Within These Walls (16 page)

Her father had kept her under his thumb all her life, all while her mother shot daggers of judgment into her back. She’d never felt good enough for them, never managed to be as perfect as her mother had hoped she’d be—pink-frosting dresses and a sugar-sweet smile. To them, Audra was a failure, a medicated misfit they’d all but forgotten existed. It had been
her
idea to move to Pier Pointe, so what reason did they have to make sure she was doing okay on her own?

“He’ll know I stopped taking them,” she told him. “He’s obsessed with paperwork. They show up on our health insurance bill.” If she stopped her meds, her father would know. It would give him a rea
son to call, to see what was going on. Because no matter what she told herself about her parents, nothing could convince her that they wanted her dead—at least not in Pier Pointe, not in
their
summer home. It would be a scandal, all over the papers. The congressman didn’t need that kind of publicity.

“Then you need to keep picking them up from the drugstore,” Jeff said matter-of-factly. “Just because he pays for the poison doesn’t mean you have to swallow it.”

Of course Jeff was right. If her father
did
suspect, he’d appear on the doorstep and discover Jeffrey and his friends and force her to leave with her new family. How would a group of ten people ever find a place big enough, or a person kind enough to take them in? If Audra’s father came to Pier Pointe, if he knew what was going on here, it would render them all homeless. Hungry. Cold in the rain.

“Avis.” Jeff squared his shoulders. “Get up.”

She did as she was told, her head throbbing with the beginnings of a headache, care of her crying jag.

Jeff flipped up the toilet lid, watching her expectantly.

If she did what he wanted, she was risking her health. Her
sanity
. But if she refused, he would take his family and leave. She’d then be welcome to gorge herself on handfuls of medication, because what would be the point of going on? She would fill up the tub, put on a record, take them all at once.

“Do you want to be loved?” Jeff asked, his dark eyes questioning her devotion. She struggled to reply. “Then love
yourself
first.” He handed her one of the bottles out of the sink.

She stared at the bottle for a long moment, the name that she no longer wanted printed in black across the label.
Audra Snow is gone,
she reminded herself.
She may as well be dead.
That was when it dawned on her—she was
saying
that she was Avis, but she was continuing to take Audra’s pills, and the pills kept Audra alive.

If she truly wanted to be Avis, she had to let Audra go.

Unscrewing the cap, she tipped the bottle above the toilet. Slow-rolling pills plopped into the water, sinking to the bottom like overboard men. Jeffrey handed her bottle after bottle, not leaving a single mood elevator or stabilizer to maintain balance.

Do you want to be loved?

She did.

Can you love me if I lose my mind?

He would. She had to
believe
he would.

With the tipping over of the final bottle, she convinced herself of that.

And as if to prove it to her, he caught her by the forearm and pulled her out of the bathroom after she had flushed the last of the pills. He pressed her onto the mattress that had once been hers, his mouth hot against her skin. And as he worked the button of her jeans loose, she knew he was finally rewarding her for her faith.

Things would be okay now.

She loved him, and he loved her, too.

She was no longer Audra Snow. She was Avis Everybody.

But she started crying again despite herself. He eased her jeans down past her hips, and she wept, her eyes wide and staring at the ceiling overhead, her tears pooling in the delicate creases of her ears.

She wept, and she told herself it was joy.

21

V
EE TRIED TO
sleep, but her efforts didn’t last long.

She tossed and turned, her room unbearably hot. Kicking away the sheets, she pressed her face into her pillow and tried to keep her eyes closed, trying to stay inside her dream. In it, Timothy Steinway was holding her hand. He had her cornered against a locker inside the hall of her future high school, and his lips were parted in such a way that Vee was sure he was going to kiss her. But her anticipation of that long-awaited kiss was derailed. His facial features shifted from Tim’s to something darker, more mysterious.
You’re beautiful.
Onyx waves replaced Tim’s sandy brown hair. Intense, pragmatic brown eyes gazed out at her from beyond Tim’s greens. The boy whispered against her skin:
Just like an angel.
She could almost feel his exhalation drift across the curve of her cheek as he enfolded her in his arms. The soft creak of his leather jacket was so real,
too
real. It pulled her out of her dream just long enough to notice the skin-crawly feeling of someone watching her from not so far away.

She peeked open an eye, half expecting her laptop screen to illuminate the room like a giant night-light with its bright blue glow. But the screen had turned off due to inactivity.

Hours before, Vee had plucked the laptop off the floor from next to the mattress and opened the lid. In her inbox, the email from her mother was still waiting to be read. She had ignored it, hit the COMPOSE button on the left side of the browser window, and
typed Tim’s name into the TO field. She’d only emailed Tim once before, and it hadn’t been a
real
email like the one she was determined to write. It had been a link to a list of New York State’s most haunted places; nothing spectacular, nothing personal. She had vacillated on the subject line, from
Hi Tim, it’s Vee
to
I’m living in a haunted house
to mimicking her mother’s email:
Hello from Washington.
But the longer she thought about what she wanted to say, the less urgent her message had seemed. It was as though those smiling strangers in the photographs she’d studied all night were whispering from beyond their graves:
Keep us a secret, keep us to yourself. We belong to you. Only you.

The email never got written. She had clicked over to another browser tab—one she left open from earlier that night—and stared at a group photo of ten people standing in front of her current home. And then she had scrolled down the page and stopped on an old picture of a young, handsome man. Charming. His half smile full of promise and understanding. Vee chewed her lip as she memorized the contours of Jeffrey Halcomb’s face. He looked a little like Jack White and Johnny Depp, kind of vampiric with his pale skin and black hair, sexy in a quiet yet dangerous sort of way. Nothing like Tim.

Despite Tim’s penchant for horror movies and an interest in the paranormal, he looked like an ordinary kid. But Jeffrey looked like someone out of those movies in the most alluring way. Because he
was
dangerous.
He killed people
. And yet, rather than being repulsed by that fact, she only stared longer. Because what would it have felt like for Jeffrey to care about her when he had the capacity of hurting others? Did a murderer give more care to those he loved because he did away with the ones he didn’t care anything about? What did his voice sound like? Vee had opened up the music app on her computer and streamed some of her favorite tracks, stuff her mom hated
­because the lyrics were about death and beauty and eternity. But those sounds were perfect for the strange mystery that exuded from the gorgeous and grinning Jeff.

She then tried to sleep, but her regret was refusing to let her rest.

I know what this place is.

Her father had turned pale as cream when she dropped that bit of info.
Boom.
He looked almost ready to puke all over the grass, and she had been glad. He deserved the discomfort; he had brought it on himself. Her mother had warned her while helping Vee pack up her stuff.
He’s going to lock himself away, you know. He always gets carried away.
And she was right. Vee knew it was only a matter of time before she lost her father to his study, to his work. It wouldn’t make a bit of difference whether she was living with him or not. And so, before he could make up some infuriating excuse as to why he had dragged her to a death house, she had left him standing in the dark, bounded up the stairs, and locked herself behind her bedroom door.

He had come upstairs a few minutes later and knocked.
Jeanie, open up. We need to talk. Come on, kid, give me a break. I’ll explain. Jeanie?
He’d given up after a few minutes. If he wanted to come into her room, he’d have to kick down the door.

But here came second thoughts. Because now that he knew
she
knew, things would be different. He’d feel obligated to move them to a new place. Except, they didn’t have any money, which meant they’d probably end up living in some cramped one-bedroom apartment in Pier Pointe for the rest of the summer. Zero privacy. Zero ghosts.

Damn it.

She pressed her face into her rumpled sheets. Had she stopped to think what confronting her father would mean, she would have never gone downstairs. Sure, she was spooked that a bunch of ­people had died downstairs. Anyone would have been at least slightly weirded out. Logic dictated that she pack up her stuff and
insist her dad move them out, stat. But the dark corners of her brain were bubbling with excitement. Not only was the place haunted, but she had actually
seen
things far beyond creaky walls and footsteps down the hall. Despite her own fear, Vee wanted to stay right where she was.

She had gone to bed a little after two in the morning, flipping off the lights but leaving her laptop open. Her music streamed into the darkness as she tried to fall asleep.

But now the room was silent, her playlist having reached its end. The darkness was heavy—the same weighty murk that had made it hard to breathe the night before. And just like yesterday, Vee’s itch for ghost hunting was gone. She squeezed her eyes tight, not wanting to look at who may have been standing in the night shade of her room.
Because you’re an idiot,
she thought.
You’re a coward, that’s all. A spineless kid who wants to be tough, but when it gets even a little bit scary, you wuss out.
For a girl determined to stay living in a haunted house, she was the epitome of a fraidycat. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t been able to construct a proper email to Tim. She was terrified of everything. Ghosts. Boys. Divorce.

Open your eyes.

She couldn’t tell if she was urging herself on, or if the suggestion had slithered from the inky gloom.

Open your eyes.

She clenched her teeth, squeezed her sheets between her fingers for strength.

Downstairs, a subtle twang of music cut through the silence of the evening. The bass, although quiet, crept up the walls and pulsed, as if mimicking the house’s heartbeat. Vee peeked open an eye. The gentle patter of rain tapped against the window as her gaze adjusted to the dark. The room was as she left it. Boxes were stacked against one of the walls, her secondhand furniture still needing to be put
together. The bed frame was disassembled. A stack of books sat on the floor next to her bed.

What was her dad
doing
?

The music was quiet, but when she peered at her phone it was nearly four a.m. Though she was thankful for the distraction. Between the heat, the thickness of the air, and that weird feeling of not being alone, she felt just about ready to crawl out of her own skin. Knowing that her dad was downstairs was a comfort. She’d get up, tell him to stop with the music, and maybe get some sleep.

Stalling, she texted Heidi despite knowing her best friend was fast asleep.

My dad is such an idiot.

Knowing a response wouldn’t come for at least a few hours, Vee finally forced herself to her feet. Tugging open her door, she looked out into the upstairs hallway and shot a glance toward her father’s room. The door was open. The room was dark. She furrowed her eyebrows at the music coming from beneath her. It wasn’t typical of her dad’s taste. He was into electropop and old eighties stuff. Lately he’d been listening to nothing but Morrissey on a loop—standard woe-is-me stuff. But this music was more dated, like the kind of songs played during movies about the Vietnam War or documentaries about San Francisco in the sixties. That, and there was a distinct scratchiness to it, a slight carnival warble that made the hair on the back of Vee’s neck bristle with apprehension.

Forcing her feet to move, she stepped up to the banister and peered down onto the living room below. The light in her father’s study was off. So were the lights in the kitchen. Save for the small shred of moonlight that managed to cut through the cover of rain clouds, there wasn’t a speck of illumination.

“Dad?” She hated the uncertainty in her voice. Of
course
he was down there. How else was the stereo on? She ignored the voice inside her head that was so fond of whispering terrifying alternatives.
It’s on because
they’re
here. Or maybe it’s not really on at all. Maybe this isn’t your house. Maybe all the furniture will be gone. Your father is dead, and you’ll be trapped here forever, just like them. Just like the people that died here so long ago.

“Don’t be stupid,” she whispered to herself, then raised her voice.
“Dad?”
He had to be down there somewhere. Maybe he was standing outside the kitchen door, staring into the orchard the way he had been when she found him earlier. He had been looking into the shadows, as though he had seen something there. For a split second, she had been tempted to tell him what
she
had seen—the boy from the photographs; what she had heard: a haunting scream she still didn’t understand. The girl in the mirror. The house, re­arranged. But the surprise on his face when he had turned and saw her there had been disturbing. It was as though he hardly recognized her, like he hadn’t been altogether sure whether she was his daughter anymore. And so, she had let him have it. No mercy.
Just what Mom would have done. You’re turning into her.
Vee grimaced at the thought.

“Are you down here?” She began to descend the stairs, her hand gripping the rail. One step down the staircase. Then another. Then a third. Her pulse thudding with every subsided inch. The air was soupy, viscous. She picked up a hint of sweet, earthy smoke.

That was when Vee saw her—the shadow of a long-skirted figure standing to the side of the base of the stairs. She seemed to be looming, as though waiting for Vee to come within arm’s reach.
It’s her it’s her it’s her again.

Vee’s breath caught in her throat. She opened her mouth to
scream, but a shift in the darkness had her attention reeling toward the living room instead. Here a tall, lanky figure vibrated beside the stereo that continued to play music despite being turned off. The dark silhouette seemed to shimmer, as if trying to keep still despite its urgent need to move. The arms and legs were long, awkward, spiderlike. Vee imagined his face covered by multiple arachnid eyes.

She had enough nerve to bound back up the stairs with a tremulous moan.

This isn’t happening not happening no.

She nearly tripped over one of the risers, caught herself with the palms of her hands, and continued to scramble up.

Not happening not happening no No NO!

Vee raced toward her father’s door, desperate to find him sleeping in his bed. But she stopped short, her right hand clutching the banister. Because there, at the end of the hall, in the threshold of her father’s open door, was a third figure. Unmoving. Frozen in place.

Vee’s heart hitched in her throat. She gasped for air, her lungs refusing to work. The man lifted his arm as if to press a finger to his lips.
Shhh.
Something winked at her from the darkness, like shiny buttons catching a glimmer of moonlight.

She twisted away, ran to her room, and slammed the door so hard it vibrated in the frame. Her right hand beat at the wall like a moth trapped beneath a lampshade. She flipped on the light to reveal an ordinary, unpacked space.

She couldn’t handle this.

She was crazy to think she could.

The panic inched up her throat, a cry trying to bubble up past her lips.

She couldn’t handle this.

It was too much.

There were too many of them.

No matter how grown-up she tried to act, she was nothing but a dumb, scared kid.

She’d tell her dad everything. About the boy in the orchard. The scream. The girl in the mirror. The stereo. The people downstairs and the man in front of her father’s bedroom door. She’d tell him about the house. The way the furniture had changed. The way she was sure she had been standing in another time and place despite
knowing
she was where she was supposed to be. If her dad decided to lock her up in the loony bin, so be it. At least she’d be able to sleep.

Shhh.

She replayed the way that figure had lifted his finger to his lips.

Don’t say a word. Don’t tell him anything.

With her back against the door, she took deep, steadying breaths. Maybe she’d just imagined it. Sure, yeah. She’d spent all night looking at those stupid pictures, reading articles about how they had all died, how Jeffrey Halcomb had convinced them to take their lives.
I just imagined it,
she told herself despite knowing it was impossible. Because how could she imagine so much so frequently?
I just imagined it!
She yelled the conviction inside her head, trying to convince herself, but it was no use. Believing that it was all in her head was just as crazy as believing she was seeing ghosts.

“Just . . . just give me a sign,” she whispered. “Just tell me you won’t hurt me and I won’t say anything.” She’d read about people being attacked by spirits. She knew all about demonic possession, about losing yourself to a world most refused to believe in. She had fantasized about knowing what was on the other side a countless number of times, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid.