Pen Pal(67)

The little blond boy in the red rain slicker runs across the lawn in front of me.

I gasp and fling myself against the wall, flattening my back against it. My heart pounds. Adrenaline floods my veins, leaving me shaking.

If anyone had told me before this moment that the sight of a cheerful toddler would strike such terror in my soul, I’d have laughed in their face. The guy in the trench coat doesn’t even scare me this much.

It’s not a ghost. He’s too happy to be a ghost. Didn’t Fiona say something about spirits trapped in this dimension being sad?

Panicked, I argue with myself that I’m being ridiculous, but it doesn’t help.

Then I have such a horrifying thought, it stops my pounding heart cold.

Is that the child I miscarried?

Am I being haunted by the spirit of my dead son?

I know it doesn’t make sense. My child hadn’t even been born yet, much less grown to a toddler. But what do I know about ghosts? Maybe they continue to develop into the person they would have been if they’d lived?

But where would they get clothing? Did this kid visit some otherworldly kiddie store to pick out his little rain jacket and yellow boots?

I slap a hand over my eyes and groan. “Stop it, Kayla! That is not a ghost! Now go outside and find his mother!”

The sound of my voice cuts through some of my panic, enough to galvanize me into action. I straighten my shoulders, take a deep breath, and turn back to the window.

The little blond boy stands a few feet away, looking right at me.

We stare at each other through the glass. My heart feels as if it’s about to break my ribcage. It races so fast, I can’t catch my breath.

Why is he so scary?

The boy points at me. He lets out a high, bloodcurdling shriek, his mouth stretched open and his blue eyes wide in terror.

Then he turns and bolts, disappearing from sight.

I stand rooted to the spot, hyperventilating, until anger overtakes me. I shout at the window, “Fuck you, too, kid!”

Immediately, I slap a hand over my mouth. I can’t be that lady who hollers at children on her lawn. We had one of those on our block when I was growing up, and everyone hated her.

I run through the house to the back door. Barging through that, I launch myself off the porch and look around the yard. There’s no sign of the boy. I run left and look around the side of the house, but he’s not there either. So I head in the other direction, my breath steaming out in a white cloud in the cold air.

There’s no sign of him on the other side of the house. He’s not in the front yard when I search it. He’s not hiding in the bushes or running down the street.

He vanished into thin air.

Standing wet and shaking in the driveway, I sense a presence behind me. When I whirl around, I’m alone.

Then I happen to glance up at the second floor.

In the window of my master bedroom, the little blond boy stands staring down at me.

There are no such thing as ghosts. There are no such thing as ghosts. There are no such thing as ghosts.

Rain pelting my upturned face, I shout, “Stay there!”

He backs away from the window and disappears from view.

Gnashing my teeth, I run back inside the house, take the stairs to the second floor two at a time, and storm into the master bedroom.

It’s empty.

I search everywhere, every nook and corner of the house, but that little son of a nutcracker is gone.

When I review the camera feed, it shows nothing but static.

Deeply shaken by the encounter, I go around the house obsessively checking locks, drawing drapes closed, and generally acting as paranoid as I feel. I assume the boy came in through the back door after I went through it, but I can’t come up with an explanation for how he got out. I should’ve run right into him coming down the staircase, but didn’t.

He literally vanished into thin air.

I’d call Jake and ask him to install more cameras on the inside of the house, but considering how badly our last meeting went, I doubt that’s such a good idea.

So I pour myself a vat of wine, lock myself into the bathroom, and draw a bath. Hunkering low in the bubbles, I hold onto the overfilled wine glass with shaking hands and try to pinpoint exactly when it was that I began losing my mind.

Because I can no longer convince myself I have a firm grip on reality. If I’m seriously considering that the ghost of a five-year-old kid is haunting me, I’ve lost it.

When the lights above the vanity flicker three times, I stifle a sob and guzzle the wine, needing Aidan with an ache that feels terminal.





That night, I dream that I’m drowning.

It’s vivid and horrifying. I wake up sweating with a scream stuck in my throat.

For the next three nights, I have the same dream. By Saturday morning, I’m a wreck. I haven’t been able to work at all. Every little creak of the house scares the bejesus out of me. The burning smell when I run the dryer changes to a stench of something putrid, like sewage.

Only in my heightened nervous state, it smells like rotting flesh.

When I investigate, I can’t find the source of it.

If I turn on the television, it turns itself off. Every gust of wind outside sends a cold draft through the house, making the curtains rustle and whisper. At least I think that’s what’s making that whispering sound, but I’m too scared to go look.