27

I close the journal.

I’ve been reading for hours and it’s pitch black outside.

It happened here. It happened here in this house. Questions are tumbling in my head. What happened that night at the train station? Mr. Whitlock said Katherine was with them. I have to try the number for the Whitlocks again.

I take out my phone and stand up. It’s stifling in here and I need air. I go to the window and am about to push it open but stop when I look down below.

Nicole is standing there on the lawn. She’s looking up at me with a terrified expression.

“It’s your fault …”

The whisper to my left is coarse, like wet sandpaper.

I turn my head. Now Nicole is standing next to the bed, but it’s the broken, shattered Nicole with the lifeless eyes. I stumble backwards. I momentarily look down at the floor to regain my footing. When I glance back, she’s gone.

I don’t see her but I can feel it. It’s not over. There’s still something here, with me.

In a panic, I run to the bedroom door and throw it open.

Instantly, I’m hit by a wall of black mist. It surrounds me and seeps into my skin. Then, in the blink of an eye, it evaporates.

Everything about the hall is different but the same.

Gas lamps line the walls of the hallway, giving off a rich, soft glow. It’s like a dream and I never want to leave. This is a comfort I’ve never known.

The door to my bedroom at the end of the hall is open. The flickering light of the fire in the fireplace dances on the walls of the hallway, next to the open door.

I begin making my way down the hallway, running my hand down the wall.

This isn’t me … but it is me. I’m seeing this. I can feel the wall but I’m not doing this. I’m not in control. It’s like I’m locked inside myself, like before in the lake and in the living room.

The warmth of the fireplace fills the room as I enter. There’s my magnificent four-poster bed. The settee sits next to the vanity. The ornate dresser is in the corner. On the mantle over the fireplace is a photo of myself, my wife, and my daughter.

That’s not me. That’s not me in the photo. That’s not my family.

I’m never going to leave. We’re never going to leave. It’s so simple. I know what I have to do. The woman won’t come in here. She got in once, for a second, but not anymore. I won’t allow her in here.

With perfect calm, I walk over to the dresser. I run my fingers over the delicate carvings. I open the top drawer and pull out the derringer pistol. I open the drawer below and remove the bullets. I load them one by one and snap the cylinder closed, exactly as I remember it.

I go to the bed.

I can feel the gun in my hand. I can feel the weight but I’m helpless. I have no control. Stop! STOP!

I lie down on the bed and rest my head on the pillow.

I’m never going to leave this room. He’s never going to leave this room and he’s never going to find her.

I raise the gun to my head and point the barrel at my temple.

STOP! PLEASE!

I smile, close my eyes and begin to apply pressure to the trigger.

This is not the end. Only the beginning of perfection.

“DAD!”

It was Caitlyn, from somewhere downstairs.

Rage courses through my body, searing, uncontrollable.

I’m in control again.

My eyes fly open.

The black mist is hovering above me, pulsating, roiling. It suddenly streaks out the door.

I’m lying in my bed. The fireplace is cold and dark. Dust has settled over everything. The only picture on the mantle is that of Nicole and I on our wedding day. I look towards the dresser. Both the top drawer and the one below it are open. I turn and see the gun in my hand, pointed at my head.

I drop the gun and spring from the bed into the hall just as the black mist goes down the stairs, out of sight.

I sprint down the hall to the stairs.

“DAD!”

Caitlyn is in the basement.

I make it down the stairs to see the black mist go through the living room and dining room into the kitchen.

It’s moving too fast. It’s going to reach her before I do.

I turn the corner into the kitchen. The back door is open, as is the basement door.

“Caitlyn!” I yell, racing down the basement stairs.

The light is on.

I reach the bottom of the stairs.

Caitlyn is kneeling on the floor in the exact spot where I saw Katherine.

The shadowy fog is behind her, like a beast waiting to strike.

Caitlyn stands, facing the mist. She slowly turns to me. Her eyes are filled with terrified tears.

“… Dad?” she chokingly whispers.

“Caitlyn, don’t move.”

“Dad, please. Don’t let it get m—”

I take a step towards her.

The mist bursts outwards. A split second before it envelops Caitlyn, there’s a brilliant flash of light, so blinding that I have to shield my eyes. I can feel the cold swirl around me.

Everything goes quiet.

I lower my arms.

The black mist is gone.

So is Caitlyn.

I’m alone.

“… Caitlyn?”

I spin around and search the shadows.

“Caitlyn?!”

She’s not here.

I quickly check the corners and crannies, calling her name.

I run upstairs to the open back door, still calling her name, but there’s no response.

She was here. I saw her.

I run through the dining room and living room. I look behind every bit of furniture and in every possible hiding place.

“Caitlyn?!”

I run up to the second floor and check all the rooms. She’s here. She has to be here, somewhere.

I end up in her room, almost unable to breathe. It’s like I’m having a heart attack and I’m still yelling her name. I can’t keep my hands still as I look around her r—

There’s condensation on the mirror of her vanity.

The air grows colder as I get nearer.

I stand in front of the vanity and look in the mirror.

My reflection isn’t there.

But Katherine is.

She’s wearing her soaked nightgown and her head is inclined towards the floor. Her wet hair hangs down, obscuring her face.

The condensation on the lower half of the mirror is growing. I can see my breath in the air.

“Where is Caitlyn?” I ask.

There’s an excruciating silence.

Katherine doesn’t move.

Then, in the condensation, a line appears, drawn by a finger I can’t see, but can hear as it moves across the glass. The line become a letter, and then another letter, and another, written in a hand I’ve seen before on a whiteboard in a classroom.

The message becomes clear.

I start shaking my head and whimper, “No, no, no, no …”

My phone rings.

Shaking, I answer it.

“Hello?”

“Daniel? Hi. It’s Mildred. I’m sorry to call so late, but is Caitlyn with you? I heard the door slam and it woke me up. I went to check on Caitlyn but she’s not here. Please. Please tell me she’s with you.”

I can’t tell her what happened. I can’t tell her the truth.

“Yeah,” I stammer. “She’s here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She got a little homesick.” I pray the unsteadiness in my voice won’t give me away.

She blows a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God.”

“She … uh … Yeah. Sorry she worried you. I told her she shouldn’t do that, but she was really shaken up.” I keep my eyes on the mirror.

“It’s okay. I just wanted to know that she’s safe.”

“She’s fine. She’s getting into bed now.”

“Daniel, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, she, uh, she startled me when she came home.” I hate lying to Mildred but I have to.

“Okay. Her stuff is still here, if you want to pick it up tomorrow.”

“I will. Thanks, Mildred. Again, I’m really sorry about that.”

“It’s fine. As long as she’s safe. Good night.”

“Good night.”

She hangs up.

I begin taking in rapid gulps of air. I stare at the answer to my question, written in the fading condensation in the mirror …