’s the house.”
“What would it be?”
“An overactive imagination. Ian telling me stories. Portrait galleries and carnation bouquets. Subliminal messages.”
She tilted her head to the side much like she did to Lou that first night at her dining table.
“Do you think the people who lived in a place didn’t leave anything in it, even after they were gone?” she inquired.
“Do you mean ghosts?”
“Oh no, there are no such things as ghosts. Do you think you’ve seen a ghost?”
Was she trying to make me feel like I was as crazy as all this seemed?
“No. I think someone, or someones plural, are making me want to believe there are ghosts.”
“Brittany?”
“Whoever,” I said vaguely.
“The house likes you, Daphne,” she stated decisively.
What.
The.
Fuck?
That certainly defined my “whoever.”
I mean, I felt the house had something to say to me, but not in reality. Doing it by invading my dreams.
