Tanner
Three stories is a hell of a long way down.
I’m standing at the window Henri fell from, my feet planted where his must have been less than twenty-four hours before. I imagine the pressure of two hands on my shoulder blades, of the sudden weightlessness as gravity takes hold. Had Henri been afraid while he was falling? Or had been too surprised to even realize what was happening? What would it feel like to fly for just a moment?
Why don’t you try it and see?
The thought scratches at the edge of my brain, and before I can even process it, one of my hands reaches out toward the closed frame of the window.
“Tyler?” a voice calls from the room behind me.
I jolt, the sudden sound tugging me back from the window. My mind races as I realize what I had been doing, and I try to keep the fear off my face as I turn to the speaker.
Jack, the new owner of the Gregory place, is standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. Anger radiates off him in sour waves, and I can’t help but judge him for being pissed that the construction is behind schedule rather than worried for the guy who was injured. Behind him, his wife lingers in the hallway.
“Tyler, what the hell is going on here?” Jack asks. I’m the only one here, so it’s clear that he’s talking to me even though he got my name wrong.
I have to stifle the urge to roll my eyes. “Tanner,” I correct. “And what’s going on is exactly what I told you over the phone.”
I had, of course, called Jack late last night as soon as Henri’s dad had updated me on the kid’s condition. Jack had sounded drunk, and I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s asking again now because he had too much alcohol in his system to remember yesterday’s discussion.
“Will he be okay? The guy who fell, I mean,” Jack’s wife asks from her spot in the corridor. Her eyes are trained on the window, and she looks as though she’s afraid that some unseen force will suck her out of it if she gets too close.
“He’ll live,” I tell her. “They got him into emergency surgery yesterday evening, and his dad said he’s pulling through okay. His back’s broken, but they’re not sure how bad it is yet.”
“That’s horrible,” the wife gasps. I struggle to remember her name. Is it Julie? No, Julia, I recall. She follows up by asking, “Is there anything we can do for him?”
My eyes flick over her figure as she lingers just outside the threshold. I’d wager that her tailored dress and sleek pumps probably cost more than some of my construction equipment, and her perfect hair and nails definitely aren’t the kind to come cheap. She looks like she should be sipping martinis in Hampton Beach, not standing in an unfinished house on the edge of a derelict swamp in Louisiana. Given her appearance, I’m frankly shocked that she genuinely seems upset about Henri’s condition.
But Jack’s reaction is exactly as expected. “We shouldn’t have to pay anything,” he snaps. “He was one of your people, and with what I’m paying you, safety should already be part of the package. Anybody who gets injured from your team is your responsibility.”
I do roll my eyes at that. “This ain’t about liability,” I spit back. Of course with these yuppie types, it’s all about the money. Jack clearly couldn’t care less that Henri might never walk again. “Like I said last night, it was an accident.”
Was it?
There’s that little voice again, sliding around the corners of my thoughts. My mind drifts back to yesterday’s conversation with Mike. He had been so sure that Henri had been pushed, that somebody else had been in the room with them. Despite the heat of the day, goosebumps prickle up my arms at the memory of Mike’s haunted expression.
“Whatever,” Jack waves away sourly. “Just so long as some redneck doesn’t try to sue me later.”
I open my mouth to snarl something rude at the man, but before I can speak, Julia admonishes, “Don’t be nasty, Jack.”
“I’m just being pragmatic,” he insists, doubling down. “Anyway, since we’re here, you might as well walk us through. It looks like we’re almost done, right?”
Using the collective term, as though Jack had been right here beside my crew the entire time, has me bristling, but I remind myself that this is the guy cutting our checks, so I need to play nice. Reining in my hostility, I reply, “Yep, only a few more weeks, and then we’ll be finished. Let me take you around.”
As we work our way down, Jack grows calmer as he confirms that everything is to his liking on the third and second floors. Julia, on the other hand, settles into the stereotype I had first applied to her.
“Are you sure that this is real marble?” she quizzes, running one manicured hand over the countertop in one of the second floor bathrooms. “It feels a little plasticky, don’t you think?”
I shake my head, internally fuming. “I can assure you that it’s exactly what you ordered, ma’am.”
She nods, momentarily satisfied until her eyes land on the floor, and she asks, “Is it just me, or is the gap between the tiling a little wide?”
The commentary gets worse once we make it down to the ground floor. While Jack remains largely uncaring, Julia frets over every little detail. The most painful part is when we get to the kitchen.
I immediately want to kick myself as her gaze falls on the section of broken drywall. I was going to fix it yesterday, but then Henri’s fall had completely distracted me. Truthfully, I hadn’t even thought about it again until now.
“What happened here?” Jack asks, his eyes narrowing.
“An animal got in a while ago, I think. It was on the schedule to be fixed yesterday, but I sent my crew home after the accident,” I explain. “I’m going to take care of it once y’all leave.”
Jack doesn’t seem convinced. “I’m not paying you to send your people home when there’s shit like this that needs doing,” he jabs.
“It’ll get done,” I insist, once again tamping down my anger.
Luckily, Julia changes the subject before Jack can press the issue. “It’s awfully hot in here,” she remarks, pulling at the collar of her dress.
This feels like safer territory. “The HVAC people are coming out soon. Don’t worry, it’ll be like the Arctic in here by the time you move in,” I tell her in a placating tone.
“And what about the outbuildings?” Jack asks. “How’s the garage coming?”
“Follow me, and I’ll show you,” I reply. The garage is an easy win for me, since it’s completely finished and just waiting for Jack’s multiple flashy sports cars to be parked in it. We trudge outside into the glaring morning sunlight. Even though it’s not even noon yet, the air of the swamp shimmers with a greenish haze.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Julia remarks as she picks her way carefully across the driveway toward the garage. She nods out to the cluster of sinking gravestones that jut up from the muck like the teeth of some gaping maw. “Do you think it’s haunted?”
My breath sticks in my chest at her words. Before I can say anything, Jack laughs. “Don’t be stupid. Of course it isn’t haunted.”
“Some people think it is,” I counter. “There have always been stories about this place, about the swamp.”
The woman pauses as an uneasy shadow flickers across her delicate features. “What kind of stories?” she presses.
Jack once again cuts me off. “Who gives a shit?” he chuckles. “Ghosts, witches, werewolves–that’s all kid stuff. The only thing we should be afraid of is the IRS.”
Julia glances over at me. I can tell she wants to know more, but she doesn’t want to ask in front of her husband. I can’t blame her.
I follow Jack over to the garage. He and I discuss the finer points of the structure while Julia lingers in the driveway poking at her phone. I nod along as Jack boasts about his collection of very expensive and fast cars, pretending to pay attention as my mind drifts to stories surrounding the swamp.
Bailey had shared her research with me this morning before I came here. I was shocked to see how many people had died on or around the old Gregory place. In my opinion, Henri was probably lucky not to have been one of them.
It makes sense that there’s something unnatural haunting the property, especially after yesterday.
When I had come home to Bailey, I had gotten the distinct impression that something had been watching her. As I had lost myself in her body, I had repeated my claim over her, that she was mine, and I was hers. Whatever had been there with us had needed to hear it. I had needed to hear it.
Whatever the thing is, it seems to go for the women and drive them to kill the men in their lives. That much is obvious from Bailey’s research. I’m worried that it will get to her, but last night showed me that she’s still herself, at least for now.
“Jack! Jack, come quick!”
Julia’s shrill scream has us both tearing out of the garage and away from my troubled thoughts.
“What? What happened?” Jack yells as he and I skid to his wife’s side.
“There’s somebody in the swamp!” she cries, pointing out in the direction of the cemetery.
We turn to follow the direction of her finger, but there’s nothing there, not even a shadow.
“Don’t be crazy,” Jack huffs, immediately brushing away his wife’s concern. “You probably saw a bird or something.”
But I have a terrible feeling that whatever she saw, it wasn’t an animal.
“It’s probably just one of the neighbors out for a walk or some kids trying to get a look at the house,” I tell her, though I don’t really believe that. But what else am I supposed to say? That it’s a ghost? Worried she might want to look herself, I add, “I’ll go check though.”
Echoes of the night of the thunderstorm snap at my thoughts as I trudge across the brittle lawn to the mouth of the swamp. My fingers itch at the memory of the figure that had dissolved into the mire beneath my touch. Surely, I’m safe in the daylight under the watchful eyes of my clients, right?
Steeling myself, I step into the marsh. The earth is treacherous beneath my feet, but I choose my steps carefully and manage to avoid most of the deeper areas. A few minutes later, I use the gnarled arm of a cypress tree to haul myself onto the small outcropping of the cemetery.
It’s empty.
“Nobody here!” I call, squinting over my shoulder at Jack and Julia, who haven’t moved an inch. I can’t read their expressions from here, but Jack shoots me a thumbs up.
I turn to leave, but a flicker among the trunks of the cypress trees catches my eyes.
There’s a shadow there, about my size. I can barely make out its features through the haze, but I can tell it’s wearing a funny sort of a coat, like something you’d see in a historical reenactment.
And then for a brief moment, the clouds shift and the light catches the figure’s face.
Dalton.
Well, kind of.
It looks like a bad wax figure of him, stuck in the uncanny valley between natural and unnatural. Whatever it is, it’s definitely not human.
And when it raises its misshapen hand to wave, the only thing I can do is scream.