Chapter 8
He didn't raise voice. He lowered it.
I sat in beige armchair, pillow pressed behind my back, glass still balanced between my hands. Amber liquid hadn't moved. Warm ceiling spots made glass sweat. Man in black stood near dark wood door before, now two steps closer. He'd shifted weight, hands loose at sides, calm polite face unchanged. Four women in dirty white dresses stayed behind armchair. I felt them more than saw them. Air went thin behind my neck.
He smiled. Small polite smile. He'd offered drink earlier with same smile.
"You haven't touched it," he said. His voice even. "It's getting warm."
My breath caught. I kept hands around tumbler, didn't lift. I stared at amber surface. It reflected ceiling light, thick, still. I thought of spilled drop on hardwood earlier, how wood drank it fast. I thought of how still women behind me stood.
He took another step. Floor didn't creak. He stopped at edge of armchair, close enough I smelled clean soap, faint cologne. He extended hand again, palm up, fingers relaxed. Not grabbing. Inviting.
"Let me help," he said. "You're holding it awkward."
I pulled glass fraction closer to chest. My fingers tightened. Sage green dress bunched at sleeves. Sweat at my hairline cooled.
"I'm fine," I said.
He kept hand out. Polite hand, steady. No shake.
"Please," he said. "Make yourself comfortable. That's what it's for."
Ghost behind left side of chair made small sound. Not word. Inhale. I glanced sideways without turning head. Pale gray skin, long straight black hair curtaining face, dark eye makeup smudged. She stared at his hand, then at me. Fear jolted through her shoulders. Another one leaned forward slightly, as if wanting to pull glass from me.
Man's eyes flicked behind chair. Quick. He looked at empty space where they stood. He didn't see them, but he felt shift. His smile thinned fraction.
He withdrew empty hand, folded hands together. Still calm.
"You seem tense," he said. "House makes people tense at first. Then they settle."
I swallowed. My throat dry. I needed to ask. I knew asking risked his calm. I did it anyway.
"Who are they?" I asked. Voice low. "Four women in white dresses behind chair. Why no one leaves?"
Silence dropped hard. Ghosts froze. Closest one sucked breath, shook head tiny, sharp. Warning. Don't ask.
Man tilted head. Polite confusion. Practiced.
"I'm not sure what you mean," he said. "No one else here. Just you and me. You came in, sat down. I offered drink."
He gestured at living room, dark wood paneling, beige armchair, door.
"People leave when ready," he said. "Some stay longer. Private choice."
Evasion smooth. No anger. He didn't say ghost, didn't say trap, didn't say amber liquid. He kept language ordinary.
He stepped still closer. Knee almost brushed armchair side. He reached again, this time fingers brushed bottom of tumbler I held. Light touch. Guided, not forced. Warm from his hand.
"You're cold," he said. "Drink warms you."
I held harder. Glass trapped between his fingertips and my palms. My hands trembled. I saw his knuckles, clean nails, black sleeve. Polite hands. Hands that never forced, only offered until offer became pressure.
Ghost behind me whimpered. Second one took half step back, as if his hearing their fear made her afraid he'd hear more. He heard something. His gaze snapped behind chair again. Longer this time. He stared at space where four figures stood. His calm cracked. Jaw tightened. Smile stayed but eyes went flat.
"You heard something?" he asked me, still soft, but edge underneath.
I didn't answer. I stared at glass. Amber liquid shivered from my shaking.
He let go of tumbler. Slow. Deliberate. He straightened, smoothed black shirt sleeve. Mask returned, but thinner.
"Ask once, it's curiosity," he said, quiet. "Ask twice, it's rude. You don't want to be rude in someone else's house."
He left glass in my hands. He didn't take it. He made me keep it. He stepped back one step, gave room, but stayed close enough to block path to dark wood door.
I understood. Next question would cost polite act. Ghosts understood too. They pressed closer behind armchair, cold seeping through fabric into my back, as if hiding behind me now.
May you like
He waited. Hands folded again. Patient host. Drink still offered, just without hand under it.
I looked down at amber liquid, at my own reflection warped on surface, at four pale faces reflected behind me that he pretended not to see.
