How to Fake a Haunting, page 20
I tucked the covers around her tightly and placed her water bottle at the edge of the nightstand where she could see it if she woke in the night. As I turned for the door, something stopped me. If he comes back tomorrow, Adelaide had said, use this. Don’t wait. We have to strike while the iron’s hot. We started slow, but this is the grand finale.
Without thinking through what I was doing, I went to the closet and pulled the Prince Rupert’s drop down from the shelf. I slipped it into my bag, securing it in place with a sweatshirt. Then I tiptoed down the stairs to where my parents were watching television.
My mother sat up the moment I walked into the living room. “Did she fall asleep?” She saw my bag. “Where are you going?”
“To the house to grab a few things for Bea. And, well . . .” I sighed. “I need to see what’s going on with Callum, whether he’s willing to go into treatment or, if he’s maybe leaving altogether.”
I swallowed. I didn’t want my parents to think I didn’t have everything under control. But do you? An image of Callum’s bathroom mirror covered with blood popped into my mind. That, and the faceless thing beneath it. Stop it!
“Honestly, I’m hoping this is the end of things,” I added. “Callum and I . . . What he did to Beatrix. I can’t do this any longer.”
My parents exchanged a look.
“One of the EMTs submitted a report, right?” my father asked. “Someone will be looking into that.”
“Absolutely,” I lied. I hadn’t told my parents what I’d learned from Veronica Schumann, hadn’t wanted them to worry. If my parents—or anyone else who was paying attention—thought the DCYF report was still active, it would be all the less surprising when Callum finally left the house.
“Like I said, I’m going to see what’s going on. I might stay the night, if things get heated. To be honest, I think he might have already left. But can Bea stay here until I know for sure?”
“Like you have to ask,” my father said.
I pursed my lips. “It’s not too much for you? You’re supposed to get your rest.”
My father waved a hand. “Nonsense. You know, I read something on the ’gram that says grandparents who see their grandchildren on a regular basis live an average of ten years longer than their grandchildless counterparts.”
I walked to where he sat in his leather armchair and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “That’s great news. And don’t call it ‘the ’gram.’” He smiled.
“We’ll take good care of that little pumpkin while you’re gone,” my mom said.
“I know you will.”
I walked out of the living room and into the foyer, where I passed a geometric mirror hanging above a small set of drawers. I stopped, something nagging at my subconscious, and as I did, I thought I saw movement to my left. In the mirror. As if my reflection had continued moving after I’d come to a halt.
My stomach gave a small but sickening lurch, and I turned toward the glass. But there was only me, pale-faced and tired-looking. There was no blood, no altered appearance. Just a woman hoping to be nearing the end of something that had gone on for far too long. Why, then, did I feel like there was something in the mirror I had missed? A portent? A whisper?
A warning.
You’re as bad as Callum, I thought, and continued through the foyer and out the door.
Chapter 37
The first thing I processed upon returning to the house was the lights. Every single light, from porch sconces to foyer fixtures, from floor lamps in windows to floodlights over the garage, was burning, blazing, though it was only early evening. The second thing I comprehended was what these lights meant, the veritable gut punch of a realization that Callum had indeed returned.
One night? I thought desperately. That’s all Adelaide’s and my efforts got us? Callum stayed away a single night?
I parked in the drive and walked to the door with my bag over one shoulder, cocking my head to better discern what I was hearing. At first, I thought there were so many lights on that the place was actually buzzing. Then I realized there was music playing, so loud I was hearing it as a vibration, a rattling of appliances against hardwood and doors in their frames.
I walked inside, resisting the urge to bring my hands to my ears. “Callum?” I yelled. No answer. “Callum! Where are you? What the hell is this music?” It wasn’t the twangy, vertiginous song that had played before, but some sort of death metal, and it was deafening. I ran to the speaker in the kitchen and manually jabbed at its buttons to lower the volume. The silence that followed throbbed in its stillness.
A dirty balled-up sweatshirt lay on the floor in the corner. A foul smell reached my nostrils, and upon peeking into the downstairs bathroom, I saw that Cal had neglected to flush the toilet. “Gross,” I muttered, but it wasn’t just gross, it was disconcerting.
I returned to the kitchen and set my bag containing the Prince Rupert’s drop on the island—beside a sink of food-encrusted dishes—and listened, but heard nothing to indicate Callum’s location in the house. No way he could have slept through that noise; maybe he was passed out, had gotten drunker than usual. I listened again, a memory from the day Adelaide and I had first gone into the attic coming to me, of looking up at the trapdoor in Bea’s closet and having the distinct sense of not being myself. I had that feeling now, a mix of disassociation and déjà vu.
Something wasn’t right in the house, some quality to the air, an energy of foreboding. It wasn’t just the neglected sink or excessive light or absence of sound; my disquiet ran deeper. It was like the house was holding its breath. Like I’d come in on it in the middle of something and it wasn’t happy to have been disturbed. Still, there was only one thing to do, and I set out to find Callum, flipping lights off as I went.
As I reached for the switch in the living room, the smart speaker exploded into blaring, raucous sound:
Open your eyes . . . See what’s right in front of you.
There are ways to see what’s hidden in the dark . . .
Dread pooled in my stomach like oil slick. That song . . . why did I keep hearing that fucking song? Then, without warning, the kitchen fell away, replaced by walls the color of ancient, patinaed marble, and I remembered where I was when I heard it, the exchange, the instructions. “Do you need me to repeat anything?” the woman had asked. Closer . . . Let me whisper in your ear, the song had teased from the overhead speakers, as it teased me now. “No,” I’d responded, but I’d been distracted, had wanted to shoo the song away from my ears like a swarm of flies. “No, that’s all right. I understand what I’m supposed to do.”
I blinked, shaking the memory loose, my body thrumming with the emotion associated with it. This time I didn’t bother with the volume button but yanked the cord from its side, as Callum had done the night before. Once again, the house was plunged into silence. No, not silence. A thump, on my right. From the playroom.
I walked to the French doors, pulled them open, and saw it immediately. The world tilted on its axis, and a lump of terror welled in my throat. The window was open, the screen pushed out, and sitting on the sill, posable arms folded in front of it as if it were praying, was the chestnut-furred, pink-pawed teddy bear. Again, a long howl filled every inch of my brain.
Had one of the bears gotten left behind last night? Fallen out of Adelaide’s bag, and Callum had stuck it here? Had Adelaide come back and left the bear herself? Or given it to Todd to do the same? I stepped into the room, brain whirring with possible scenarios, but as I did, something crinkled beneath my sneaker.
I looked down and froze. It was a piece of folded-up blue stationery, lying two feet or so in front of the bear. The blackmailer—Todd, I thought vehemently, for even Adelaide had said she thought he could be behind it—must have placed the bear and the note on the windowsill, and the note had come loose and fallen to the floor. I picked it up and unfolded it, my fingers shaking as I read:
I’ve got some questions for you, Lainey: Does Callum know where you went on Nav 11? Does he know you decided to play God? Did you take his feelings into account when you made a decision from which there was no coming back?
Does he know what’s buried in the backyard?
I was shaking so hard I could barely read it a second time. It was obvious, now, that this wasn’t about the haunting. With the first note, I couldn’t be sure, but this one left no room for doubt. The handwriting was terrible, and someone might have had a hard time making out whether the date read “May” or “Nov.” But I didn’t need to decipher the handwriting. I knew which date the blackmailer was referring to.
Todd knew my secret, my only real secret. The thing I kept not only from Callum, but from myself. How the hell had he found out?
I wanted to feel anger, to burn with white-hot rage at the idea of Todd prowling around my house, of knowing something he couldn’t possibly know. Or shouldn’t know. But all I could feel was a wave of fear that spread like ice over my muscles, leaving me trembling and numb.
“Why are you doing this?” I whispered. The bear stared crookedly from its post. “This isn’t supposed to be about me. It’s supposed to be about Callum.” I squeezed the note in my hand. It was too much to be in this space, filled with the toys and games and crafts that Bea loved. Feeling sick, I stumbled out of the playroom and back to the kitchen.
For several long moments, I stood there, breathing hard and trying to decide what to do. Had Callum seen the note? I had to assume it was at least a possibility. Whether he had or hadn’t, Todd was forcing my hand. I needed to end the haunting tonight. I needed to convince Callum, once and for all, that he was either completely crazy or the house was haunted.
And there was only one way to do it.
There was still no sign of Callum, the house sepulchral in its silence. I went to my bag and slid the cardboard box from it, then walked, as if I were in a dream, to the cabinet where Callum stored his various drinking accoutrements. There were wine and highball glasses, a decanter, and several stainless steel mixers, but I had eyes only for the pint glasses and what sat innocently beside them: a plastic cup of colorful straws, thicker-than-normal drinking straws with concertina-type hinges at the top for bending. The boba straws Adelaide had clandestinely sneaked into my house. In case you change your mind, she’d said.
I wrapped my hand around the contents of the cup, lifting out all but a single turquoise straw. I shoved the handful of straws to the bottom of the garbage can and covered them with paper plates and an empty package of English muffins. I took the remaining straw in one hand and the Prince Rupert’s drop in the other. Very, very slowly, I inserted the drop into the top of the straw, tadpole head-side down, halting in feeding the drop through the plastic the moment its tail disappeared completely.
I stared at the straw. It was a good fit. Perfect, actually. The head was wedged in to where it wouldn’t slip any farther down the opening, which would be crucial for this to work.
I opened the freezer. The ice tray was full, and a handle of vodka lay on its side beside a package of peas. I shut the freezer. Then, very slowly, I placed the straw back in the plastic cup and returned the cup to its shelf in the cabinet. Now all I had to do was wait for Callum to make a drink.
A crash came from the upstairs bedroom.
Chapter 38
A second crash came from upstairs, followed by a shout. An image of Callum at the housewarming party six years ago, candleholder clutched in his hand, flashed through my mind. I ran up the stairs, crossed the hall, and threw open the door.
Every light in the room was on, and the effect was like being on a stage. A glass was overturned on the nightstand. The comforter and sheets were pulled from the bed and strewn on the floor. The armoire doors hung open, and even the plants Bea had given Callum for Father’s Day were knocked akimbo, soil ground into the cream-colored carpet.
This was nothing, however, compared to what greeted me in the bathroom.
Callum stood at the center of the room, his back to me. He was naked except for a towel, and his hands holding the towel around his waist were bloody. No, not just his hands. His whole body was drenched in blood, his usually light-brown hair dark with it. The white towel was stained red, and red-tinged water dripped onto the white tile. The shower curtain had been ripped from the rod and lay in a bloodstained heap in the corner. There were red footprints—and handprints—smeared across every surface.
“Callum?” I whispered.
Slowly, he turned to face me.
“Jesus Christ,” I said, “what happened?” I scanned his body looking for a cut. “Are you hurt?”
Callum gestured weakly over his shoulder. “It was . . . there. It came from there.” Against all that red, I saw that his teeth were more yellow than white, and he smelled awful even through the metallic scent of blood, all stale breath and rankness, as if the booze had pickled his organs and fermented in his veins.
“What came from where?” I looked around the bathroom. Was there a goddamn animal in here or something?
“The blood.” He looked inquiringly at the shower, as if he still wasn’t quite sure what had happened.
I stared, realization dawning. Realization but not understanding. “The blood came from the shower?” I asked. My mouth felt unbearably dry.
Callum nodded. “Well,” he said, “that should do it, then.”
I squinted. “What should?”
“That should do it for proof. If you needed any more of it, any other indication that the house is haunted”—he gestured around us—“the faucets, the shower . . . they’re raining blood.”
For a moment, I couldn’t move, couldn’t process what Callum had said, but then my brain connected his words with what I was seeing before me. Adelaide. Adelaide must have gone back to the plumber, and together they’d figured out how to splice the water line with pig’s blood from the butcher. I remembered Chris’s words: There’s absolutely no way to do this . . . most laypeople don’t know the difference between a gas line and a water line. I don’t want you getting carbon monoxide poisoning because you did something stupid. So how had Adelaide done it? And why hadn’t she told me?
The butcher-shop smell overwhelmed the unpleasant odor of my husband, and I swallowed hard against the sharp tang coating my nostrils and the back of my throat. I watched Callum, expecting him to do the same—to cough, gag, wipe at his skin frantically with the towel. But he only stood there, stunned into silence.
As he stood, I found my eyes drawn not to him, but to his reflection. Something was happening. The room had a strange sense of pressure to it, like the air had become corporeal. In the mirror, the air was tinged beige. No, lilac. No, it oscillated from one color to the other, like the curling, shimmering mouth of a conch shell. But that wasn’t possible. Air didn’t shimmer. But the mirror did. And as I watched, it shimmered until Callum was gone, replaced by the horrible figure I’d seen several times now, shoulders hunched, hands wringing, the place where its face should have been an open chasm of distortion reflecting into infinity.
I opened my mouth to scream, but the figure was gone as quickly as it appeared. I blinked. Had it been there at all? What the fuck was happening?
“Did you say something?” Callum asked me. He turned to stare at the mirror. Had he seen the figure too?
“I didn’t say anything,” I said dazedly. I needed to pull myself together; Adelaide must have gone to great lengths to pull this off. I pictured her rummaging through the basement, hefting buckets of blood, splicing water lines and patching everything together so it looked the same as when she’d started. How had she known what the hell she was doing? Hell, maybe she hadn’t.
I don’t want you getting carbon monoxide poisoning because you did something stupid. Chris’s words rang in my head again. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Someone else had given us a similar warning. No, not a warning. An explanation. Joe. Joe Tallow explaining that prolonged exposure to a gas leak can manifest as apparent psychic phenomena.
Carbon monoxide was even found to have caused one man’s vision of a “strange woman dressed in black” rushing toward him from another room. Chronic exposure can lead to the kind of hallucinations often associated with a haunted house.
Oh my god.
I kept my face neutral while thoughts sliced through my brain. Could Adelaide have nicked a gas line? Was there carbon monoxide seeping into the house? Our bodies? Had the faceless figure I’d seen in the mirror been a hallucination? But how could that be when the first time I’d seen it had been weeks ago? Bea had been frightened by it even before that. But one thing all the sightings had in common was that they’d occurred after Joe and Morgan Tallow had come to the house . . . after we’d heard—after Adelaide had heard—that carbon monoxide could cause phenomena consistent with a haunting.
A chill, like ice water, spread down my back. Was Adelaide systematically poisoning us? Was that why the haunting had become so effective . . . so real, not just to Callum but to me as well? We had carbon monoxide detectors, but how long had it been since I’d checked them? And if the leak was intentional, Adelaide could have disabled the devices.
Callum had turned from the mirror back to me. I forced myself to focus. The quicker I extracted myself from the bathroom and this surreal situation, the quicker I could call Adelaide.
“You had too much to drink, didn’t you?” I asked, making myself sound as patronizing as possible to cover the fear and disbelief coursing through me. “You’re drunk, and you cut yourself in the shower. It’s as simple as that.”
His expression curdled into an incredulousness that wasn’t misplaced. With that amount of blood, the cut would have had to have been a stab wound. Still, I squinted at the bathroom with a sneer on my face. “Make sure you clean this up.”
