Chapter 2
Glass touched my lips and I didn't drink.
Amber liquid sat against rim, cold through glass into my palms. My breath caught. I could feel sweat still on my forehead, could taste nothing yet, could hear nothing except my own inhale. Man in black stood at right edge of frame, hands relaxed at his sides now, watching me with calm polite face. Four women in dirty white dresses stood behind beige armchair, pale gray skin washed dull under warm ceiling spots, long straight black hair hanging still. One had whispered, "Don't drink anything he gives you. You will be like us." Her voice still hung in air.
I lowered glass.
Small movement, both hands shaking. I pulled rim away from my mouth and set glass down inch from my lips, not back to side table, still held tight.
"Sorry," I said. "No, I'm not thirsty."
My voice came out thin. I swallowed. Man tilted head slightly, polite smile never dropped.
He said, "Welcome, please make yourself comfortable, have this drink."
Same words as before, same even tone. No irritation. No reach for glass. He gestured toward beige armchair with rectangular pillow behind me, as if I wasn't already seated in it, as if comfort was order I had failed to follow.
"You're safe here," he added. "Just relax."
Behind me, ghosts didn't move. I felt cold before I saw it. Air dropped around armchair. Not draft from vent. Cold radiated off four women like they pulled heat from room and gave nothing back. One closest to armchair leaned forward fraction of inch, dark eye makeup stark against gray skin, eyes fixed straight ahead through me, not blinking. Her bare feet didn't shift on wood paneling floor. Her dress hem didn't sway. Stillness wasn't pose. Was inability. I understood without lore dump: they couldn't leave that line behind chair. Couldn't step forward. Couldn't blink. Couldn't breathe like I could.
Another whispered, hoarse and low, "Don't drink it."
Man didn't hear her. Or pretended not to. He kept eyes on me.
I needed time. I looked past him toward dark wood door in background. Wood paneling ran floor to ceiling around it, door itself heavy and dark, handle vertical bar of brushed metal. I shifted weight in beige armchair, pretended to adjust sage green dress, then pushed against armrests like I meant to stand.
"Thank you," I said. "Bathroom?"
Man stepped half-step sideways. Not block exactly. Polite shift that placed his body between me and door path.
"Of course," he said. "After you finish your drink. House gets cold if you wander. Sit, be comfortable."
Politeness was control. Words soft, meaning locked. I felt it settle in stomach. He wasn't going to let me walk to dark wood door while I still held full tumbler. He wasn't going to grab me either. He was going to wait and insist until I obeyed because nice guest obeys.
I sank back into armchair. Pillow pressed against my back. Glass heavy in both hands. Amber liquid caught warm ceiling spotlight and glowed. I lifted glass again like I considered it, then lowered it deliberately and cradled it against my chest, not to lips.
"My mouth's dry but stomach feels off," I said. Lie, short. "Can I hold it for minute?"
Man nodded, calm polite behavior intact, hands clasped now in front of black long-sleeve shirt.
"Take your time," he said. "Make yourself comfortable."
May you like
Behind me cold deepened. Closest ghost's eyes flicked once toward glass in my hands, slow movement, then back forward. Smallest motion I'd seen from them. Warning within warning: hold, don't spill, don't drink.
I held full glass tighter with both hands, sweat from my palms making glass slick, and decided to buy time. I wouldn't drink. I wouldn't put glass down where he could refill or press again. I would sit in beige armchair and keep glass at my chest and breathe slow and wait for him to step away.
