Pen Pal

41

After a moment, I say, “No. I don’t think I am. I don’t think I’m well at all.”

She nods, as if she already knows my condition is poor but didn’t want to say anything and risk offending me. She sets her bags on the floor next to the console table, shrugs out of her woolen jacket, unwinds the scarf around her neck, lays both on the console, then looks back up at me.

In a kind tone, she says, “Why don’t we sit in the kitchen and have a cup of tea and a chat?” Without waiting for an answer, she turns and walks away.

Feeling queasy, I go downstairs. I find her in the kitchen, setting a teapot on the stove. She lights the burner, then sits down at the table and folds her hands together on top. Chewing on a thumbnail, I take the chair across from her.

I think she’s going to ask me about my health or suggest I take a nice vacation in the nearest mental institution, but she surprises me by saying gently, “I’ve always liked you, Kayla. You’re a bright, gifted young woman.”

Flattered but also taken aback, I say, “Well, thank you. I’ve always liked you, too.” She smiles and nods in a grandmotherly way.

I look askance at her. “Why do I feel like there’s more coming?”

“Because there is. And I want you to remember that this comes from a place of concern for you and your well-being.”

I prop my elbows on the table and drop my head into my hands. “I know. I’m a mess. Believe me,

I’m aware.”

“I don’t think you’re a mess. I think…”

When she pauses too long, I glance up at her, nervous. On her face is a curious expression. It’s part concern, but mostly anticipation. At least I think that’s what it is. She’s staring at me with a weird light in her eyes, like a person with a gambling addiction looks at a slot machine.

“What?”

She says ominously, “I think something is troubling you.”

I blink. “I don’t mean to be rude, but that seems obvious.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not speaking about the loss of your husband, dear.”

“O…kay. Then what are you talking about?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know. But if there’s anything you’d like to get off your chest, I’m here for you. I’m a very good listener.”

I stare into her piercing blue eyes and wonder what the f**k she’s talking about. “Um…” Leaning forward, she prompts, “Has anything unusual happened lately? In the house, I mean.” All the hairs on my arms prickle. A tiny shiver of fear runs over my skin.

“Yes, I can see that it has,” she says softly. “Why don’t we talk about that?”

My heart decides now would be a good time to do some acrobatics. My stomach follows suit and twists into a tight knot. My mouth goes dry, my hands tremble, and a high-pitched buzzing noise rings in my ears.

I whisper, “How did you know?”

Her smile is gentle. “I grew up with this kind of thing. Ghosts are quite common in the old country. Scotland is one of the most haunted places in the world.”

I blink again, sure I’ve misheard. Outside, another clap of thunder rolls through the sky, rattling the windows. An odd pressure builds in the room, a friction, as if the air itself has become charged.

“Excuse me, but did you just say ghosts?”

“Quite so, my dear.”

I sit back in my chair, laughing a little. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

She gazes at me steadily. “What you believe is immaterial, Kayla. Because ghosts most definitely believe in you.”

Rain begins to fall, pattering softly against the kitchen windowpanes. Drops slide down the glass like tears.

When I don’t say anything, Fiona fills the silence.

“Let me give you a few examples, then you can tell me if I’m off my rocker, as your expression suggests. Have you recently been hearing strange noises? Like creaking floorboards, for instance? Have you felt unusual cold drafts? Had the eerie sense you were being watched but no one was there?”

I swallow. It’s becoming difficult to draw a breath. The high-pitched ringing in my ears grows louder.

“What about strange problems with electricity? Flickering lights, exploding bulbs, the telly turning itself on or off?”

“It’s an old house. It has lots of problems.”

Blowing right past that, she continues her assault on my sanity.

“Perhaps you’ve been having strange dreams. Maybe objects are being moved, appearing in places other than where you put them.”

She must catch something in my expression, because she leans closer. “Books falling off shelves?

Furniture rearranging itself in the middle of the night?”

My voice faint, I say, “A jar of honey flew out of the cupboard on its own. A coin I put in one place showed up in another. And all the kitchen drawers and cupboards were standing wide open in the morning one day when I came down.”

She nods solemnly. “What about strange scents? Perfumes or strong odors? Any of that?”

I think of the odd burning smell when I run the dryer, the smell Eddie couldn’t find a source to— or any of the other electrical problems in the house—and feel as if I might jump right out of my skin.

When the kettle on the stove whistles, I do jump. Suddenly, I’m scared witless.