About the Author

STEVE FRECH lives in Los Angeles. In addition to writing, he produces and hosts the Random Awesomeness Podcast, an improv-comedy quiz show that has been performed at Upright Citizens Brigade, The Improv, iO West, and Nerdist.

Also by Steve Frech

Dark Hollows

Praise for Steve Frech

‘I absolutely LOVED this book … An unputdownable page turner of a read’

‘This book just pulls you right in … I couldn’t put it down!’

‘One of the best thrillers I’ve read this year’

‘So gripping I just could not stop reading’

‘Like riding a rollercoaster … Should be on everyone’s reading list’

‘I burned through this’

‘I was hooked from page one’

Nightingale House
STEVE FRECH

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Steve Frech 2020

Steve Frech asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2020 ISBN: 9780008372187

Version: 2020-06-02

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Steve Frech

Praise for Steve Frech

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

Thank you, Deborah.

Nightingale House was not born with secrets, but they were made here.

They were sealed into the walls and buried beneath the floorboards.

Most of us don’t know what happened in the rooms we live in before we arrived. We never hear of the tragedies that occurred in the room where we sleep or the unspeakable acts that took place years ago in the basement.

And while the secrets of most houses are eventually forgotten, Nightingale House won’t allow that.

Its secrets remain, hiding in the shadows at the top of the stairs, in the whispers at the end of the hall, and in the sound of a little girl crying on the other side of a door to a room that’s empty.

They are still here, waiting …

1

With one hand, I reach up and press my fingers to my chest, feeling the ring that’s hanging from my neck, under my shirt. With my other hand, I reach out to my eight-year-old daughter, Caitlyn, who is standing by my side. Gusts of wind kick and swirl around us.

“Ready?” I ask.

She takes a deep breath and grasps my hand. “Ready.”

The Queen Anne-styled Nightingale House, sitting on the shore of Willow Lake, stands before us.

“Let’s do it,” I say.

We begin slowly walking up the stone path. The gables of the house, with its Turret Room, loom above as we approach. The wind does its best to knock us off course, but we eventually reach the wrap-around porch step up to the heavy, oak door.

I fish the key out of my pocket and offer it to Caitlyn.

“Care to do the honors?”

She stares up at me with those big, blue eyes. She looks so much like Nicole it hurts. I know Caitlyn is missing her mother right now just as much as I am.

“Okay.”

She takes the key and attempts to slide it into the lock, but her hands are shaking.

“You want some help?” I ask.

“No,” she stubbornly sighs.

I smile. She’s so much like Nicole.

She finally gets the key into the lock.

“There. See? I did it,” she says, giving it a twist. She pushes down on the handle and leans against the door. The hinges sweetly groan as it swings open.

We step inside out of the wind and are greeted by the smell of polish from the gleaming hardwood floors. To the left is the living room. The sofa and coffee table are surrounded by unpacked boxes. Directly in front of us are the stairs to the second floor. The door to our right leads to the study.

No.

I forgot.

We were going to call it my “Writing Room”. It’s where I’m going to write the sequel to In the Shadows of Justice.

*

A couple years ago, I was a struggling writer, working as a substitute teacher, trying desperately to support a wife and child. We were living in a cramped, two-bedroom apartment in Portsmouth, New Hampshire with this dream that one day, my little stories would become best-sellers. So far, all I had to show for it were two books that hadn’t gone anywhere. I felt like this third one, a political thriller, was my last shot.

Nicole and I had a routine; I would get up at four in the morning and start writing. Nicole would get up at six and get Caitlyn ready for school. Then, over a cup of coffee, Nicole and I would sit at our thrift-store-purchased kitchen table and I’d read to her what I had written. I loved it. I knew that if by some miracle, my political thriller became a best-seller, this would always be my favorite part; just me and Nicole, sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes widening as the story unfolded. She was my best critic, cheerleader, and editor. I’ll never forget the day we were sitting at the kitchen table, rain beating against the window, and I read the words ‘the end’. I looked up from the page and she had tears in her eyes. Nicole took my face in her hands, kissed me, and said, “This is it.”

We got an agent, there was a bidding war, and we were off to the races. And I keep saying ‘we’ because I mean ‘we’. No Nicole? No book.

Fourteen months later, after a year of editing, tweaking, and finally, publication day, came ‘the call’.

The book had been out for two months and sales were strong. The reviews were great. My publisher had already offered a two-book extension to my contract along with a handsome advance. Nicole and I tried not to talk about it too much, out of fear that we would jinx it.

Then, one morning while we were getting Caitlyn ready for school, my agent, Lana Gifton, called.

“Have you seen the New York Times best-seller list this morning?” she asked.

It took me a second or two, but I gradually grasped her meaning.

“… no way.”

“I really think you should,” she said, and hung up.

I flew from my chair and raced for the computer. I pulled it up on the browser because, of course, I had it bookmarked.

My heart stopped.

“Nicole!” I yelled.

She ran over and stood behind me.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

I pointed at the screen.

8. In the Shadows of Justice – Daniel Price

“Oh my God!” she screamed.

I leaped up and we held each other as we both started crying.

“Mom? Dad? What’s wrong?” Caitlyn asked from the doorway.

I ran over and gave her a fierce hug.

“Oomph …”

“Pumpkin, how would you like not to go to school today?”

She eyed me suspiciously. “What would we do?”

“Whatever you want.”

We spent the rest of the day bowling, going to the movies, and eating ice cream.

That night, after Caitlyn passed out in her bed from exhaustion, Nicole and I went to our room and made love more passionately than we had in years. It was a celebration of everything we had worked for.

Afterwards, we lay side by side, sweating, and in total bliss.

“Hey, Shakespeare?” she whispered. It was her favorite pet name for me.

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s time we start looking for some new digs.”

“Way ahead of you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yep. What were you thinking?”

She playfully bit her lip. “Hmm … anything?”

“Well, we may have to skip the helipad and twenty-car garage, but other than that, name it.”

“I want to live on the water. Doesn’t have to be the ocean but maybe a lake.”

“Done.” I nodded.

She laughed. “I like this little fantasy.”

I took her hand. “It’s not a fantasy anymore.”

I think that was the first time we both realized that it was finally happening. No more dreaming to take our minds off our desperate situation. No more trying to hide how broke we were from Caitlyn.

“I want to live in an old house,” Nicole said, before quickly adding, “Not ancient, but something with character.”

“Perfect.”

“What do you want?”

“Me?”

She nodded.

“I want round two.”

She laughed as I pulled her to me.

*

It took Nicole all of thirty-six hours to find the Nightingale House.

I was in love from the moment she showed me the pictures online and told me the house had a name. It was also within our price range, only an hour away in the town of Kingsbrook, Maine, and we had four hours until Caitlyn would be home from school.

“Let’s go!” she said, grabbing my wrist.

The excitement on the drive up Highway 16 was too much for conversation. The house. The town. It was all too perfect.

We exited at Kingsbrook/Willow Lake and drove down Main Street, which was lined with stately homes, all of them at least a hundred years old. The town square was rimmed with coffeeshops, antique stores, and cafés.

The directions took us into the outlying forests. It was autumn and the trees were splashes of red, orange, and yellow. One last turn and Willow Lake came into view. The road, which ran parallel to the shore, was dotted with houses, the last one being the Nightingale House.

The pictures hadn’t done it justice. They couldn’t have. To see the porch, the gables, and the Turret Room looking out over the lake on a computer screen was one thing, but to be standing in front of it was something different, entirely.

Walking up the stone path, Nicole appeared to be in some sort of trance. A realtor with a spindly frame and glasses that required him to constantly push them up the bridge of his nose greeted us on the porch.

“Mr. and Mrs. Price?” he asked.

“That’s us,” I replied, since Nicole was incapable of speech.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Mark Stelowski.”

I shook it and he made a grand, sweeping gesture towards the house.

“Well, here she is. Built in 1893 by—”

“Uh, Mr … uh …?” I interrupted.

“Stelowski.”

“Stelowski, great. I’m going to need you to do me a favor.”

“Uh … of course.”

“I’m gonna need you to sit this one out.”

He blinked. “Oh … um … sure, okay.”

“Thank you.”

Nicole and I stepped inside.

It was my turn to be speechless but she suddenly came out of her trance.

She glanced into the room on our right, which contained a large bookcase built into the wall. “That’s your study.” She was about to go into the living room but stopped. “No! Correction. That’s your Writing Room.”

“Love it,” I replied.

She quickly resumed her path into the living room. “Couch, recliner, television,” she said, pointing around the room.

“Awesome.”

I followed her into the dining room. A large window offered a stunning view of the lake. A wooden pier jutted out into the water.

“We’re eating dinner here, every night,” she said.

“I’ll cook!” I offered.

She grimaced. “Eh … we’ll see.”

We moved into the kitchen. A back door led to a deck and the backyard. While the house had kept its old charm, the kitchen had all the modern conveniences with updated appliances and an island counter. There was a small alcove with a window overlooking the lake.

“Coffee, right there, every morning,” I said.

“While you read to me,” she added.

Nicole went over to a small wooden door and opened it.

“Pantry?” I asked.

“… No.”

She went through and I heard her footsteps descend creaky wooden stairs. I crossed the kitchen and followed her into the darkness. I kept my hand against the cool stone wall to my right for balance. Once we reached the bottom of the stairs, Nicole went to the middle of the room and pulled the chain of a small, bare lightbulb that was barely visible in the darkness, hanging from the ceiling. The lightbulb had to be decades old and weakly glowed, barely illuminating the space.

“And … the basement …” she said.

“Yeah,” I weakly offered.

There wasn’t much to say beyond that. Wooden shelves rested against the walls and planked floors.

“Upstairs?” I asked.

“Upstairs,” Nicole confirmed and snapped off the light.

We bounded back up the steps and hurried through the house like children having a race.

“Almost done!” I called out through the open front door to the realtor as we passed. He had to think that we were crazy as we charged up the stairs to the second floor.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched out before us. To the right was the Turret Room. The windows offered an almost panoramic view of the lake. The ceiling vaulted to a point and a closet was near the door.

“Caitlyn’s room?” I asked.

“I don’t know. You think it might be too much of a change for her?”

I shrugged. “We’ll ask her.”

“We’re gonna spoil that kid.”

“Damn right, we are.”

We went into the blue guestroom across the hall from the Turret Room. I stood behind Nicole in the doorway.

“Guestroom?”

“Until we give Caitlyn a sibling,” Nicole replied.

I wrapped my arm around her waist, playfully growled, and nibbled her neck.

She laughed and spun away from me. “We’re not done yet!”

We went down the hall to the master suite.

I opened the door and we both gasped. The walls were paneled in rich, rose-stained wood. A fireplace was nestled into the far wall and a door in the corner led to the bathroom.

“Our bedroom would have a fireplace?” Nicole whispered.

“Our bedroom would have a fireplace.”

We walked back downstairs in a daze. It didn’t seem possible that this house could be ours. We stopped in the living room and faced one another.

“Do you want to live here?” I asked.

“I know it sounds weird but, I feel like I’m supposed to be here … Do you want to live here?”

I nodded.

We kissed and held one another with our foreheads pressed together.

“Nicole … we’re home.”

We kissed one more time and then I called towards the front door.

“Mr. Kowalski?”

“It’s ‘Stelowski’,” Nicole corrected me with a giggle.

“Sir!” I yelled, playing it safe.

The realtor stepped inside and stopped at the image of Nicole and I holding one another in the living room.

“So, um … do you have any—”

“We’ll take it,” Nicole said.

*

Two months later, once the papers had been signed, we brought Caitlyn to the Nightingale House.

Nicole was still unsure if Caitlyn would go for the Turret Room, but I never doubted it for a second. She walked through the bedroom door and fell in love. We had a hard time pulling her away from the windows as she looked out over the lake. Her bedroom in Portsmouth didn’t have a closet, so she even viewed that as a luxury. She ran into the middle of the room, stared up at the ceiling overhead, and began spinning around.

Then we showed her the blue guestroom and the master suite. She dutifully paid attention but I could tell her heart was still in the Turret Room. We went back down the hall and stopped in between the doors to the Turret Room and blue guestroom.

“Are we really going to live here?” Caitlyn asked.

“Yep,” Nicole said. “And you can have your pick. You can have the blue room or the other—”

Caitlyn dashed into the Turret Room.

“This one! This one! I want this one!” she cried as Nicole and I watched from the doorway.

“Why this one?” I asked.

“Because I’ll be like a princess in a castle!”

It was so damn cute, I almost had to sit down.

Afterwards, we drove back into Kingsbrook and had milkshakes at a place called ‘Murphy’s’. Well, Caitlyn and I had milkshakes. Nicole had hot chocolate. Murphy’s was like a soda shop out of the 1920s. The namesake was the owner’s black lab, who was sleeping in a bed on the floor by the register. The place was packed but we were lucky enough to grab a booth. Caitlyn watched people passing outside the window and began making up stories for them.

“That’s Mr. Teffelbottom. He’s a scientist that does experiments in his basement,” she said. “And there’s Mrs. Longshanks. People say she’s a witch.”

Nicole and I exchanged a glance. This had been a little bit of an issue with Caitlyn. She liked to tell stories. Most people would have said she had a problem with lying, but since she was our kid, we preferred to call them stories. She also tended to tell them when she was overexcited. We viewed it as mostly harmless. If pressed, she would usually admit that she was just making stuff up. Still, there had been problems at school. After the amazing day we had, neither one of us felt like correcting her. Instead, we tried to steer her back to conversations about the new house.

After our milkshakes and hot chocolate, we got back in the car for the drive back to Portsmouth. No one was anxious to return to the apartment.

We were halfway there when we pulled up to a red light.

“When we move in, can we play hide-and-seek?” Caitlyn asked. “At Sarah’s birthday party last year, we turned off all the lights in her house and played hide-and-seek.”

“You bet,” I said.

Caitlyn beamed.

Nicole twisted herself to look at Caitlyn in the back seat.

“A princess in a castle, huh?”

“Yep.”

Nicole gave me a wink. “Maybe we should get you a princess bed for your room.”

I watched in the rearview mirror as Caitlyn’s eyes widened.

The light turned green.

I pulled forward and smiled at Nicole.

Our eyes met.

That’s when I saw the blinding headlights in the window over her shoulder.

There was a sickening crunch and the sensation of every bone in my body flying apart.

Then, nothing.

*

Caitlyn lets go of my hand and I follow her as she walks through the living room and into the dining room.

When she stops, I can see the angry red scar on the back of her neck.

Her shoulders sag.

I feel it. I can feel Nicole’s absence starting to overwhelm Caitlyn. It’s starting to overwhelm me, too. It’s been overwhelming me for months but I have to be strong for Caitlyn. I can never let her see me like that.

“Hey, you know what?” I ask.

She turns to me. “What?”

“I think there’s something in your room.”

She cocks her head. “What is it?”

I playfully shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Then, how do you know th—”

“Pumpkin, you should go see your room.”

She gives me one more quizzical look and then starts slowly walking back to the stairs as I follow. The closer she gets, the faster she goes. By the time I reach the stairs, she’s reached the top and turns into her room. I take my time catching up.

Halfway up, I hear her squeal with delight from her bedroom.

I reach the top of the stairs. All the doors in the hallway are open. A steady, rhythmic sound emanates from Caitlyn’s room.

I round the corner into her room and find her bouncing on her new, four-poster canopy bed.

“My princess bed!” she happily sings.

“Hey! You’re gonna break it!” I warn her but not too sternly.

She falls onto her back, laughing hysterically.

“All right, enough of that, you little monster.” I point to the cardboard boxes in the corner. Each one has “Caitlyn” written in black marker on the side. “Start unpacking. Set up your room however you want. If you need me, I’ll be down the hall, okay?”

She nods.

I go to leave, but hear her hop off the bed and run towards me. I turn just in time as she throws her arms around me in the strongest hug her arms can manage.

“Thank you, Dad.”

I return her hug. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

“I love you,” she says.

“I love you, too.”

We hold each other, both missing Nicole.

I kiss the top of her head. “Okay. Get to work.”

She goes to the boxes as I turn and leave. I hear her ripping the tape to unpack as I walk down the hall to the master bedro—

Huh.

This door was open a moment ago.

There has to be a draft, somewhere. I can hear the wind battering the house.

Oh well.

I open the door and go inside.

April 7th, 1900

I love it. I simply love this journal.

I’ve never kept a journal, but I will try to do so, especially because of who gave it to me, but more on that in a little while.

The party was fine but I’m much too shy for public gatherings. Besides, while it was my seventeenth birthday, the party wasn’t really for me. It was Father’s way of “introducing” us to Kingsbrook before we open the pharmacy. I know Father is excited, but he’s been excited for every other business he’s put his hand to, like the grocer’s or the launderer, and they’ve all been disasters. This time, though, I heard him promise my stepmother, Carol, that it would be a success.

The party was held at the house we’re renting in town. We can’t afford to buy a house, but Father wanted us to appear successful because it will give people more confidence in the pharmacy. Father also wanted the party to be as elegant as possible but since we don’t have the means to buy a house, we certainly don’t have the money to hire caterers or planners. Everything fell to Carol and she was stretched to the limit. I felt horribly for her and tried to help as much as I could, but Father insisted that I was to be the centerpiece of the party.

As the party began and the guests arrived, I did my best to be cordial as Father introduced me, but after the introductions, he would forget all about me and go on and on about the pharmacy. It became so embarrassing that I had to step outside to get away, just for a moment.

I went to the backyard and hid out of sight behind one of the oak trees. I thought I was alone but there was someone else there, hiding from the party, as well.

He was tall with dark hair and striking blue eyes. Those eyes stopped me in my tracks. You can imagine my surprise when I saw that he was drinking from a flask. He was just as shocked to see me as I, him. He then got this little smile on his face and held out the flask. He was offering me a drink!

Unable to speak, I walked away, back to the party, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that vicious little smile and those piercing blue eyes.

Later, at dinner, while Father was giving an overlong toast, in which he thanked everyone for welcoming us to Kingsbrook, and extolled the virtues of the soon-to-open pharmacy, I saw the man seated next to a tired-looking blonde woman a few tables away. While everyone else was politely listening to Father ramble on, the man and I locked eyes. He still had that little smile.

Once dinner was over, we moved on to the presents.

It was so uncomfortable, people I didn’t know giving me presents, but I did my best to be truly appreciative. There were some pieces of jewelry, a book of poems, some things called ‘crayons’, and other knick-knacks.

When it came time, it was the blonde woman who stood and presented the gift, which was wrapped in tissue paper. She wished me a happy seventeenth birthday and handed it to me. I unwrapped the tissue paper and inside was this journal! The engraving on the front is so wonderful and the lock is so clever! The man, who I assumed was her husband, sat in his chair, and nodded in my direction. I nodded back.

After presents, I tried to keep my eye on the man as he mingled with other guests. He appeared charming and engaging. Those eyes sparkled every time he laughed. Everyone seemed to enjoy his company. I would say more than myself or Father’s attempts to promote the pharmacy, he was the center of attention at the party. I did find it odd that he rarely spoke to his wife and I began to feel as though he was deliberately avoiding me, even though we continued to exchange glances.

At one point, Father grew frustrated and tried to wrestle the attention away from the man to talk about the pharmacy. Again, I was so embarrassed that I had to escape to the kitchen. There, I found Carol desperately setting up a tray of desserts for the guests.

“What are you doing in here?” she asked.

“Father’s being unbearable about the pharmacy,” I replied.

She rolled her eyes in agreement. “Well, don’t stay away too long. It is technically your party.” She took the tray and went out into the living room. I stayed out of view as the door swung open, and waited for it to close.

It was hot in the kitchen. Carol had opened the window and I could hear voices outside.

I glanced out, and just below the window I saw two girls talking. I couldn’t make out their faces, only the tops of their heads.

“Can you believe they’re here?” one asked the other.

“Why not? From what I understand, it’s not the first time it’s happened,” the other replied.

“What have you heard?”

“Stories mostly. Except this last one. I know for a fact he was caught with a young woman.”

“Who told you?”

“Someone who knows their valet … Can you blame the young woman, though? He is handsome.”

“Patricia, stop it.”

“What? He is. There’s no denying it. Lots of women fancy him, and as I said, I’ve heard stories. He’s even told me that he fancies me.”

“You really are a terrible gossip.”

“It’s not gossip if you know.”

Just then, the door to the kitchen swung open and Father poked his head inside.

“Darling, you’re being rude. People are asking where you are.”

At the sound of Father’s voice, the girls below the window hurriedly walked away. The one named Patricia glanced back and our eyes briefly met before they rounded the corner of the house.

“Come on,” Father insisted.

I went to join ‘my’ party.

Once the party ended, Father and I waited at the end of the drive to see the guests off and individually thank them for coming. When I spotted the man towards the end of the line, I pretended as though I wasn’t anticipating our formal introduction and farewell. That blonde woman hung on his arm. I tried to concentrate on the people to whom I was saying ‘goodbye’, but my attention kept flicking back to him.

At last, they reached Father and me.

Father shook their hands and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Carrington, thank you so much for coming.”

The woman thanked him for the invitation to the party and again welcomed us to Kingsbrook.

Then, they turned to me.

I thanked them for coming and for the journal.

She took both my hands and said, “It was our pleasure.”

She let go and I offered my hand to Mr. Carrington. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Carrington. So nice to meet you.”

He locked me with those eyes and gently took my hand. “And you,” he said.

No one could see it, but when he said ‘you’, he applied the slightest pressure with his finger to the palm of my hand. It was distinct and deliberate. “You should come visit us some time at the Nightingale House.”

Unable to help himself, Father suddenly jumped in. “Well, if there is anything you need from the pharmacy, don’t hesitate to contact us. We’ll even make deliveries.”

His attempt to casually insert business into the conversation went over like a stone, but the Carringtons remained polite. I couldn’t prevent my eyes from rolling as Father rambled. Mr. Carrington shot me a sideways glance and gave me a sly wink. Afterwards, Father and I watched them ride off in their carriage, driven by a man I heard her address as ‘Theodore’. Then, we saw the rest of the guests off.

I’m in bed now, and I can’t stop thinking about him. This journal is such a perfect gift. Although I only shared a few words with him all night, I feel like he gave me the most attention. This town may not be all bad.

Good night.

2

Through the open door of the bedroom, I can hear Caitlyn singing to herself down the hall as she unpacks.

My unpacking is relatively easy. I hang my clothes in the closet and I tuck away the rest in the dresser. I’m not much of an interior designer, so the walls are going to remain bare. The only ‘decoration’ is a photo on the mantel over the fireplace of Nicole and I on our wedding day. Now, I’m sitting on the corner of the bed with the last thing that needs to be put away: a small cardboard box. I stare at it for a moment, then flip open the lid to reveal the small, snub-nosed pistol resting inside. I purchased it at a pawn shop a few months earlier, during what was my lowest point after Nicole’s death. It was an impulse buy that I immediately regretted, but I can’t bring myself to get rid of it. I keep the bullets in the drawer below the top drawer in a pretense of safety. Nicole would be furious if she knew I had a gun in the house.

“But Nicole’s not here, is she?” I mumble to myself and instantly feel ashamed.

I close the lid, go to the dresser, tuck the box into the back of the top drawer, bury it behind pairs and pairs of socks, and push the drawer closed.

The wind blasts across the top of the chimney, filling the room with a soft wail.

I take in my new bedroom.

It feels cold; like the room doesn’t want me here. The shadows on the walls don’t seem to match what’s around me.

It’s a ridiculous thought, of course. The room feels unwelcoming because this isn’t the same room as before. I was supposed to share this room with Nicole and now, she’s not here. That’s all. I’ll get used to it. I really don’t have a choice, do I?

The wind gusts again, causing a louder wail than before.

But not right now, I think, and head out the door.

*

A gust of wind rattles the window above the sink.

“Bowl,” Caitlyn announces.

She hands me the bowl and I place it on the shelf in the cabinet.

She takes another paper-enclosed item out of the box marked ‘kitchen’ and unwraps it.

“Little bowl,” she declares.

“Thank you,” I reply and place it next to the stack of other bowls in the cabinet.

After unpacking our rooms, Caitlyn wanted to help with the rest of the house. I wasn’t going to say no and figured that the kitchen would be the room with the most objects she could help with. At first, she delighted in unwrapping the items, like she was unwrapping Christmas presents. She would take them out of the box, tear away the paper, declare what they were, and hand them to me to put away in the cabinets she can’t reach. However, that was an hour ago and for her, it’s no longer like Christmas.

She lifts another item out of the box and unwraps it.

“Bowl,” she sighs, disappointed.

“Thank you,” I say, repeating our process.

“We have a lot of bowls,” she says.

“Well … maybe.”

I guess we do have a lot of bowls but the real problem is that she’s getting restless. The novelty has worn off.

Caitlyn looks at her hands and claps them together.

“Gloves,” she says.

“What’s that, pumpkin?”

“I need gloves. The movers had gloves. I should wear gloves.”

She abruptly turns and walks away into the dining room, out of sight.

“Caitlyn?”

“Be right back!” she calls out, her voice heading upstairs.

I lightly laugh, bend down, take another object out of the box, and remove the heavy wrapping paper.

A bowl.

Caitlyn may have a point.

Another gust of wind rattles the window, drawing my attention, and I glance out across the lawn towards the lake.

Nicole is standing by the shore.

She’s staring right at me, unmoving, with a fearful, anxious expression. The wind whips her hair about her face.

The window continues trembling in the frame.

Behind her, the surface of the lake ripples from the wind.

She looks so worried, so scared. It’s as th—

“Okay! I’m ready.”

I drop the bowl. It crashes to the floor and shatters into countless shards of sharp, ceramic pieces.

Caitlyn is standing just inside the kitchen doorway, wearing her big, bulky, red snow gloves. She looks just as startled as I am.

“Pumpkin, you scared me.” I exhale, clutching my chest. “I’m sorry.”

We stare at the broken pieces.

“It’s okay, Dad. We have a lot of bowls.” She stares at the pieces a moment longer and then has an idea. “I’ll go find the broom!” she proclaims, like she’s going on a new adventure, and stomps away.

I turn back to the window.

Nicole is gone.

*

A few hours later, I’m in the living room, working on that most essential of projects: the entertainment center. Caitlyn is reading a book on the couch. I’ve already hooked up the television. It’s resting on the floor while broadcasting a Cubs game. They’ve brought in their “ace” relief pitcher who has promptly blown a two-run lead.

“Oh, you jerk!” I say as the runner crosses the plate.

Caitlyn raises her head to look at me, but goes back to reading.

The wind has died a little bit, but short gusts will occasionally rake across the house.

I’ve gotten over the shock of seeing Nicole. Honestly, it’s nothing new.

I’ve been having dreams about her. They started the day after the accident. Sometimes, they’re nightmares. Other times, they’re wonderful visions where we’re living our lives, like nothing had happened. I’ll wake up right in the middle of the dream and try to fall back asleep as quickly as possible, in the hopes that I can pick up right where I left off, but whenever I fall back asleep, we have really big heads and are watching sumo wrestling fish or something equally bizarre.

I’ll admit that this was different. It was the first time I’ve seen her while I was awake, but I’m not too bothered by that. After she died, I used to feel like she was around all the time at the apartment, and today of all days, when I was missing her more than I thought possible, of course I would see her in my mind’s eye. I’ve come to grips with the idea that the next few weeks and months are going to be tough with moving into a new house without Nicole. I don’t know how I’m going to react, but I’m just going to have to roll with the punches.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Hello?” a sing-song voice rings from the porch.

I stand up and walk to the door.

I open it to find a woman in her early sixties with short, dyed hair that remains almost motionless against the wind. Her cheeks are creased in laugh-lines. Her eyes sparkle, as does her jewelry. In one hand she has a plate of cookies. In the other, she’s holding a bottle of scotch. She is clearly in a class by herself.

“Are you my new neighbors?” She smiles.

“I believe so,” I reply. “Come on in.”

“Thank you.” She steps inside and I close the door behind her. “I’m Mildred Johnson. I live next door.”

“Hello, Mildred Johnson. I’m Daniel Price and this is my daughter, Caitlyn.”

Caitlyn gets off the couch and joins us.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Mildred says with, of all things, a curtsey to Caitlyn.

Caitlyn loves it and tries to return the gesture. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Johnson.”

“Oh, you can call me Mildred. I wanted to welcome you two to the neighborhood.” She offers the plate of cookies to Caitlyn. “These are my legendary ‘Twice-Spanked Cookies’. The trick is, just as they start to rise when you’re baking them, you spank them down with a spatula.”

Caitlyn takes the plate. “Thank you, Mrs. Johns— I mean, thank you, Mildred.”

“You are so welcome. And this is for you,” she says, extending the bottle of scotch in my direction but stops. “You’re not on the wagon, are you?”

I laugh. “Nope.”

“Oh, thank God,” she sighs, and hands it to me.

I don’t recognize the label, but I do notice that the bottle has been opened and some of the liquid is gone.

Mildred reads my mind.

“I had to know if it was any good,” she offers without a hint of shame.

“And now, it’s my turn. Care to join me?”

*

We spend a little while talking in the kitchen while Caitlyn enjoys one of Mildred’s ‘twice-spanked’ cookies. The wind has finally died down to a gentle breeze and we head outside.

Mildred and I sit on the back porch, sipping our scotch, enjoying the sunshine, and watching Caitlyn stand knee-deep in the water and attempt to skip rocks. Occasionally the wind will kick back up for a second, grab hold of one of the flat stones Caitlyn just threw, and send it sailing to the left.

“So, Daniel Price. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m an author.”

She raises an impressed eyebrow. “Really? What do you write?”

“Novels.”

“Anything I would know?”

“Maybe. In the Shadows of Justice? It’s a political thriller.”

She shakes her head. “Nah. I only read the steamy stuff. If I’m not going to blush, I want nothing to do with it.”

I chuckle and take another sip. It is good scotch.

“Is there a Mrs. Price?” she asks, hesitantly.

“There was. She passed away eight months ago.”

“Oh … that sucks.”

“Yes, it does.”

She contemplates her scotch and shrugs. “Still. A sexy, single, successful author? The women of this town will eat you alive.”

She catches me mid-sip and I erupt in a fit of laughter and coughing.

I’ve found that there’s a ritual to disclosing Nicole’s death. I’ll be having a pleasant conversation with someone. They’ll ask. I’ll tell them. There’s a moment of awkward shock. They’ll offer their condolences and then a shadow hangs over the rest of the conversation. It’s refreshing for someone to take it in their stride and I’m oddly thankful for it. Besides, I knew Nicole’s sense of humor, and she would have found it hilarious.

“What about you, Mildred Johnson?” I ask, after the coughing subsides. “Is there a Mr. Johnson?”

“Yep. That’s how I bought that thirty years ago,” she says with a wave towards her house, which is about a hundred yards down the shore. She then looks back at the Nightingale House. “You’ll love this place.”

“Did you know the people who lived here before us?”

“The Thompsons. Wonderful people. They were getting older and the house was getting to be too much for them. They moved to some God-awful place in Florida. But if you ask me, all of Florida is God-awful.”

We watch as Caitlyn tries to sidearm another rock. She gets two skips before the rock disappears below the surface.

“How is she handling it? Her mom and all?” Mildred asks.

“It’s rough. We were all in the car together. T-boned by a drunk driver. My wife died instantly. Caitlyn was out for a few days.”

“… That really sucks,” she says, eyes still on Caitlyn.

“Yes, it does.”

“And the drunk driver?”

“He died at the scene.”

“That’s too bad.” Mildred looks down into her scotch and then adds, “They should have kept him alive so you could finish him off.”

“… I’d be lying if I said that thought never crossed my mind.”

Mildred nods, as if I passed some kind of test. “Well, let me know whenever you need someone to look after her. I’ll spoil her rotten.”

“Mildred Johnson, you are my kind of woman.”

We clink glasses.

*

Our inaugural dinner for our first night in the Nightingale House is pizza.

While I pay the delivery guy, Caitlyn sets the table. I know it’s pizza but I feel that we should observe some sort of ceremony and actually eat at the table. As I carry the pizza towards the kitchen, I see that Caitlyn is setting out three plates on the dining-room table.

“Who’s the extra plate for?” I ask, suddenly worried that she’s setting a place for Nicole, like she’s forgotten that she’s not here.

“The pirate,” Caitlyn responds.

“I’m sorry—the pirate?”

“Yeah. I met him outside when I was throwing rocks. You didn’t see him. You and Mrs. Johnson were talking.”

Honestly, I’m a little relieved.

“Is he joining us for dinner?”

“He said he might stop by,” she replies, completely unfazed.

“Do pirates even like pizza?”

“Everyone likes pizza, Dad.”

I suppose she’s right. I’m weary of the story, though.

Since Nicole’s death, Caitlyn’s lying has become much worse. She would tell me things about her friends at school that alarmed me, but a little investigation would show that she had made it up. I tried to get her to stop. Each time, she said that she understood that it was wrong and promised to stop, but she kept doing it. Finally, I took her to a child psychologist. He said her fantasies were a normal coping mechanism for Nicole’s death. Caitlyn’s reality had been shattered and her active imagination had been providing an escape. He added that I should only worry if she started believing the stories she was making up. As it stood, she never insisted they were true if I questioned her about them.

I know I’m not supposed to let her get away with these little stories but it’s been a long day, we’re starving, and if I’m going to allow myself some room to process things and not freak out, I should probably do the same for Caitlyn.

*

After dinner, we both get ready for bed and crash on the couch to watch a Disney movie we’ve seen a hundred times before. By the end, Caitlyn is already fast asleep in her nightgown, drooling on my shoulder. I’m not too far behind.

The movie ends. I reach over, pick up the remote, and hit the power button. The screen goes dark.

There’s a man standing next to the television.

I throw a hand over Caitlyn, and quickly turn on the lamp on the end table, nearly knocking it over in the process.

The shadows are obliterated.

“Dad?” Caitlyn mumbles, rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on?”

I’m still shaking. I glance around the room. Caitlyn and I are alone.

“It’s okay, pumpkin. Sorry. Daddy was having a bad dream.”

She sits up, more asleep than awake. “About what?”

I finally take a deep breath and settle myself.

“Nothing. Come on; time for bed.”

Instead of getting up, she leans over and falls back asleep on my arm.

I smile. “That’s the way it’s gonna be, huh?”

She doesn’t argue as I gently lift her up. She only wraps her arms around my neck and rests her face against my shoulder.

I carry her to the foot of the stairs. I can’t help but look back one more time to the spot where I had seen the figure.

There’s no one there.

3

This is the worst night since the night Nicole died.

I’m lying in bed, sleeping on the left-hand side, because that’s where I always slept when Nicole and I shared this bed, staring at the darkness overhead, and I can’t stop crying. My muscles ache from the sobs that have been wracking my body. I’m worried that I’ll wake Caitlyn, but I can’t stop. I grab a pillow, go into the bathroom, and close the door. Using the pillow to stifle my cries, I sit on the cold floor and weep. I don’t care how this looks. Ego is nothing in the face of crushing grief.

When they told me Nicole was gone, it was surreal. I couldn’t process it. I still can’t. I’ve spent the past few months thinking that somehow, at any moment, she’ll walk through the front door and life will go on the way we planned, the way we worked so hard for, and finally achieved. After the accident, Caitlyn and I lived in the old apartment and it always felt like Nicole was nearby, but now, in these new surroundings, I don’t feel her anymore. For the first time, it feels like she’s truly gone.

After I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting on this floor, sobbing, I press my face into the pillow and scream with every fiber in my body. I scream again, and again, and again, until my lungs finally give out. That’s it. I lean back against the wall and take deep breaths that catch in my chest. The sobs stop because I no longer have the strength.

The bedroom door creaks open.

Damnit.

Despite my efforts, I must have awoken Caitlyn with my crying. I quickly wipe my eyes, expecting to hear her call out to me or her footsteps approach the bathroom, but once the hinges of the bedroom door stop, there’s silence.

“Caitlyn?”

No answer.

I pull myself up off the floor and go out into the bedroom. The door is open, but the doorway’s empty. I grab my phone as I cross the room and check the time. 2:42 a.m. This long night just got longer.

I poke my head into the darkened hallway.

The only light is coming from the night-light in Caitlyn’s room which is spilling out from the crack under her door.

I quietly move down the hall towards her bedroom. She must have gotten scared when she heard me crying and went back to bed. I get closer and my suspicions are confirmed. I can hear whispering coming from behind her door.

I carefully press my ear against it.

“I can’t sleep … I can’t sleep …”

I tap against the door and gently open it. “Caitlyn, I’m sorry. I didn’t want—”

The night-light casts a soft glow around the room. Caitlyn’s asleep. She’s contorted herself into a ridiculous position with one leg off the bed and her butt up in the air.

“Caitlyn?”

Maybe she’s pretending to be asleep to avoid talking to me.

I get closer and see that she is out cold.

I quietly turn, step out of the room, and close the door behind me.

I’m way more tired than I realized because I’m hearing things. I need to get back to my room, crawl into bed, and try to sl—

Drip … drip …

I spin around.

It came from somewhere on the stairs. I pull up the flashlight app on my phone and scan the stairs. They’re dry. There are no water spots on the ceiling, either.

Drip … drip …

It’s coming from downstairs.

As quietly as the stairs will allow, I creep down to the first floor. I wait at the bottom of the stairs, searching everywhere with the light from my phone. Unconsciously, I steal a glance to the television where I thought I saw the figure earlier, but there’s no one there.

Drip … drip …

Wait … now it’s coming from the dining room.

My blood begins to boil. I believed Stelowski when he said that all the pipes had been inspected. Now, I’m going to have to pay what will probably turn out to be thousands of dollars to fix it.

I go into the dining room and wait … and wait … and wait.

I continue searching the ceiling and the floor but everything is dry. My heartbeat begins to slow. My breathing returns to normal. This is pointless. There’s nothing I can do about it tonight. I’ll look tomorrow in the daylight.

Since I’ve come all that way, I’ll check out the kitchen, just to be thorough. I walk through the entranceway and sweep the light over the stove, counters, and fridge. I check the door leading to the backyard to make sure it’s locked, which it is. Through the window in the door, I can see the moon’s reflection in the black water of the lake.

I have to get back to bed. Tomorrow, I’ll call Stelowski and have him send someo—

Drip … drip …

It’s right behind me.

I swing around, sweeping the light in a wide arc across the floor. It sounded so close, I’m surprised that I didn’t feel the water on my bare ankles, but the floor is dry. I check the ceiling. No water marks. I stand absolutely still, holding my breath, until my muscles begin to cramp and my lungs start to burn. The stillness wins out. The tension flows from me. A new house, way behind on the next book, stress, grief, lack of sleep? Of course I’m hearing things. I tell myself that I have to take it easy and roll with the punches. It’s time to get back to sleep.

I creep back through the first floor and up the stairs. I tip-toe past Caitlyn’s room and down the hall.

I quickly hop into the bed, getting my freezing feet off the floor and slide them under the covers. I punch the pillow, fluffing it up, smooth it out, lay my head back, and wait for sleep to come … and wait … and wait … and wait … and wait …

May 3rd, 1900

Today was the grand opening of the pharmacy.

For the last month, Father’s been talking about the crowds that were going to show up. In the end, there was only a handful of people. Most of them were other merchants from the town square and were more polite than enthusiastic. Father gave a ridiculous speech about how the pharmacy would provide for all of Kingsbrook’s medical needs. He boasted of the tonics from the East and powders from Africa. Then, he announced that he would be giving away samples to prove their effectiveness. Carol was livid. Afterwards, they disappeared in the back and left me to work the register. The machine jammed and I needed Father’s assistance. I went through the curtain to the storeroom and found them arguing.

Carol was furious and said he was throwing money away. Father said that once everyone sees how well the products work, they’ll be back for more. Carol said that they didn’t work and that Father knew it back in Boston. That’s when they saw me standing by the curtain. I told them about the register.

Carol said she would take care of it and left us.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Father asked with a forced smile.

“Isn’t ‘what’ wonderful?”

“The store!” he replied. “It’s going to do such wonderful things for our family.”

He’s said that before about the grocer’s we had in Boston and the launderette. And now, this.

Father and Carol continued to be hostile to each other and arguing in the storeroom. The stream of customers dwindled, and Father decided it would be best if I ran the store and the two of them went home to talk. I was fine with the idea; anything to get them out of the store.

There were some customers throughout the rest of the day, but nothing of the magnitude Father had predicted. Some of Kingsbrook’s elite who couldn’t be there earlier for the opening stopped in later. They seemed relieved when I told them that Father was gone for the day. Then, they beat a hasty retreat, promising to return another time and congratulate Father on the pharmacy’s success.

One of the latecomers was Mayor Fleming. To my surprise, he was followed by the young woman I had seen under the window at my party—the one named ‘Patricia’. We recognized each other immediately. She smiled with false politeness as he introduced her as his daughter. He asked to speak to Father and I told him that Father had gone, but that I would tell him that he had stopped by.

As they turned to leave, you’ll never believe who walked in … Mr. Carrington!

He exchanged pleasantries with the Mayor and a few words with Patricia before making his way over to the counter.

Those eyes.

“Ms. Harker,” he said.

“It’s good to see you, Mr. Carrington.”

He was pleased that I remembered his name and winked at me, again.

I glanced over his shoulder and saw the Mayor speaking to his daughter. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was clear that he was leaving and she wanted to stay.

“Are you working here by yourself?” Mr. Carrington asked.

“Father needs me to work,” I told him.

“Can’t he hire someone?”

“Not yet, but hopefully soon.”

He looked around at the almost empty store. “How is the grand opening going?” he asked with a smirk I didn’t like.

I also noticed that Patricia Fleming had drifted closer to the counter. I couldn’t believe it, but she was unmistakably eavesdropping on our conversation.

“Father says once we’re established, it’ll get better,” I answered.

“Do you believe that?”

“I … I hope it will.”

I was shocked that he would speak so bluntly but admired his honesty.

“Well, he needs to hire someone,” he said. “A shop girl is no position for a lovely creature like yourself.”

Yes, he did! He called me a ‘lovely creature’!

I could feel my cheeks flush and I faltered for something to say. Then, I remembered the present they gave me for my birthday. “Thank you for the journal,” I said.

“It was my wife’s idea, but I’m glad you enjoy it.”

“I do. I’ve been writing in it almost every day.”

“Is every day worth writing about?” he asked.

I told him it was a good outlet for my thoughts, to which he replied, “And your deepest, most secret desires, I hope.”

I know it may have been a little inappropriate but it was also fun. I have never met someone who is so intimidating, so clever, and so handsome. I was also enjoying the look of shock on Patricia Fleming’s face that she was trying to hide.

“And how is your wife?” I asked.

“She’s fine. She’s at her mother’s in Boston, along with our valet. They’ll be back for the Fourth of July Celebration. Which reminds me, we have a picnic at the Nightingale House on the Fourth of July as part of the celebration. The whole town is invited, but it would make me particularly happy if you would attend.”

I could think of nothing I wanted more but told him that I may have to work.

He said that was nonsense and that all the shops are closed on the Fourth of July. “And who knows?” he said. “Maybe business will be such that your father can hire someone else to waste their life behind that counter.” He picked up a tin of lip balm from the display next to the register and laid it on the counter. “How much is this?”

I told him it was twenty cents.

He pulled out his billfold, removed a five-dollar bill, put it on the counter, and said, “Keep the change.”

“You want my father to open an account?” I asked.

“I didn’t say give it to your father. It’s for you, on one condition.”

“Yes?”

“You have to buy something for yourself. Something pretty.”

I was speechless.

“Thank you,” I finally managed to say.

He gave me that sly wink, again. “See? Business is already looking up.”

He took the tin and walked out the door.

I never took my eyes off him until he disappeared out of view of the window. Then, I turned to Patricia Fleming. She was pretending to look at a shelf of tonics.

“Can I help you find something?” I asked.

She gave me another insincere smile. “No, thank you,” she said. “It’s all a little expensive for my tastes.”

I tried to match her insincerity with a false smile of my own.

“Best of luck with the pharmacy,” she said, then turned and walked out the door.

I was upset at her rudeness but then I remembered; he called me ‘a lovely creature’ and that I should buy something pretty for myself.

As I watched Patricia walk away, my gaze drifted towards the jewelers across the square.

I think I shall have to pay them a visit.

Good night.

4

I’m awoken by the sickening crunch of metal slamming into metal and glass shattering, just outside my bedroom door.

Then, silence.

I open my eyes and sit up.

The room is filled with a faint black fog.

I climb off the bed and listen at the door. There’s a faint noise on the other side.

… tick … tick … tick … tick …

I open the door and walk through.

The black fog blankets the intersection. The pavement is littered in broken glass and bits of metal. Small wisps of steam and smoke escape from the crumpled hood of the pickup truck that slammed into our car. The force of the impact has melded the two vehicles together into one disfigured, twisted heap.

The traffic light above the intersection blinks red.

… tick … tick … tick … tick …

The black fog seems to guide me over to the wreckage. The bits of glass puncture my bare feet as I walk across the pavement, but I don’t feel it.

I can’t see inside the truck, but I know what’s in there: the body of the driver, pressed against the steering wheel.

I don’t want this. I don’t want to see this, but the black fog urges me forward.

I get closer to the car.

Through the remains of the shattered window, I see Nicole’s mangled, decimated body. Her head is twisted at an unnatural angle. Her face is covered in blood. Her eyes are open. They stare straight ahead but see nothing.

Why? Why did this have to be the last image I have of her? It’s the image that has been burned into my mind: Nicole, my wife, the woman I loved, the mother of our child, broken, lifeless, grotesque. After I regained consciousness moments after the accident, I saw her and screamed, pleaded with her to wake up, knowing it was useless. Why did this have to be how I remember her? It’s the cruelest trick, added to the cruelest joke of being hit by a drunk driver.

I look past Nicole’s mauled body to the back seat.

Caitlyn.

She’s strapped in by her seatbelt, her body laying back. Like Nicole, her head is at a nauseating angle. Her eyes are open. Lifeless.

No. No. It wasn’t like this.

She was alive. I tried to help her. She was breathing but I couldn’t touch her because I was afraid that if she had a spinal injury, I would paralyze her. So, I had to sit there, pleading, begging her to wake up. Those minutes between when I called 9-1-1 until the ambulance arrived were an eternity. I couldn’t touch my daughter. I couldn’t do anything. The EMTs had to drag me away screaming towards the ambulance as they began cutting into the door. Caitlyn was alive.

But now, she’s dead in the back seat.

It wasn’t like this!

“Caitlyn?!” I scream and frantically try to open the crushed door. The handle won’t budge. Through the remains of the window, I grab the edge of the door and pull. The shards of glass slice into my hand and work their way under my fingernails.

I grunt, curse, and scream.

“Caitlyn! Somebody help me, please!”

In between my efforts, there’s a faint whisper.

“It’s your fault …”

I stop and peer into the black fog. A thin layer of snow lies on the ground among the black trees, but I don’t see anyone.

“It’s your fault …” the whisper says again, somewhere near me.

“Why didn’t you see the truck? It’s your fault …”

I slowly turn back to the wreckage.

Nicole’s eyes stare lifelessly in front of her but her lips move. “It’s your fault …”

“No … No … Nicole … Please … I’m sorry.”

The rest of her body remains motionless except her lips. “It’s your fault … Why did you let this happen?”

“Nicole. I didn’t see—”

“It’s your fault …”

Her whispers grow louder. Her voice is accusatory, sad, and terrified, all at once.

“It’s your fault … It’s your fault … You did this … You killed me … You killed us …”

“Stop! Please!”

Hot tears begin stinging my eyes.

“It’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s your fault—”

“Nicole, I love you. Please, please, stop it …”

Her voice and lips tremble, but her eyes and body remain lifeless.

“It’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s your fault.”

I can’t take this. I turn away from the accident but I still hear her.

“Why, Daniel? Why did you let this happen to us?”

The door to my bedroom is sitting there, just off the road. The fog parts, clearing a path for me.

“It’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s your fault.”

Her voice follows like she’s walking right behind me.

The doorknob feels like ice in my hand as I twist it open. I step into my bedroom and close the door behind me.

The black fog blankets the floor.

I can still hear Nicole’s voice, as if she’s standing just on the other side of the door.

“It’s your fault. It’s your fault. It’s your fault.”

I crawl back into bed.

Her voice trails away to nothing.

I lie there in the silence of the room.

Suddenly, the fog comes crashing into me. It races from every part of the room and every corner of the house. It enters my body through the pores of my skin, turning my blood into an icy, black sludge. I feel nauseous, like I’m rotting from the inside and I’ll never be clean again.

Nicole’s face appears right in front of me; not the mangled image I’ve just seen in the car, but the concerned, fearful Nicole I saw through the window of the kitchen earlier today.

“Daniel, wake up!”

*

My eyes fly open.

I sit up in my bed.

There’s no fog or the voice of Nicole, accusing me through the door. It’s just a room but the tears on my cheeks and the thudding of my heart are very real.

I swing my feet off the side of the bed.

I’ve never experienced anything like that. Yes, somewhere deep inside, I’ve always felt like it was my fault. I should have seen the truck. I should have made sure. I’ve gone over all the things I could have done differently, but to see that, to hear Nicole …

I’m not going back to sleep. No way. Not after that. I need out of this room. I need some television; something to erase what I’ve just seen.

I get up and go to the door.

I grab the knob but stop, fearful of what might be on the other side.

I twist the knob and pull the door open.

There’s no intersection. No wreckage. No fog. No Nicole. Just an empty hallway.

I quickly go back to the bed and grab my pillow.

For the second time tonight, I go back down the stairs to the living room.

I turn on the lamp and go to the open box of Blu-ray discs sitting on the floor next to the television. I select a title, one that is sure to help clear my head, and pop it into the player. I stretch out on the couch, pop the pillow under my head, and pull the throw blanket on top of me.

The movie starts and I’m asleep in five minutes.

5

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The intermittent pressure on my forehead causes me to snort awake.

Caitlyn is standing next to the couch, hunched over me, her finger poised from tapping me on the forehead.

Sunlight is pouring through the windows.

“Why are you sleeping down here?” she asks.

I stretch my aching, cramped muscles. “I fell asleep watching TV,” I reply.

Caitlyn turns to look at the television.

The menu screen for Sleeping Beauty has to have been repeating the same fifteen-second clip for hours, waiting for a response.

She turns back to me, very confused.

“I … I couldn’t remember how it ended,” I say.

She shrugs. “Whatever.” She walks to the kitchen. “Can I have breakfast?”

*

I still haven’t been to the store to do a proper grocery shop, so the options for breakfast are limited to cereal and Pop Tarts, which we’re fine with. It’s only the responsible parenting part of my brain that is uncomfortable, and it can wait.

“Okay,” I say, sitting across from Caitlyn in the alcove. “The objective for today is to finish unpacking. We’re going to try to get everything done.”

“Everything?”

“Well, at least all the big stuff. Between the two of us, it shouldn’t take too long.”

“I wanted to play outside.”

“You can, after you help me.”

She pouts, apparently less eager to help than yesterday.

“Hey. That’s what you get for waking me up by poking my forehead,” I say with a wink.

She tries not to laugh.

*

And she does help.

We take care of the last two boxes in her room that need to be unpacked and put them away. Then, we head to the guestroom.

It’s almost laughable that we’re trying to fill this house with the stuff from a two-bedroom apartment. We don’t even have a bed for the spare bedroom.

I can’t help but think of the plans Nicole had for this place.

In the weeks before the accident, she had been looking at furniture and asking my opinion on whole sets. I told her all I wanted was a big, comfy monstrosity of a recliner. She had webpages of furniture sets bookmarked but we didn’t pull the trigger, deciding that we would pull the trigger once we were in the house. After all, we would have so much time, right? The pages are still bookmarked on the computer, but I can’t bring myself to look at them. Maybe one day.

Once we finish, I break down the cardboard boxes, and we carry them down to the basement.

“Watch your step,” I warn Caitlyn as we navigate the stairs down into almost total darkness.

I make my way to the center of the room and pull the chain, snapping on the old lightbulb. It illuminates the immediate area but can’t reach into the corners of the basement. We walk over to the heavy wooden shelves. I take my armful of collapsed boxes and set them down on one of the shelves. I reach out and Caitlyn hands me the two collapsed boxes that she was struggling to carry.

“Thank you.”

I put her boxes on top of mine and start to walk back towards the stairs.

“Since we’re coming back down, I’ll leave the light on,” I say, mounting the stairs.

“Hi …”

I stop and look back.

Caitlyn isn’t following me.

She’s standing in the middle of the room, under the hanging lightbulb, staring into the shadows in the far corner.

“Caitlyn?”

She turns to me, smiling.

“Pumpkin, what are you d—?”

Pop.

The bulb flashes, illuminating Caitlyn and the thing that’s standing in the corner, before plunging the basement into darkness.

“Caitlyn?” I frantically try to get my phone out and turn on the flashlight app.

“I’m okay,” she calmly replies.

I’m finally able to get the app up and find Caitlyn with the beam of light. She’s still there, looking into the corner. I shine the light in the direction she’s looking, but it’s empty.

“You sure you’re okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says, not turning around.

I point the beam at the lightbulb, half of which is now gone.

“You didn’t get any glass on you?”

“No.”

I swing the light around the room. It’s just us.

“Come on, pumpkin. Let’s go upstairs. I’ll get another bulb.”

She doesn’t move. She’s still fixated on that corner.

“Caitlyn, come on.”

Reluctantly, she turns and I light her way back to the stairs.

She climbs the stairs up to the kitchen.

I swing the light back to the corner.

It has to be lack of sleep, but when that bulb flashed, I thought I saw someone in that corner where Caitlyn was looking—someone Caitlyn said ‘hi’ to.

*

Caitlyn’s waiting for me at the top of the stairs in the kitchen.

The spare bulbs are in the kitchen. I grab one and return to the stairs where Caitlyn is staring down into the darkness.

I hand her the phone with the flashlight app still on. “Here. Light the stairs for me, okay?”

We head back down. I’m holding the bulb. She’s holding the phone.

We reach the bottom and I walk across the floorboards to the hanging, spent, ancient lightbulb. Caitlyn stays by the bottom of the stairs.

As I reach up to change the bulb, the light drifts over to the corner.

“Caitlyn, keep the light here, please.”

She moves it to illuminate the bulb.

I carefully remove the old lightbulb, careful not to break any more of the brittle glass. I screw in the new bulb. As soon as it’s in, the bulb blinks on. It fills the room with a much more powerful glow than the old one. I can’t help but sneak a glance at the far corner, but it’s empty.

I pull the chain, turning off the light, and walk towards Caitlyn.

“Let’s go,” I say, shepherding her up the stairs.

“Why did you turn it off?” she asks. “Aren’t we coming back down?”

“Nah. Not today.”

By the time we reach the top of the stairs and emerge back into the sun-flooded kitchen, I already feel slightly stupid. It was a shadow, nothing more. I had an atrocious night of sleep and an exhausting day of unpacking. Yes, Caitlyn is helping, but I am literally doing the heavy lifting.

And this house.

I love it. I do, but it’s going to take a while to get used to it. It would be different if Nicole were here and my subconscious knows that too. Why else would I be seeing visions of her? I’ll get used to this but I’m starting to worry about how long this adjustment will take, and not only for my own sanity, but for Caitlyn’s sake, too. I have to stay strong for her, because I’m worried that soon, she’ll start going through that same adjustment, if she hasn’t started already. I have to accept that I’m a grieving widower, who is all of a sudden raising a daughter on his own, and we’ve just moved into a big, old house. This is going to mess with my head a little bit, and if we’re being completely honest, the basement’s creepy. All basements inherently are. There’s something about them that suggests isolation, or even a grave.

“What’s next?” Caitlyn says, clapping her hands like she’s all business.

“Living room?” I suggest.

She turns on her heels and points commandingly to the entranceway.

“Living room!” she calls out and stomps away.

Okay. She might be adjusting much better than I am.

6

We’ve conquered the dining room and the living room.

It took less time than I thought, and that’s including the times we stopped to have a “popping fight” with the bubble wrap.

But that was all that Caitlyn’s concentration could take, and I’m unpacking the Writing Room on my own.

Since I’m not a big fan of going back into the basement, the large cardboard boxes remained in the living room and Caitlyn has found a million uses for them. Sometimes, they’re spaceships that she’ll pilot around the galaxy and suddenly cry out, “Asteroid field!” which is my cue to come over and shake the box. Other times, they’re race cars and she’s flying round the track. Last time I poked my head out of the Writing Room to check on her, they were laid end-to-end across the floor, creating a vast system of underground caves. From the Writing Room, I can hear her loudly announce her encounters with bats, lava, and trolls as I place some treasured paperbacks on a shelf in no particular order.

It used to drive Nicole nuts.

My books covered almost an entire wall of our apartment in Portland. One night, we were sitting on the couch with a glass of wine after Caitlyn had gone to bed.

“Alphabetically? By year?” she asked, waving her glass at the wall of books. “Ranked in order of your favorite? Is there any method to your madness?”

“Nah,” I replied.

“Then how do you expect to find any particular book when you need it?”

“I won’t need to find any particular book. They’re just there.”

“Then why have them?”

“You know how hunters have the heads on their walls, like trophies?”

“Yes, and they’re assholes.”

“Well, there you go.”

“So, that would make you an asshole?”

“Yes, but I’m your asshole.”

She gave me a look. “No other way we can phrase that, huh?”

I laughed. We kissed and—

Thump.

What the hell was that?

It was soft, almost inaudible, and sounded like it came from the bookshelf, and not in my memory with Nicole but here, in the Writing Room.

Maybe it was just a book sliding to the back of the shelf after I set it down.

I transfer the books in my hand to the shelf and wait to see if it’ll happen again. When it doesn’t, I bend down to grab more books.

Thump.

I stand up and stare at the bookcase.

It definitely sounded like it was in the bookcase. I know it can’t be behind it. The bookcase is built into the wall. I step out of the Writing Room and inspect the wall on the other side, but there’s nothing remarkable about it.

Maybe Caitlyn is playing a prank on me. After all, I don’t hear her playing “caves” anymore.

I stick my head into the living room.

The boxes still span the floor.

I’m about to call her name when I hear her whispering from inside the box at the far end of the room.

“… No … I don’t want to play with you, right now … You have to move. You’re blocking my cave … Why? Why is he upstairs?”

“Pumpkin, who are you talking to?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Caitly—”

“Nobody!” she answers in a chipper voice. “It’s okay, now!”

I’m about to ask her what she means when she says that it’s okay “now”, but she suddenly cries, “Arr! There be treasure in these caves, me-hearties!”

The boxes begin shaking as she crawls through them.

I shrug and go back to the Writing Room to finish unpacking.

*

After our productive day, it’s Chinese food for dinner.

Just like last night, Caitlyn sets the table while I pay the delivery guy, and also, just like last night, Caitlyn has set the table for three.

“Is your pirate friend going to join us this evening?” I ask.

“No.”

“Then, who is the plate for?”

“My friend. She might come down for dinner.”

“Oh …”

I take a spoon and start filling her plate with noodles, rice, and orange chicken. I know I said that I was going to give her some space with the ‘stories’, but I do want her to tone it down before she starts going to school. “Caitlyn, pumpkin, you know we really can’t do that once school starts, okay?”

“Do what?” she asks.

“The made-up stories.”

She stares at me as if it was an offensive suggestion and then shrugs.

We sit down and dig in.

Caitlyn struggles mightily with her chopsticks. I offered her a fork but she flatly refused. Towards the end of the meal, she’s finally starting to get the hang of it, once again proving that she’s inherited Nicole’s stubborn streak.

“How is your friend enjoying the meal?” I ask.

“Dad, she’s not here. She didn’t come down.”

“She doesn’t like Chinese food?”

“No. She’s hiding.”

I wait for her to elaborate but she goes back to struggling with the chopsticks.

“Listen, this is our last night of junk food,” I say, hefting the last of my sweet-n-sour pork from my chopstick to my mouth. “Tomorrow, we’re going to go to the store, explore the town, and visit your school, okay?”

She barely nods, concentrating on keeping her mouth steady as she inches her chopsticks towards her mouth. The bit of orange chicken slides back to her plate. She huffs in frustration and grabs the plastic fork on the table to finish the last of her food.

*

Once dinner is finished, we head outside to the backyard to enjoy the warm evening. She spends the better part of an hour at the water’s edge, walking in the water and playing with the fireflies, while I enjoy an after-dinner scotch in a chair on the deck. It’s worth the mosquitos. My gaze drifts through the star-pocked sky, down to the trees, and to the other houses along the shore. Nicole would have loved this. Thinking about her gives me a sense of warmth, which is completely different from last night, but that’s grief for you. Sometimes it makes you inconsolable, sometimes it makes you enraged. Other times, it makes you feel at peace, and you never know which one you’re going to get. But Nicole would also point out that it’s getting late.

I push myself out of the chair. “All right, Caitlyn. Time to get ready for bed.”

In the moonlight, she suddenly whips around to look at me, keeping her hands behind her back.

“Pumpkin, did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay … well, come inside.”

She stands motionless, as if she’s trying to make a decision. Then, she suddenly brings her hands to her chest and begins running towards me.

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth,” I say as she races past me.

She’s clutching something. It glints in the light from the porch as she runs past.

“Okay!” she says, running through the back door, leaving me to clean up our plates from dinner.

*

After depositing the dishes from dinner in the dishwasher, I go upstairs to say good night.

At the top of the stairs, I stand next to Caitlyn’s open bedroom door and there’s the sound of the sink running in the bathroom down the hall. I glance into her room and see the collection of empty cardboard boxes in the corner. I begin to make my way towards them when a reflection of light catches my eye from her nightstand. I go over and bend down for a better look.

This must have been what was in her hand.

It’s a brass medallion, about the size of a half-dollar. It’s scratched and worn. I pick it up and turn it over in my hand. On one side are three small pegs of different lengths. On the other side is an inscription in an elegant font.

The Secrets That I Keep.

It’s suddenly snatched from me.

I look up to see Caitlyn staring at me, holding the medallion. Her eyes are a mixture of anger and fear.

“Sweetheart, where did you get that?” I ask, a little unnerved that I didn’t hear her approach.

“She gave it to me.”

“Who gave it to you?” I gently ask.

She grows more fearful. “I mean … I …” She clutches the medallion tighter. “I found it in the water.”

“Hey. It’s okay. You found it. It’s yours.”

She hesitantly replaces the medallion on the nightstand and crawls into bed.

“Good night, sweetheart,” I say, pulling the covers up to her chin. “Big day tomorrow. Get some sleep.” I kiss her forehead and go to leave.

I step into the hallway and begin to close the door behind me.

“Dad!”

I quickly push it back open. “What? What’s wrong?”

“The night-light,” she says, pointing at the outlet by my feet.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” I flip the little switch and the light softly glows. “There.”

She slowly lies back down and turns away from me.

“Good night, pumpkin” I say, closing the door.

*

“DADDY!”

I’m awake in an instant.

Caitlyn is screaming. They are the desperate, terrified screams that fill every parent’s heart with panic.

I spring out of bed and race into the hallway.

Caitlyn’s door is open. I sprint down the hall and into her room.

Her bed is empty. She’s not here, but her screams continue.

“Caitlyn?!”

I take a step towards the bed and my foot lands in a small puddle of water.

Her screaming stops.

In the light from the night-light, I can see that there are wet tracks, like footprints, leading back out into the hall.

I follow them down the stairs, through the living room and dining room and into the kitchen. The back door is open.

“Caitlyn?”

I rush out the back door and onto the deck.

It’s unnaturally quiet. The night air is perfectly still.

The tracks lead off the deck and into the grass. I follow their direction towards the water and stop.

I see her. Caitlyn, clad in her nightgown, floating face down in the lake.

“Caitlyn!”

I sprint across the yard and crash into the water, kicking up my knees to fight the resistance. The water is up to my chest when I reach her.

I grab her and turn her over. She’s ice-cold and her lips are blue. She’s not breathing.

“Caitlyn? Sweetheart?”

Panicked, I seal my mouth over her lips and breathe. I feel her chest rise and fall but she doesn’t respond. I do it again with the same result.

“Caitlyn, please! Please, don’t leave me!”

Her eyes stay closed. Her body is cold and stiff.

She’s gone.

I cradle her in my arms and press my face against her cheek.

“Now, we can be a family, again,” a voice next to me whispers.

I turn my head.

The bloody, broken Nicole I saw in the dream last night is standing next to me. Her eyes are still lifeless, unseeing. Only her lips move.

Suddenly, her eyes focus on me. “Just like you wanted.”

I stare at her in horror.

The bottom falls out from below my feet and I’m pulled under the water by a terrible weight. Caitlyn’s body is gone. It’s only me, plummeting down into darkness.

I try to scream but icy, black water fills my lungs. I fight to get back to the surface, but I continue to sink. I can’t breathe. The vile, black water is filling my lungs. I’m losing control of my senses. My efforts grow weaker. My arms slow. My eyes remain open, but my vision fades.

Everything is a dark fog.

Through the void, there’s a whisper. “I can’t sleep …”

I thrash in my bed, flailing my arms against the water that isn’t there and fighting for air. I can still taste the black, briny water in my mouth. My sanity slowly returns.

“Goddamnit,” I sigh, wiping the sweat from my eyes.

It takes several minutes to calm my breathing before I can sit up and look around.

I’m still not used to this room.

Why does it feel so claustrophobic? It’s not huge but it’s not a cage.

And what is with these dreams?

Last night, it was Caitlyn’s shattered body in the car, and tonight she was floating in the lake. Why is my subconscious doing this?

If I’m going to get any sleep tonight, I need to see Caitlyn. I need to see her safe in her bed. It’s the only thing that can counter the lingering image of cradling her cold, dead body.

I climb out of bed and make my way down the hall.

I open the door to Caitlyn’s room and my heart starts racing.

Her bed is empty.

“Caitlyn?” I go over to the bed and throw back the covers. She’s not there.

No. Oh, please, no. I start searching the floor for wet footprints.

“Caitlyn?!” I cry out.

There’s a noise behind me.

Snoring. It’s coming from the closet.

I tip-toe over and open the door.

Relief washes over me.

There she is, curled up into a ball, wrapped in a blanket, her head on a pillow, and sawing logs.

“Sweetheart, what are you doing in there? You okay?”

She doesn’t stir, only continues snoring.

I gently pick her up and put her back in her bed. I pull the covers over her, kiss her on the forehead, and back out of the room.

I glance towards the open door to my bedroom.

No, thanks.

I head down the stairs and drop onto the couch, before grabbing the remote and turning on the television. Flipping through the channels, I come across a classic horror movie marathon. On the screen, Vincent Price is explaining the rules to a group of people who will get a staggering ten thousand dollars if they stay in the house for one night.

I should turn the channel, but I love this movie, and there’s no way I’m going to sleep, anyway.

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