I’ve been sitting here at the dining room for hours, staring at Nicole’s ring, when Caitlyn arrives home from school.
Caitlyn stops when she sees the ring on the table in front of me. She doesn’t look surprised or scared, as if she knew what she was going to find when she walked through the door.
“How was school?” I mechanically ask. It’s an absurd question. It’s a reflex; some part of me is desperately trying to deny what’s happening, because that would make it real.
“Katherine wanted to show you she was sorry.”
This isn’t happening. This isn’t real.
“… I’m going to go to my room,” she says.
She waits for a response I can’t formulate and goes upstairs.
*
The sun goes down, and I’m still at this table.
I’m trying to rationalize this. Maybe Caitlyn found it on the shore and put it in her pocket. That has to be what happened. She’s trying to reinforce the existence of her imaginary friend. That’s all. Everything else can be attributed to my lack of sleep, the stress, what had happened with Denise, what’s happening with Caitlyn … right?
I can’t deal with this. I can’t deal with what’s right in front of me but I can’t ignore it. This is what it must feel like to have a psychotic break.
I need to let my mind escape, to run away from what is on this table. It feels like the air is pressing in on me. I keep expecting to see black fog building near the floor.
I have to focus on something else. I need normalcy. I have to do something else before I lose my fucking mind.
Something clicks.
It’s like the decision is made for me. It makes no sense, but it makes perfect sense.
I’ll escape into a world of my own making.
I’ll write.
I stand up and walk almost unconsciously to the Writing Room.
I sit at my desk, open up my notebook, and begin frantically writing.
It’s the most ridiculous nonsense I’ve ever written, but for some reason, I keep telling myself it’s good, even though somewhere deep down, I know this makes no sense. I’m writing a scene where my main character is chasing a girl down to the shore of a lake. I’m going into vivid detail, describing his rage and hatred of this girl. I have no idea who this girl is. She hasn’t been a character anywhere before. I’m so focused that I can see it in my head. I’m the main character, angrily chasing the girl to the water’s edge. I catch her by the hair and yank her backwards. She cries out. I shove her head under the water to quiet her screams. She struggles but she knows, she knows what happened, and she was going to tell, and no one could ever kno—
“I can’t sleep …”
I snap out of it. I’ve forgotten all about the ring. I’ve also forgotten about dinner.
“I’m sorry, pumpkin,” I say, looking up. “Did you want me to—?”
The doorway is empty.
“Caitlyn?”
The house is still.
I hold my breath in the silence.
… drip … drip …
It came from the living room.
I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to see. I want to close the door and wait for the sun to rise, but that would mean Caitlyn is out there with it, and I know whatever it is, it won’t leave us alone.
I step out of the Writing Room and look up the stairs. The only light is the dimmed glow coming from under Caitlyn’s door.
… drip … drip …
It’s in the dining room.
I quietly walk across the living room, into the dining room, and stop by the table. I search again for the source of the dripping water. I press my ear to the wall. Maybe it’s inside—
Clack.
I nearly cry out.
It came from the kitchen.
There’s a faint, rusty groan of a door opening.
I step into the kitchen and turn on the light.
The basement door is open.
I take out my phone and pull up the flashlight app. My hands are shaking so bad, I almost drop it. I point the light down into the darkness of the basement. Particles of dust drift in and out of the beam. I begin descending the stairs at an agonizing pace. I keep the light pointed to my left, to illuminate the basement as I continue down. Finally, I arrive at the landing at the bottom of the stairs.
The old wooden shelves sit against the stone walls. The single bulb hangs from the ceiling. I walk to the center of the room and pull the chain.
The bulb snaps on.
The shelves and carboard boxes sit undisturbed, collecting dust.
Everything is as it should be.
I release the air I’ve trapped in my chest and turn off the flashlight app.
Rational thought returns. I’ll call the plumber tomorrow.
I pull the chain again, plunging the basement into shadow, and begin walking back to the stairs.
“I can’t sleep …”
I stumble across the landing as I turn around.
A girl is standing in the middle of the room.
Her head is turned towards the floor. Her wet hair falls about her face, obscuring it from view. Her soaked nightgown clings to her frail body. Drops of water fall from the hem to the floor.
… drip … drip …
I scramble back against the wall and try to bring the light back up on my phone, but the image of the girl begins to fade.
As it fades, a soft whisper emanates from the shadows.
“I can’t sleep …”
August 2nd, 1900
I’m sorry that my last entry ended so abruptly.
I haven’t written for days. I couldn’t bring myself to describe what happened.
I didn’t want to write but I feel I have to. Something’s changed. He has changed. He changed that day, right there in the room. Of course, I was awkward and he was strong and forceful … I asked if he loved me. He wouldn’t answer. He only smiled. When I asked again, he grew annoyed and changed the subject, saying I should get back to the pharmacy before my father became suspicious.
After we dressed, we went downstairs to the front porch. I was still trying to make sense of it all. Then, I stupidly remembered Father’s request that he pay his account. Mr. Carrington found that terribly funny and laughed. When I asked him why it was funny, he said that of course, he would pay. He went back inside and returned with a ten-dollar note. I told him I didn’t have enough change. He laughed even harder and told me to keep it.
I felt stupid and ashamed. I asked when I would see him again, and he said, “When I need more deliveries.”
I became upset, which stopped his laughter, and made him more irritated. He told me to have a safe journey, went back inside, and closed the door.
I wept the whole way back to town. I’m not even sure why. I told myself that I was overreacting, but this time felt different.
I didn’t go to the pharmacy. I went home and took a bath. I took care to keep my hair from getting wet because Father would have noticed. Afterwards, I went to the pharmacy and found Father reading a newspaper.
“There you are,” he said. “I was beginning to worry.”
I told him that it was such a lovely day that I had taken a longer route back.
He asked about my bloodshot eyes and I told him that a bug had flown into my eye while I was riding to town. I gave him the ten-dollar bill and told him Mr. Carrington had paid his account. It made him happy.
I felt myself growing upset and asked if I could have the rest of the day off. He said I could.
I went home and didn’t leave my room for two days. I told Father I wasn’t feeling well, which wasn’t a total lie.
More days passed.
I felt more distant from Father than I ever have, not that we’ve ever been particularly close.
One afternoon, I made the mistake of asking when Carol might return. I thought that she might be someone to talk to, but Father spat back, “I don’t know and frankly, I do not care.”
He’s spending less and less time at the pharmacy, and more time at home, drinking, leaving me to run the store. He’s also warned me not to include our home address on any correspondence about the pharmacy. I can only assume it’s because of debt collectors.
There’s been no further word from Thomas, no orders or stops to the pharmacy.
And today, I had the most unwelcome visitor of all.
A group of young women were walking past the store window and one of them looked in. It was Patricia Fleming.
We locked eyes.
I could see her tell her friends to go on without her and she came in through the door.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
I was in no mood to play her little game, so I simply glared at her.
“Is that any way to treat a customer?” she asked.
“If you’re not making a purchase, I must ask you to leave.”
“All right, all right,” she said, in a way that indicated I was no fun. “I only wanted to know how your ‘business’ was with ‘Thomas’.”
“It’s fine,” I replied. “And there’s no point in lying about him to me. He told me what happened.”
She appeared shocked and angry.
“Told you what happened?”
I nodded.
“And what exactly did he say ‘happened’?”
“That you tried to become overly familiar with him and that he turned you away.”
Her shock and anger melted into a smile. “Oh. That’s what he told you?”
“Yes.”
“And you believed him?”
“Of course,” I answered, defiantly.
She began to laugh. “I can assure you it was quite the opposite. It was at their last Fourth of July Celebration. The handsome lecher tried to corner me in his office. I laughed in his face and told him I wasn’t his nanny. It’s only out of respect for his wife that I haven’t told anyone.”
I could feel my stomach sinking into the floor. I didn’t want to believe it.
“You’re lying,” I said.
“Believe what you like. It appears you already have.”
“Why would Thomas lie to me?” I asked, trying to fight back tears.
“Yes,” she said, mockingly. “Why would he lie?”
She knew as plainly as if I had told her.
I was stunned, mortified, but deep down, I knew she was right. I had suspected it as soon as I left the Nightingale House.
She shook her head in pity.
“Well, I’ll leave you to your work and your little ‘bliss’,” she said with a nod to the necklace.
She turned and walked out of the pharmacy.
Thankfully, there were no other customers, because I spent the rest of the day weeping in the storeroom.
I’m such a fool. Such an idiot.
After closing the pharmacy, I came home and locked myself in my room.
I never want to leave.