Bailey
Something sinister is watching me from across the swamp.
I stand in the window of Robert’s bedroom, squinting out into the oppressive darkness, but there’s nothing much for me to see. The emergent structure of the nearly finished house juts out over the tops of the cypress trees like the horns of some monstrous beast. Beyond, the swamp lies swathed in humid shadow, as still and silent as the graves that sink ever deeper into the putrid muck.
Whatever waits for me in the marsh, it doesn’t show itself. Not tonight, at least.
I shiver and draw the blinds, blotting out the night beyond the window.
Beside me, Robert doesn’t stir. He’s been asleep for about half an hour now after receiving another dose of pain medication. Hopefully, he’ll slumber through the night. I’ve already cleaned and bandaged his wound, so there’s not much for me to do now other than check in on him periodically. I decide to head downstairs to the kitchen and make a cup of coffee to help keep me awake throughout the remainder of my shift.
With gentle footsteps, I cross the room and slip out into the hallway beyond. Helen’s left the landing light on for me, and I’m grateful that I don’t have to feel my way downstairs in the dark.
I make my way down quickly, darting through pools of shadow as I go. It feels like I’m a kid again, like I’m running from half-believed monsters reaching for me in the darkness. By the time I step into the warm light of the kitchen, my heart is hammering in my chest as though I’ve run a marathon. Though I know it’s silly, I glance over my shoulder into the inky blackness of the first floor, just in case something really is nipping at my heels.
There’s nothing there, of course.
I blow out a shaky breath. I feel foolish for being so on edge, but if I’m entirely honest with myself, I’ve been off kilter since Tanner and I went on our failed trip into town over the weekend.
The fine hairs on the back of my neck prickle to life as I recall the unfamiliar hands that had roamed my body in the club. At the time, I had thought that the thing had looked like Layla’s boyfriend Dalton, but now I wonder how I could have ever drawn that comparison. It had been so wrong, so other. How could I have ever thought it was human?
The worst part wasn’t even how the thing had violated me. No, it’s how I acted after that really scares me. I was so frightened that I’d clung to Tanner with strength I barely even recognized. The next morning, I was horrified to see that I’d marred his sculpted chest with long red scratches, deep enough to draw blood. Tanner insisted that it was fine, but he had been acting so strangely since then.
Had I done more than just hurt him physically?
“Stop it,” I whisper out loud to myself. There’s no use in jumping down that rabbit hole again. I decide to bring it up to Tanner first thing tomorrow morning before he leaves for the construction site, and my mind quiets a little in the face of my resolve.
Moving on autopilot, I kick myself into gear and start the process of putting on the coffee. Soon enough, the kitchen is filled with the gurgling hum of the percolator. It’s a comforting sound, just loud enough to drown out the coiled silence of the night without waking the couple sleeping upstairs.
Once the coffee is done, I pour myself a cup and then settle at the broad kitchen table to read. I’m halfway through a romance novel, one of those British regency ones where everybody wears elaborate dresses and drinks tea with chaperones. As I lose myself in the tapestry of letters, I can’t help but picture Tanner as the dashing male lead. I bet he’d look delicious in one of those high-collared jackets and an ascot.
Thump.
A soft sound on the stairs jolts me from my drifting thoughts.
All at once, my heart strains against my ribs in a frantic tattoo. I sit rigidly in my chair, spine taught as ice curls down my vertebrae. My eyes strain to see something, anything, moving in the darkness beyond the kitchen doorway.
And then relief washes through me as Helen steps into the light.
I exhale loudly, my body sagging back into the chair.
“Oh, honey! Did I scare you?” Helen fusses, bustling over to give me a soothing half-hug. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“It’s fine,” I say, though my voice shakes a bit from the sudden rush of adrenaline.
The older woman pulls back to regard me and frowns. I know I have dark circles under my eyes that my foundation doesn’t quite cover. “Have you been sleeping, honey? I’d hate to think these night shifts are taking a toll on you,” she chides.
I shake my head. “I’m just a little jumpy, that’s all.”
Helen’s frown deepens. I don’t miss how her eyes flicker toward the window overlooking the backyard and the swamp beyond before her gaze returns to me. “Is everything okay?” she asks, her voice low as though she’s worried somebody, or something, might be listening.
For a moment, I consider telling her about what’s happened, but how am I supposed to explain it to somebody as practical and reasonable as Helen?
My pause is too long. I half expect Helen to push, but instead, she points at the mug still clutched in my hands and asks, “Is there enough for two?”
“Sure,” I nod, relieved that she seems to have dropped the subject.
The night seems clearer now that Helen is here with me. I watch her as she retrieves a mug from the cupboard and pours herself a generous helping of caffeine. Her movements are sure and familiar, reminding me of my mom.
Once her coffee is prepared, Helen settles into the chair beside me. For a moment, we’re silent against the nightly backdrop of humming insects and the wind murmuring through the gnarled branches of the cypress trees.
Finally, Helen speaks. “How was your weekend away?” she asks. I sense that there are other questions brewing beneath the surface of her words, but I choose to answer only the one put in front of me.
“It was fine,” I reply in what I hope is a cheerful tone.
Helen raises an eyebrow and takes a sip from her mug. “Just ‘fine’?” she prods. “You’re telling me that that handsome man of yours took you to a fancy hotel in town for the weekend, and it was just ‘fine’?”
Normally, I probably would’ve blushed at the older woman’s insinuation, but now I just shrug. “We had a good time,” I lie.
It’s clear that Helen is not convinced. “Is something going on with you and Tanner?” she inquires. “Are you two fighting? Or are you…” Her voice trails off, but she completes the thought by gesturing to her stomach.
“No, nothing like that!” I squawk, my cheeks reddening. “We’re just…going through a rough patch, is all.”
“He’s not hitting you, is he?”
“Absolutely not!” The question raises my defenses, but I don’t want to snap at Helen like that, not when she’s only looking out for me. “I’m sorry,” I apologize meekly. “Tanner’s a good man, he’d never do anything to hurt me. He’s just been so busy at the old Gregory place. I think it’s taking a toll on both of us.”
Concern flashes across Helen’s features. “Have you been spending much time out there?” she asks. It’s an innocent enough question, but her words are laced together with worry, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s ever seen shadows shifting out there late at night.
I shake my head, hopefully assuaging her fears. “I haven’t been back since the fire,” I say. “Tanner doesn’t want me anywhere near there. He says that all it’ll take is one good flood and the swamp will swallow that house up whole.”
“He’s right, you know,” Helen sighs, relief evident in her tone. “He must be almost finished by now.”
“Just a little bit longer,” I confirm.
We fall silent once again. Questions roll through my mind, but I have no idea how to pose any of them without Helen thinking I’m a few cards short of a deck. After a long moment, I finally decide on a safe bet and ask, “Have you talked to Layla recently?”
Helen’s eyebrows shoot up. “No,” she replies. “Why?”
I hesitate for a second before blurting out, “I thought I saw Dalton.”
Alarm storms through Helen’s eyes. “Dalton? Layla’s boyfriend? You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I thought I saw him at the club,” I explain. “But I don’t know if it was him. It was… weird.” It’s the understatement of the year, but I don’t know how else to frame it in a way that doesn’t make me sound like I’ve lost my mind.
“Maybe you should call Layla,” Helen suggests. “I’m sure she can help.”
I nod along. “I owe her a chat anyway.”
But really, I don’t know what I would say to Layla if I called. Hey, your boyfriend, who looked really demonic for some reason, did unspeakable things to me in a club? Best case, it really was Dalton, and it would only cause Layla pain to know what he had done. Worst case, I would be dragging Layla back into the nightmare she had survived in her tenure as Penny’s night nurse.
Layla had never actually told me much of what had happened at the old Gregory place. I knew that it was bad, and that Dalton had saved her somehow, but she hadn’t ever said much more than that, and I hadn’t pushed. And she seems so happy in Florida, away from the shadows of the swamp. Could I really shatter her peace like that?
No, I decide. I’ll leave it alone.
Helen stays in the kitchen for a bit longer, and I’m grateful for her company. But after a while, the night overtakes her, and she retires upstairs with a yawned goodnight.
Once the house is quiet again, I get up and wander to the windows that overlook the backyard. The swamp stares back at me, festering in the humid darkness.
Inevitably, my focus drifts back toward the cemetery and the unfinished building that peers over the tops of the cypress trees. The newly installed windows gaze back with matte eyes, and I shiver.
The place is terrible in the dark. But I know that under the harsh summer sun, the shadows shrink back, and the ghosts that reside there have nowhere to hide.
I’ll go there tomorrow morning, I decide. I’ll face that wretched house in the burning light of day and curse out whatever skulks there.
It’s only a house, I tell myself.
It’s only a house.