Pen Pal(57)

She says gently, “Oh, dear. I completely understand. I’ll start on the kitchen.”

“Thanks. Um…about that séance thing we talked about.”

Fiona brightens. “Yes, I spoke with my sister! She says we should hold it on the next full moon, which is in three weeks. Oh, and she also said you shouldn’t wear any perfume or jewelry. No other accessories, either, especially cell phones. Apparently, they annoy the spirits.” She chuckles. “Like the rest of us.”

My laugh is small and embarrassed. “Actually, I think we should just forget about the whole thing.”

Fiona gazes at me for a moment, thoughtfully pulling at the feathers on the duster with her fingers. “Oh?”

Her tone is mild, but it seems to require an explanation. I sheepishly provide one.

“I’ve decided I’m going to see a therapist.”

She raises her brows. “How can a therapist help with your ghost problems?”

I exhale, shaking my head. “Just the fact that I even considered the possibility that I’m being haunted strongly suggests the need for therapy.”

She looks as if she’s about to protest, but must change her mind because she only nods.

“All right. If that’s what you prefer.”

“It is. Thanks, Fiona.”

She walks past me, avoiding my eyes. As her footsteps recede in the direction of the kitchen, I worry that I’ve insulted her. I turn to go after her, but something I glimpse on Michael’s desk catches my eye, and I turn back.

A folded newspaper sits on the blotter next to where Fiona was dusting. From where I’m standing, I can’t read the headline, but I can clearly see the photograph that accompanies the article.

It’s a picture of Michael.

My pulse surges. My mouth goes dry. I feel a bit unsteady, as if the floor has tilted. For some strange reason, I’m suddenly afraid.

I walk slowly across the room and stand beside the desk. I want to pick up the newspaper, but don’t. I simply stand there and read the headline.

Local Man Drowns.

The paper has been folded over, so only the headline and Michael’s picture are visible on the left side, along with part of the byline.

I’m sure I haven’t seen this article before. I’m sure I didn’t put this newspaper on Michael’s desk. What I’m not sure of is how it got here.

Did Fiona bring it in?

My mind starts to race. I try to think of rational explanations as to why she might place this newspaper in Michael’s office, but can’t come up with any. She’d know it would upset me to see this. I’d chalk it up to my memory lapses, but I know I haven’t been in this office since the accident.

I know it.

A little voice in my head whispers Maybe it wasn’t Fiona.

Covering my face with my hands, I recite silently There are no such thing as ghosts. There are no such thing as ghosts. There are no such thing as ghosts.

Something hits the office window with a sharp bang.

I jump, letting out a little yelp, then stand with my heart palpitating and my shaking hands clutching my throat.

Nothing moves. The air is still. Outside the windows, the sky is a glowering, leaden gray.

Gathering my courage, I go to the windows and look out, scanning the horizon. I see nothing unusual. The yard is empty. The rocky beach is clear. It isn’t until I’m about to turn away that I discover the source of the sound.

On the ground below the window lies the lifeless body of a blue jay. Its neck is bent at an unnatural angle. Its legs extend stiffly out from the trunk, talons curved like claws. Its black eyes stare sightlessly up at me.

There’s a ghostly outline of the bird’s body on the windowpane where it hit, wings outstretched in flight.

Fighting the urge to scream, I turn and bolt from the room.

I lock myself in the master bedroom. Then I pace, wringing my hands and chastising myself for being silly.

Bird strikes are nothing new. I know they perceive the reflection of the sky on glass as being more sky, and that’s why they fly right into windows and break their little necks. It doesn’t mean anything.

Only it feels as if it does.

It feels sinister. Like a bad omen.

Or maybe…a message from beyond.

I stop pacing and stand still in the middle of the room. With my heart beating like mad, I gaze up at the ceiling and whisper, “Michael?”

Nothing happens. The moment stretches out until my nerves are frayed with tension. When a door slams shut somewhere downstairs, I nearly faint in terror.

I tell myself it’s only Fiona, but don’t quite believe it. That eerie feeling of being watched creeps over me again, but I’m alone in the room.

Or am I?

Suddenly, everything in the room looks sinister.

The shadow behind the nightstand. The porcelain clown figurine on the bookshelf. The stuffed teddy bear in my reading chair who has, though I’ve never realized it before now, teeth that look weirdly human.

Then there’s the indentation in the duvet cover on the bed.

That might be most creepy of all.

As I do almost every morning, I made the bed when I rose, smoothing the covers and neatly arranging the army of small decorative pillows Michael scoffed at but I adored. I like the bed to look tidy, as an unmade bed makes everything else look messy, so I’m somewhat anal about the habit. Sheets tucked in, pillows placed, covers perfectly smoothed.