Chapter 9
I hadn't realized how long I'd been sitting until my legs went numb.
The amber liquid sat still in the glass in my hands. It didn't move when I breathed. It didn't catch the warm light from the ceiling the way it should have. The man in black stood near the wood paneling with his hands relaxed at his sides, and the four women in dirty white dresses stood behind the beige armchair, pale and exact and staring. The air felt too warm, too still, like the house was holding its breath with me.
My name is Sarah and I was thirty-one and I knew I had to stand up now or I never would.
I pushed myself up from the beige armchair. The rectangular pillow shifted against the back cushion. My sage green dress caught for a second on the fabric, the front buttons pulling, and I had to tug it free. The puffed sleeves brushed my wrists. My knees locked. The glass was cold in both my hands and I held it out in front of me like it might keep him from coming closer.
"I'm going to go," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted it to. "Thank you for the drink."
He didn't move to stop me. He smiled, that same calm, polite smile, and tilted his head a little.
"Of course," he said. "The door's right there."
I took a step toward the dark wood door at the back of the living room. The pile of the rug was thick under my flats. One step, then another. I could hear my own breathing. Behind me, I felt the shift in the air where the four ghost women stood. I didn't look back.
The door was closer than it had looked from the armchair. Dark wood, almost black at the edges where the warm ceiling spots didn't reach. Brass handle, simple and round. I reached for it with my right hand, which meant I had to balance the tumbler in my left. The amber liquid sloshed once, gently, against the glass.
The handle was cold. Not just cool. Cold enough that I flinched. I wrapped my fingers around it and turned.
It didn't turn. It locked in place, solid, as if it was part of the wood itself. I turned harder. My knuckles went white. The metal stayed freezing against my palm and didn't give at all.
"That one sticks sometimes," the man said from behind me. He hadn't raised his voice. He was still standing near the armchair, not close, not grabbing. "Humidity."
He said it kindly, helpfully, like he was apologizing for a house quirk.
I tried again, both hands now, setting the glass for half a second on the narrow wood trim beside the door to get a better grip. The door didn't rattle. It didn't shake in its frame. It felt like pushing on a wall that had been painted to look like a door.
Behind me, the ghosts had moved. I could see them from the corner of my eye, still lined up behind the beige armchair, but they were closer to the back of it now, their long straight black hair hanging forward, their pale gray skin almost blue in the shadow. They stared at the door, not at me. One of them mouthed something I couldn't hear. None of them came closer to the threshold. It was like there was a line on the floor I couldn't see but they could, and they wouldn't cross it.
"Let me help you," the man said, and he took two steps forward. Not fast. He didn't reach for me. He just placed his hand lightly on the wood panel beside the door, blocking any way around him without actually touching me.
I picked the glass back up. My hand was shaking and the amber liquid trembled.
"I'd like to leave," I said.
"I know," he said. "You will. After you have your drink. You don't want to be rude."
His tone never changed. Calm, polite, reasonable. Like I was the one making things awkward at a dinner party.
I looked at the four women again. Their dark eye makeup made their stares look deeper, emptier. They didn't nod or shake their heads. They just watched, and in that watching I understood. They'd all stood at this same door with this same glass. They'd all found the handle cold. They couldn't leave either.
The cold from the handle was still in my palm, spreading up into my wrist. The living room felt smaller now, the warm ceiling spots too bright, the beige armchair behind me looking too soft, too intentional, waiting.
"You should sit back down," the man said quietly. "You'll be more comfortable. Please."
May you like
It wasn't a command. It was an invitation that left no room. I stood there for three more seconds with the glass in my hand and the locked door in front of me, and I knew if I stayed pressed against it any longer I'd prove I was trapped, and if I was trapped he'd know I knew.
I turned around. My sage dress rustled. The ghost women didn't move to make room, I had to step around where they stood. The beige armchair with its matching pillow was right where I'd left it, and the glass with its untouched amber liquid was still cold and heavy and mine to carry back.
