I Said No to His Drink While Four Ghosts Behind My Chair Said Don't...

The amber in the glass didn't move when I breathed on it. That was the first thing I noticed. I held it with both hands and the liquid stayed perfectly still, thick as syrup, catching the warm ceiling light without a ripple. My own hands were shaking. It wasn't.

I stared at it and the four women behind the beige armchair stared at me. The man in black stood to my right, his hands empty now, clasped loosely in front of him. He was calm. Polite. He watched me the way a host watches a guest decide if she likes the wine.

"You don't have to hold it like it's going to bite you," he said. His voice was even, low, the same tone he'd used before. "It's just a drink."

I didn't answer. I couldn't drink it and I couldn't put it down. Behind me, one of the ghosts made a sound. Not words. A thin exhale through her nose, like she was trying to clear her throat and couldn't.

One of them stepped forward. Just a half-step. The others stayed in their line behind the chair, leaning forward slightly, pale gray skin almost blue under the spotlights, long black hair hanging straight down over their dirty white dresses. The one who moved came into the edge of my vision on the left. I turned my head just enough to see her.

She lifted her hand.

Her fingers were the color of old paper. The nails had no polish, no color at all. She held her hand out toward my glass, not to take it, but to show me. Her hand trembled. A fine, constant tremor that never stopped. I watched it shake and realized my own hands were shaking for a different reason. Hers shook like something inside had been worn out.

She tried to speak. Her mouth opened. No sound came at first. Then a whisper, so thin I had to lean toward her to hear it over the soft hum of the house.

"I drank," she said. Her voice cracked on the second word. It was like air escaping. "My throat —"

She stopped and swallowed. The sound of the swallow was loud in the quiet room.

"I couldn't say no after," she whispered. "I couldn't say anything after."

The man didn't look at her. He looked only at me. He smiled a little, patient.

"Don't listen to that," he said. "She's upset. They get upset when someone new comes. They remember their own choice and they make it dramatic."

He took a slow step closer to the armchair. He didn't reach for me. He kept his hands clasped.

"I like a quiet house," he said. "I like company that's still. Pretty. Agreeable. Is that so strange? A man works all day, he comes home, he wants someone to sit with him, have a drink, not argue about everything. I offer a drink. That's hospitality. That's all."

I felt the pillow from the beige armchair pressing into my back. The rectangular pillow that had been there since I sat down. I had my weight against it and I realized I hadn't moved in a long time. None of them had. The four women stood exactly where they'd stood minutes before, except for the one who had stepped forward. They didn't shift their weight. They didn't blink much.

"What does it do?" I asked. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. I cleared my throat. "The drink. What does it do to them?"

The man tilted his head, like I had asked a question that was slightly rude but he would answer anyway.

"It helps you settle," he said. "You relax. You stop worrying about leaving. You stop needing to be anywhere else. You become very good at staying."

Behind me, the ghost who had spoken made another sound. A frustrated, airless laugh. She brought her trembling hand to her own throat and pressed her pale fingers there, then dropped her hand and pointed at the other three.

"Watch," she mouthed, because her voice had given out again. "Watch forever."

I looked at the three behind the chair. They were watching. Their dark eye makeup made their eyes look deeper, but it was their stillness that hit me. They weren't standing guard. They were stuck. Their dirty white dresses hung without moving, even though the air from the vent should have moved them. Their faces were smooth and empty, not angry, not sad. Just still. Like someone had turned the volume all the way down on them.

The one closest to me lifted her hand again and this time she touched my wrist. Her skin was cold. Not cool. Cold, like she'd been standing in that spot for hours in a house that was supposed to be warm.

I flinched but I didn't pull away. Her fingers were so light around my wrist, trembling, barely there.

"Like us," she breathed. "You stand. You watch. You don't leave."

She let go. Her hand dropped back to her side and resumed shaking.

I looked down at the glass again. The amber liquid finally moved, just a little, when my hands gave another tremor. It coated the inside of the glass slowly, thickly, and I understood it wasn't meant to quench thirst. It was meant to coat. To still. To make whoever drank it as quiet and agreeable and pretty and pale as they were.