Dalton
I coat my brush in paint and dab it gently against the wall in the cigar room. With each stroke, the wallpaper is coming back to life. Sunlight drifts through the windows, highlighting the dust my movements disturb with each flick of my wrist.
It’s nearly 2:00 in the afternoon. I’ve been fighting the urge to storm into Layla’s room and wake her up, demanding answers.
Something happened to her last night. The look on her face and hurt behind her eyes sets my soul on fire every time I think about our encounter in the hallway early this morning.
Something happened, and whoever did it… they made her think it was me.
I clutch the brush so tightly it snaps.
“Fuck.” I growl, tossing the pieces onto the plastic at my feet. I rest my hand against the wall, then press my forehead to it, closing my eyes for a moment. “You fucking bastard,” I whisper to the room. “I told you to leave her alone. We made a deal.”
I’m met with silence, like usual.
Frustrated, and unable to focus, I leave the cigar room. I turn the corner on the second floor that leads to the main hallway and pause, my hand on the railing of the stairs leading up to the third floor. Voices drift up from the first level of the house–The Wilsons. And, to my surprise, Layla. She’s not asleep after all.
“Stop it, Robert. You’re going to scare her!”
“I want to know!” Layla pleads.
I edge down the hallway, my footsteps practically silent on the floorboards, and press myself against the wall closest to the stairs leading down to the foyer.
“It’s common knowledge, Helen. Hell, the historical society has been pushing that lawyer to let them put a plaque on the front gate for some years now.”
“A plaque for what?” Layla exclaims, her voice lifted in a laugh.
“The victims of a murderer, which are said to have been lingering here on this property for quite some time.” Helen breathes, annoyance lacing every word, “Which, I might add, is not true. The plaque part, at least.”
“A murder?” Layla gasps, but it’s exaggerated, like she isn’t surprised in the slightest.
“Apparently. No one has been able to prove it.” Robert chuckles, sighing deeply.
Layla cuts in. “Curtis already told me about the family deaths and fires. He didn’t say anything about a serial killer!”
“See, Robert? This is why I told you to keep your mouth shut.”
“It’s just rumors, darlin’,” Robert says to Layla. “But… I’ll tell you, if you really want to know.”
Helen groans, mentioning something about going out back to talk to Curtis.
“I do want to know.”
“Well, I’ll tell you over a plate of that lemon Bundt cake Helen brought.”
Layla’s voice retreats as she agrees.
They must be walking into the kitchen. I glance over my shoulder at the doors stretching down the hallway then carefully walk down the stairs, avoiding spots I know will creak if I step down too hard.
“I’ll tell you, Miss Layla, that this isn’t a serial killer by any means, first and foremost. Secondly, this is all part of the rumor mill, so don’t buy any stock in what I’m about to say.”
“Based on what Curtis told me, Hahnville has a very active rumor mill,” Layla replies over the sound of clattering dishes. “Do you want a big piece or a small piece?”
“Look at me, darlin’. Do you think I’ve ever asked for a small piece of anything in my life?”
Layla’s laugh is like music that settles in my soul. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her laugh so carefree before.
I stand at the bottom of the stairs acutely aware of every sound–of Robert and Layla in the kitchen, of Bailey upstairs in Penny’s bedroom. The last thing I need is for Layla to catch me eavesdropping. I’m also aware of a shadow where it shouldn’t be in the formal living room to my right. I slowly turn my head toward the darkness, the corner of my mouth ticking into a sly smile.
“There was a strange death in Hahnville some thirty years ago now, back in the early nineties. A young man was found dead about a mile west of here, on the outskirts of the Gregory property.” Robert exhales, then continues, “Poor kid was shot six times in the head.”
“I imagine there wasn’t much left of his head if that’s true.”
“You’re right about that. Took ages to identify the man from what I remember. Around that same time, a woman showed up at a Greyhound station in New Orleans having a psychotic break of some kind. She ended up at an institution in Shreveport. Her name was Milly Appleborough.”
“We’re the two connected in some way?”
“Oh yes, but nobody knew for a long while. There was a second body found roughly eight years later–another man, but this time it was an officer in our local police force. He went missing for a year before they found his body half buried near the highway leading out of town. Awful mess, that one. The whole town was in a fit over it. Brutal killing, and his young wife ended up being the one who did it.”
“What?”
Robert clears his throat. I slowly sink down and sit on the steps, listening intently. “You heard me correctly, miss. His wife killed him, but she didn’t do any time, not in prison at least. She was insane, Layla. Lost her mind entirely. When she went down for her husband’s murder, they searched their house in town and found the bodies of her father and her brother buried in the crawlspace. They had her locked up at an institution up north, on the East Coast. She died there a few years ago.”
Layla’s sharp intake of breath echoes down the hallway between the foyer and kitchen. “That’s awful, but what does it have to do with this house?”
A creaking sound drifts down the hallway, likely from Robert shifting his weight in his chair. “The officer’s wife worked here for a few months before the murders. As did Miss Appleborough.”
“Were they nurses?”
“No. Miss Appleborough was a drifter, according to rumor. She came to town looking for work and ended up working here as a maid. The man who was shot in the face six times was a chef. He worked in the kitchen during the time when Ms. Penny was still somewhat with us. Miss Appleborough never admitted to the murder, but she couldn’t, really. She was in rough shape by the time the police were able to identify the man. Hadn’t said more than a few words since the police picked her up in New Orleans, and when she did talk, she rattled on about a demon living in the house and possessing the people inside of it.”
Layla says nothing, but I can imagine the look on her face right now.
Robert continues, “The officer’s wife, Shelby Morsgate, was said to be having an affair with someone living at this house before her killing spree. She came over and did the laundry every week, a volunteer thing for the church. Ms. Penny was pretty far gone by that point, in the early 2000s, and had a long line of nurses and doctors who worked here, as well as some that occasionally lived here, even for short periods of time. It’s rumored Shelby had an affair with one of Ms. Penny’s doctors, but nothing was ever confirmed.”
“So both women were connected to the house in some way, and they both killed their lovers--or husband?”
“Yes.”
My fingers curl over the edge of the step I’m still plastered to, unable to move if I wanted to. I’ve heard enough but can’t tear myself away without hearing Layla’s full reaction to the tales Robert spins for her over slices of lemon cake.
“And both women lost their minds?”
“Yes,” Robert says, matter-of-factly.
I glance back at the shadow, which seems to be getting closer. “Happy now?” I whisper.
The shadow evaporates like it had just been the result of a cloud passing over the sun, but a chill runs up my spine nonetheless.
I miss the later part of the conversation because of Bailey. I hear the door to Penny’s room open, then shut, and I waste no time darting outside to avoid being seen, closing the door quietly behind me.
I walk briskly across the driveway, glancing over my shoulder at the house and grounds. I spot Curtis and Helen talking in the backyard, but they quickly fade from view as I hurry down the driveway, cutting through a thicket of cypress trees.
It’s quiet out here with only the buzzing of insects and chirping of birds for company. The haze of summer beats down on my shoulders as I walk with no clear direction or idea where I’m going or why.
It’s not long before the back of my neck begins to prickle, and the forest falls silent.
I turn around, tucking my hands in the pockets of my jeans, and face the one I knew would follow me out here, especially after the conversation that passed between Layla and Robert.
“Nice of you to finally show your face,” I say dryly. “It’s been a while.”
He just stares at me, expressionless. His dark, unblinking eyes hold my gaze as I reach into my back pocket and pull out a cigarette. I bring it to my lips, light it, and then extend the carton to him. “Oh,” I chuckle darkly. “I forgot.” I tuck the carton back in my pocket and cross my arms. “Can’t smoke, seeing as you’re… what would you call it?”
The man narrows his eyes, standing unnaturally still.
“Dead?” I ask, my lips curling into a smile around my cigarette. “Or is that not the right term for it, in your case?”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as take a breath.
“I know what you did,” I tell him, exhaling smoke around the words. “I don’t appreciate you touching what I claimed as mine. You and I had a deal. She’s not part of this. She’s off limits. I had your word.”
Finally, his mouth flexes into an uncanny smile, like he’s not entirely sure how to make the motion. “You never said I couldn’t play.”
“This isn’t a game.”
He takes a single step forward. I refuse to retreat, even though every fiber of my being is screaming to run.
“Find someone else to fuck with,” I tell him sternly, viciously. “Leave Layla out of this.”
“It’s too late for that. I’ve had a taste. She’s a Gregory, and they’ve always been the sweetest.”
“And what does Penny think of all of this?” I ask sharply.
Amos’s smile fades, his eyes going darker than I thought possible. Penny is a sore spot for this fucker, whatever he is. She was his toy when she was younger, his loyal companion and servant, until she refused to bring him men to torment. Then, she refused to marry and have children, cutting off her family line. All because of him and the torture he’d inflicted on her family for generations.
“That’s what I thought,” I muse, taking a long drag from the cigarette before flicking it into the brush at my feet, stubbing it out with my shoe. “Let me guess. You have that old bitch Vera doing your bidding? Keep the mistress of the house out cold so you can pray on every person who sets foot through the door without her intervening?”
Amos eyes me coldly. Looking at him gives me a strange feeling, especially since he looks remarkably like me right now. He’s trying to, at least. He refuses to answer me, which tells me everything I need to know.
There’s one thing I’ve learned about demons during the time I’ve had to creep around this godforsaken hell-hole.
They’re fucking dumb. Childish, even. Unable to estimate the ripple effect of their actions.
“You’ve reneged on your end of the bargain. You touched Layla. You hurt her, you sick fuck. We’re done.”
“You’ll never be free of me.”
“You’ll never be strong enough to break me.” Like I said, I’ve lasted way longer than any of the men who’ve come before me.
The demon and I stare at each other for several long, drawn out moments.
“We’ll see.” Then, he’s gone.