Chapter 1 - The Water Glass on the Nightstand
Lily was sitting cross-legged on the satin comforter beside me, her pink ruffled dress bunched around her knees, her gray bunny tucked under one arm. The open picture book lay flat between us, its colors too bright for the low light in the room. She wasn't looking at the pictures anymore. She was looking at me, and then past me, toward the nightstand, with that slow, careful stillness kids get when they've been listening to something they don't understand.
On the ornate dark wood nightstand, the clear glass was half-filled, exactly where I'd left it. The crystal base of the lamp beside it threw a soft warm wash across the bedding and the white piping on my pajamas. Behind us, at the far end of the room, the tall double doors stood slightly ajar, a thin, cool sliver of light cutting down the seam. I had been half-asleep against the pillows, breathing slow, when her small finger tapped the page and she whispered.
My name is Daniel Moretti. I was lying in dark navy satin pajamas I hadn't bothered to change out of, trying to keep my eyes open.
"The person who comes when you're sleeping," she said. Her voice was a soft, uneasy whisper, right next to me. She was still pointing at the open picture book, but her eyes flicked up to my face to check if I was listening.
I didn't open my eyes at first. I thought she was working through some story in the book, some villain she'd invented from the illustrations.
"What person?" I murmured. My voice came out drowsy and confused. I kept my head on the pillow, the collar of my pajamas brushing my jaw. I could feel her shift at the edge of the frame, turning fully toward me now.
She leaned closer, and her hand left the book. She extended her index finger, small and steady, past the rumpled bedding toward the nightstand. She wasn't pointing at the book anymore.
"He puts something in your water." It was barely audible. A warning whisper, not a story voice. No play in it.
I opened my eyes.
The glass caught the lamplight. Clear, half-filled, water perfectly still. I'd filled it myself earlier from the bathroom tap because my mouth had been dry the last few nights. I'd been waking up groggy, heavy-headed, as if I hadn't slept at all. I'd told myself it was work, stress, the late nights. Lily's finger was locked on it, and the way she held her breath made my chest tighten.
My first thought was that she was repeating something she'd overheard, or misread. Kids mix things up.
You're making that up, I almost said.
I didn't.
"Who told you that?" I asked, quiet, keeping my voice low so I wouldn't scare her. It was one short sentence, but it sounded too sharp in the warm, low room.
She didn't answer right away. She stared at the glass, then at the doors. The cool light at the edges of those doors seemed to get brighter, or maybe my eyes just adjusted. The house was silent except for the faint hum of the heat.
Then the air moved. Not much. Just enough that the sliver of light between the double doors shifted, as if someone on the other side had stepped closer.
My breath caught. I tried to keep still, the way you do when you don't want a kid to feel your panic.
"Ah." It left me as a soft, quiet exhale before I could stop it.
Lily's hand shot out and gripped my sleeve, her fingers bunching the dark satin near my wrist. Her eyes went wide, her mouth open, and she stared straight at the doors. The gray bunny was still pressed to her chest, but she was holding onto me now like she needed an anchor.
May you like
"That's him," she whispered. Fearful, certain. Barely louder than breathing.
We froze like that. Me reclined against the pillows, her tucked against my side, both of us looking at the tall dark double doors that were still only slightly ajar, the brass handles catching a glint of light, the gap not yet wide enough to show who was standing there. The glass of water sat untouched on the ornate nightstand between the lamp and the bed. Neither of us reached for it. Neither of us moved toward the doors. We just listened to the house hold its breath with us.
