I want to go home. Like, drive to California home.
I really want to find a less trashy bar and have a few drinks.
I definitely do not want to go back to that creepy ass house, but I have to. I can’t go anywhere and get drunk because how will I get home? And the thought of stumbling back into that creepy ass space in the middle of the night, drunk, with that feeling of someone watching me? Nope. Not an option.
So, I point my car back for home. On the way, I stop by a convenience store to pick up some bottles of water and snacks. When I pull into the driveway, I don’t give myself time to think; I can’t let this house psych me out. As soon as I put my car into park, I jump out and go to my U-Haul hitch. I unlock it and just start carrying things into the house. I haven’t even opened any of the doors on the second level, and whenever I think about the fact that there’s an attic, I imagine setting it on fire, but I move in nonetheless. I just pile all my boxes in what I think was a dining room until all that’s left in the trailer is my bed frame and mattress.
I need to find a place for that and fast.
“Hey, neighbor.”
I jump at the sound of someone else’s voice in the doorway, but I have never been more excited to have a neighbor all up in my business in my entire life. This time, I turn to…whatever his name is with a big ole smile on my face.
“Hey, neighbor,” I call back.
“Unpacking?”
“Unloading,” I say. “Don’t have much. Just the bed frame and mattress left, actually.” I’m hinting real hard, but I’ll hint harder if need be. As it happens, though, I don’t need to leave the door open any more than a crack.
“Need some help?” he asks. He sounds excited. Greedy?
“Absolutely,” I say and lead him back outside to the U-Haul. “Give me a hand?”
We each grab a part of the bed frame, and he follows me back into the house.
The thing about pride is that it almost always leads to disaster, but in this moment, it’s like a shot of pure adrenaline to me. I ride the wave of prideful foolishness and feel as if I can do anything. I don’t let myself think as I walk back through my front door and head upstairs. I pretend that I don’t still feel as if something or someone is watching. I don’t react to my neighbor’s whistling wonder and exclamation of, “Is all this woodwork original?”
On the second story, I stop to choose a door at random. Whichever one I open is the one I’m going to set up as my bedroom, period. I don’t care if there’s a hole in the floor or the ceiling or if there’s an angry racoon living in the closet — that animal might be a better roommate than Miranda. It’s like the worst guessing game ever, but this is my life now.
On the second-floor landing, I turn around in a full circle.
There’s a banister around the landing to look down on the staircase and foyer. My eyes catch on the double doors across the hall at the front of the house, and I feel…something. Like a tug in my chest. I know immediately that whatever’s behind those double doors is my room. I hold the piece of the bed frame tighter in both arms and walk toward those doors. Once again, I don’t hesitate. My hand is reaching for the door handle before I’m even close. And when my fingertips brush the marred metal, it’s cold — way too cold for spring in Louisiana. I push the door open. As soon as my foot crosses the threshold, I feel that freezing blast of air go through my body again.
But it’s different this time.
I shiver.
I shudder.
It feels like there’s electricity shooting up my spine.
I’m also a little hard.
I step into the room with gasping breaths and the beat of my own blood pounding through my veins.
“This is beautiful,” my neighbor says, but he sounds like he’s far away.
I turn to him with wide eyes, wondering if he felt whatever that was in the doorway, even though I know that he didn’t.
That was just for me. Mine.
He places the plank in the middle of the room and walks out as if nothing is amiss.
And then I’m alone in this room. My room.
I think.