Chapter 39 - The Woman of the House

“I’m sorry it took me so long to visit,” Frances says, moving closer to the side of my bed. “How’s she doing?”

“There haven’t been any improvements,” Brian says.

That’s not true, I want to say. I’m not gone. Can’t you see I’m still in here? You can’t give up on me. Not yet.

“That’s too bad,” Frances says.

“Mom, let’s give Frances and Rose some privacy?” Brian says. After a moment, I hear the large hospital door click behind them. Then, all I hear is Frances breathing next to me.

It’s deep and heavy, like she’s trying to take all the air out of the room so there isn’t any left for me. I try, but I still can’t open my eyes. I picture her frizzy head of hair cocked to one side while she looks down on me with one of her blank, unreadable expressions.

“Oh, Rose,” Frances says. “What did you do?” There’s an excitement to her voice, a delight that brings goose bumps to the surface of my skin.

I want to ask her where she’s been. Where did she go after the funeral? Why was her cabin empty? What has she told the cops? Why did she kill Helen? Frances’s hand skims the blanket covering my feet as she walks around the side of the bed. I can feel her eyes on me as she stands over me for a moment, before sitting down in the chair next to my bed.

“I tried to help you,” Frances says as she picks up my left hand and strokes it. At first her touch is gentle, but soon her grip on my hand tightens. “But you didn’t want my help. It’s too bad, really. We could have been good friends. But you abandoned me just like everyone else.”

I picture Frances’s small mouth forming a straight line. Her beady eyes narrowing in disappointment.

“You know, after you ran out of Helen’s—may she rest in peace—I was upset. I’ll admit that, I was upset.” Frances’s hold on my hand intensifies. “The look on your face…” She clicks her tongue. “It was the same look Angela gave me the last time I saw her. Like she’d never been so disgusted in her life. Stalking. That’s what she accused me of. Can you believe that? Heather, Krisha, and that stupid husband of hers, Jonathan, had all gotten in her head. Filled it with lies. Turned her against me. I knew what they called me behind my back. Loner. Freak. Lunatic.” Frances spat the words out.

“I wasn’t stalking, though. I was just being a good friend. I knew Angela thought the house was haunted, and I wanted to see for myself if she was right. So I’d go into the house when no one was home. I’d lie on Angela’s side of the bed, take a bath in her tub like she did every night, and stand in the kitchen where she cooked dinner. Listening. Watching. Waiting. I wanted the house to reveal itself to me like it did to her, and you know what?” Frances pauses for a moment as if I would, or could, respond. “It did.”

Her voice is full of fervor. She wasn’t afraid of what she experienced; she was energized by it. The bones in my fingers crunch as her hand squeezes mine. I imagine Frances lurking around the house, soaking in all the evil it has to offer, inhabiting its darkness and letting it settle into the deepest parts of her.

“One day,” Frances continued, “Angela came home early. She caught me trying on her clothes in her closet and accused me of being obsessed with her. I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t listen. The next thing I knew, she ran out the back door and was gone. For some reason Angela seemed afraid of me, but she shouldn’t have been.” Frances sighs before she brings my limp hand to her chest and leans in close so I can feel her warm, dank breath on my face. “I’d never hurt a friend.”

She strokes the top of my hand like she’s deciding what to do next. “After you left Helen’s house that day, I got a burner phone. Called the police. I gave them the tip about Helen’s death being not exactly—well—natural. I didn’t mean for you to go and kill yourself over it, but here we are. You really should have just let me be your friend, Rose.”

My stomach curls into itself. I picture Frances reaching for one of the pillows on my bed and gently moving it toward my vulnerable face.

Just then, there’s a knock at the door.

“Frances?” Brian says.

“Yes,” Frances says, her voice overcome with pretend emotion. “This is all just—well, I don’t have to tell you.”

“Thanks for coming by, I appreciate it,” Brian says.

“Of course. I’m headed out of town, so I wanted to say goodbye.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah.” Frances pauses. “I rented a van and packed up my place. I think it’s time to move on.”