Chapter 1
The sweat on my forehead wasn't from heat. The living room was cool, the ceiling spots warm and even over the beige armchair, the wood paneling behind me dark and still. I could feel my own breathing too loud in my chest, slow and shallow, and I couldn't stop staring at the four women standing in a line behind the chair.
They weren't supposed to be there. I hadn't heard them come in. One moment I'd been alone in that chair with the rectangular pillow at my back, and the next they were there, leaning forward just slightly, their dirty white dresses hanging straight, their long black hair not moving at all. Their skin was gray-pale, their eyes rimmed dark, and they stared straight ahead at me like they'd been waiting.
Don't drink anything he gives you, one of them said. Her voice was low and flat and it cut right through the quiet.
You will be like us, another one said right after her.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My mouth was slightly open and my eyes were wide and I felt that shock sitting heavy behind my ribs.
My name is Sarah and I was thirty-one that night and I shouldn't have been in that house at all.
It was just past eight. I'd come for what was supposed to be a quick meeting, a favor for a friend who knew the man in black, and he'd opened the dark wood door and led me to the beige armchair in the center of the room and asked me to sit. The glass wasn't in my hands yet. I could see his hand first, then the man himself stepping into the right edge of my vision, calm, polite, his black long-sleeve shirt neat, his pants pressed. He held a clear glass tumbler with amber liquid in it, maybe two fingers, catching the spotlight.
I watched him extend it toward me. My hands were in my lap, fingers tight on the buttons of my sage green dress, the puffed sleeves suddenly too warm.
Welcome, please make yourself comfortable, have this drink, he said. His tone was even, like a host at a dinner party who'd said the line a hundred times.
I looked at the glass. I looked at the four women behind him who shouldn't have been able to speak without him hearing. My throat was dry and my heart was beating so hard I thought he must hear it, too.
Who are you, I whispered. I wasn't sure if I was asking him or them. The words came out before I could decide.
He didn't answer the question. He just held the glass a little closer, patient. The amber liquid didn't move. The four women didn't blink.
No, I'm not thirsty, I said. It came out too quick, a lie I'd used before at other people's houses when I didn't want to owe anyone anything. My voice shook on the last word.
Don't drink it, one of the ghosts said from behind the chair. Louder this time, but still not shouting. A plea, not a warning.
Somehow the glass was in my hands anyway. I don't remember deciding to take it. I remembered the weight of it, cool against my palms, the way I had to hold it with both hands to keep it steady. My low bun had come a little loose against the pillow. I could feel a strand of dark hair against my neck.
I stared down at the amber liquid. It smelled faintly sweet, like old whiskey or tea left too long. I brought it up a few inches without meaning to, my elbows tight to my sides, the sage green sleeves bunching. My lips were close enough to the rim that I could see my own breath disturb the surface.
The man didn't move away. He stood there at the right side of the chair, hands now empty at his sides, watching me with that same calm politeness. The four women leaned forward another inch, their dark hair falling straight, their gray faces fixed on the glass.
May you like
I hesitated. My eyes glanced sideways toward the man, then back to the glass. I could hear my own slow breathing again. I tipped the tumbler, just enough that the rim touched my lower lip. The glass was cold. The liquid was right there.
Behind me the wood paneling creaked, or maybe it was the weight of the house shifting. The man's shoe made a soft sound on the floor as he shifted his weight forward, still smiling, still waiting for me to drink.
