Cackle(25)

The next thing I know, Sophie is pushing my hair out of my face and whispering, “Let’s get you to bed.”

The house is a maze, especially at night. We go up the main staircase and make a series of turns, and then we’re in a frilly bedroom. There’s a large canopy bed. The curtains and bedding both have busy floral patterns.

“The bathroom is through there,” Sophie says, pointing to a door next to a large armoire. Sophie opens the armoire and takes out a fresh set of sheets. “I’ll change these for you.”

“I can do it,” I say.

“Nonsense,” she says. “Why don’t you wash up? There should be a spare nightdress in the dresser.”

I turn to find a double dresser. I open the top drawer, and there is a single article of clothing folded inside it. A long, formless white cotton dress.

I take it into the bathroom to change. I’m so tired, so tipsy, I feel like I’m being pulled down, like there are invisible creatures hanging off of me, wrapped around my legs like difficult toddlers. I start to undress. It’s freezing in the bathroom. It’s a windowless room. It’s not small, but it feels small compared to the rest of the house. There’s a claw-foot tub, an old-fashioned toilet with a chain and a pedestal sink. There’s a vanity in the corner with a pretty round mirror, the frame accented with delicate silver butterflies.

I stumble over to peek at my reflection.

I look incredible. Maybe it’s the lighting in here, flatteringly dim. My skin looks smooth, glowing, my eyes bright. I linger so long it’s shameful, just standing around admiring my reflection. I’m so focused on me, on my face, on how my hair isn’t greasy at the roots like it usually is, on how my lips have natural color, that I almost don’t notice it.

The other face.

It floats over my shoulder, an orb of pale skin. Two eyes. A nose. A mouth. It’s small, far behind me. I gasp, the sound surprising me as I spin around to look.

There’s no one there.

I turned too quickly, and an intense dizziness destabilizes me. I collapse onto the vanity stool. I take measured breaths until the room stops spinning.

Clearly, I didn’t see what I thought I saw. It wouldn’t even be possible for someone to be standing behind me; the space wouldn’t allow it.

I wobble over to the sink with all the grace of a baby giraffe taking its first steps. I lean down and drink some water straight from the tap.

This is embarrassing. I had too much to drink. What will Sophie think?

I change into the nightshirt, or whatever it is. It makes me look like a Pilgrim. I fold my clothes and set them on the vanity, avoiding the mirror.

When I open the door, I find Sophie smoothing the covers.

“Ready for you, darling,” she says. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No,” I say. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll take you to breakfast. Have you been to the diner yet? Tom makes the fluffiest pancakes.”

“Haven’t been yet,” I say. I want her to leave so I can collapse into bed, but I also don’t want to be alone. This room is too formal. There’s something unsettling about it.

“Good night, Annie. Sweet dreams,” she says. “If you need anything else, help yourself. Just don’t go into the east wing. That wing is forbidden.”

“Okay,” I say.

“I’m only joking,” she says, laughing. “It was a joke, darling. Anyway, sleep well!”

She leaves, closing the door behind her.

I feel the floor teetering beneath me. I stumble into bed, silently pleading with the room for it to hold still. A single voice cuts through the wine slush in my head.

Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep.



* * *



—

My eyes are open. I’m on my back. The room is dark. I don’t remember turning the lights off, but I must have. My mouth is dry, my tongue limp. My limbs are incapable of movement. Up! I tell them. Let’s go. I need water. I need to pee. But my body refuses to move.

I stare at the bed canopy. I try to identify the flowers in the pattern, a challenge in the dark. I see a rose. A peony. My eyes go cross and I blink twice. There’s something unusual about the canopy, about the fabric, the way it’s draping. There are some places where it sags. I count four. I wonder if it’s from the chandelier hanging too low or if maybe there are some rips.

I blink again, and in that brief moment, in the darkness of my own head appears the face I saw in the mirror.

I’ve never been the type to scare easily. It’s one of the few ways in my life I’ve always been practical. I’ve never been fazed by slasher movies or ghost stories or urban legends. I was the one at sleepovers rolling her eyes, putting her hands on the planchette. I’m not scared of poltergeists or vampires or Freddy Krueger. I’m scared of real things, like economic recessions and dying alone.

So this kind of fear is unfamiliar to me, and I’m more disturbed by the fear than by the face, or the fact that the impressions in the canopy are now moving, like there’s something up there crawling across it.

The fear sends an electric jolt through my body. I catapult out of bed and stare up at the space between the top of the canopy and the ceiling.

I don’t see anything unusual, but I keep my eyes locked there. I take a few steps back to get a better view. Another few steps. My back hits the wall.