Dalton
I catch the screaming night nurse by the wrist before she can flee back into the hallway. Her deep blue eyes shine like smooth sapphires, alight with fear. “Someone’s on edge,” I say, letting go of her wrist, hoping my touch is enough to tell her I’m real and not one of the many apparitions who haunt this hellhole.
I can almost taste her fear. She gapes at me, looking me up and down. “Who the hell are you?”
“Who are you?” I ask, sipping from the coffee Bailey so generously made before taking her leave this evening.
“Who am I?” she says, stupidly–if I might add.
“Uh, yeah?” I stare down at her, drinking her in. Bouncy, thick blonde hair that would probably touch her lower back if she didn’t keep it piled on the top of her head. Slim shoulders, narrow waist. A great rack I’d like to paint if I could ever get her naked. Her nipples are peaked under her white tank-top, and she isn’t wearing a bra, of course. These night nurses get comfortable, fast, especially when they think they’re alone in this big house.
Her Barbie face twists into a scowl as I slowly rake my gaze from her chest back to her eyes, which are furious.
“I’m Dalton. Nice to meet you… well, you haven’t told me your name.”
“Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
“No–”
I step toward her, and she steps back, her body colliding with the wall next to the doorway I’m sure she was aiming for. She looks down at my shirt, which is splattered with paint, and then my wrists and hands, which are also covered in paint. Suddenly, her demeanor shifts, and her eyes soften, her mouth ticking up in a beautiful smile.
I liked her better when she looked scared.
“Oh, you must be the painter!” She laughs, running her hand over her face. “God, you scared me to death. Mr. Wilson came over the other day and was talking about how someone had been restoring the old wallpaper in the dining room.”
“Hmm.” I match her smile. “That would be me.”
“I didn’t realize you lived here, though?”
“I’m a boarder, you could say. Ms. Gregory allows me a studio and bedroom while I’m working here and in the area.”
“I haven’t seen you around,” she says, her voice soft and sweet. I bet her lips taste like honey–and her cunt. I’ll be the judge of that eventually, I’m sure.
“I’ve been in New Orleans for a job. I just got back,” I tell her.
“Then you’ll be here for a while?”
“That depends on how quickly I can get my work done. I’d like to move on from this place, eventually.”
“You don’t like it here?”
I’m still standing close enough to be in her personal space, but she hasn’t moved, so I haven’t either. I’m inches away from being able to cage her against that wall behind her. I’m in a rush, however, and bring my coffee to my lips, smiling over the rim. “It’s a creepy old house. I don’t sleep well when I’m here.”
She melts into my hands, just like that.
I take a step back and turn to the counter, waiting for her to take the bait. She will, I’m sure.
She steps up beside me and pours herself a cup of coffee. “It is kind of a creepy place, isn’t it?”
“I don’t like the banging in the night,” I agree.
“Do you ever feel like you’re being… watched?”
“Oh, all the time.” I smile down at her again, noticing the way her shoulders slump with relief. “It’s haunted, you know.”
“I don’t think so…. You know Curtis, I’m guessing? He told me it’s not.”
“Curtis doesn’t know shit.”
She frowns at me, leaning her hip against the counter. “Why would I believe a perfect stranger over him?”
“Well, I’m not a perfect stranger anymore, am I? You’re technically the stranger. You haven’t even told me your name.”
She blushes as I fix her with an intense stare. Her eyes meet mine, and she shrugs. “It’s Layla.”
“Layla,” I repeat, drawing it out like I’m brushing it over her skin. “That’s not a bad name at all.”
“Well, thanks,” she grumbles, straightening up to fetch the creamer out of the fridge. “So, you’re going to be here for a while then?”
“I already said so–”
“When did you get here, exactly?”
“Oh, early this morning. I don’t exactly remember.”
She freezes, her hand resting on the fridge door. “During the storm?”
“Yeah, so?”
“What time, exactly?”
“I couldn’t say.”
She narrows her eyes at me then drops her gaze to my plain gray shirt and jeans. She lingers for a while on my hair, which is a little longer than I’d like it to be right now, then drops her gaze to my unshaven jaw.
“What, Layla?”
“Were you out back around five in the morning?”
“In the rain? Why would I do that?”
She holds my gaze for a few seconds. “No reason–”
“Are you seeing things you can’t explain?”
She pours creamer in her coffee and refuses to meet my eyes, but her cheeks flush.
“Maybe having… dreams–”
Her eyes snap to mine, her cheeks now burning a fiery crimson. “How did you…. No, I’m not,” she snaps. “You’re just trying to scare me.”
“I don’t even know you. Why would I be trying to scare you?”
She keeps her eyes on mine as she takes a sip of her drink. She looks me up and down like she’s deciding whether I’m a threat or not. “I’m sorry I scared you earlier. I figured someone told you I’d be here eventually,” I continue.
“No one told me anything,” she says with a marked attitude. “How do I know you’re not lying, and you’re actually about to murder me and loot the house?”
“There’s nothing here that I want,” I laugh. “And… I certainly wouldn’t waste that kind of time on you, Angel.”
Something flashes behind her eyes, but she steels her expression and turns from me, heading toward the hallway.
“Watch out for yourself,” I tell her in passing, but she turns her head.
“What do you mean?”
“This old house has a way of getting into people’s heads. You should know that already, I’m sure, given what happened to the last night nurse.”
She turns just enough that I can see her entire face. “What happened to her? I was told she just left.”
“Oh, she left. Screaming.” I raise the coffee to my lips.
“You’re just trying to scare me.”
“I’m being honest with you. If you can feel something in this house, see things that shouldn’t be there… you should be on your guard, Layla. And, while I’m at it, stay out of my way. I’ll be busy on the third floor, and I don’t like being interrupted.”
“You’re a real prick, you know that?”
“I’m honest,” I tell her. “And I’m telling you to reexamine what you think you see in darkened corners and lurking in the tree line.”
Another flush drifts over her face. She turns abruptly and walks away, out of sight.
But she’s not out of mind as I make my way upstairs to my studio on the third floor. I set my coffee down and pull dust laden sheets from the easels and workbenches, cursing under my breath at the state things have been left in. I pull out some paper and sit down at my desk, beginning a sketch. Layla’s face comes takes form on the page with each stroke.
“This one is mine,” I say in a whisper to the room around me, to each darkened corner. “She’s off limits. She’s mine.”