Chapter 8 - The Woman of the House

It’s been one week since my face was covered in blood. One week of avoiding my home. One week of hiding out in the boathouse.

The air is thick with mustiness, but the crashing waves drown out my thoughts. I tell myself that I’m here to clean out the boxes abandoned by the previous owners, but that’s a lie. When I’m in the house, I hold my breath every time I turn a corner or hear the floorboards creak. At least out here in the boathouse, I can breathe.

I reach into one of the half-open boxes at my feet and start sorting through what looks like gardening equipment. Soon, mismatched gloves, small shovels, and mini shears are scattered around the wooden floor. I pick up a lone glove with yellow daisies painted on it. The flowers on the fingertips have long worn away; a thin layer of brown dirt is there instead. I put my right hand inside the glove. It fits. The cotton is smooth against my skin. I hold my hand up to the light coming in through the window. I wonder whose hand was in here last. Was it used to dig something up or bury it?

I told Brian about the incident in the bathroom the day after it happened. We sat at the kitchen table with our hands intertwined as I described to him how my face ended up soaked in blood. He squeezed my hand in his and nodded with sincere eyes, but when he looked away I saw them flicker with doubt.

“Sounds like rusty pipes to me,” he said.

“Rusty pipes?”

“Yeah, sometimes if the pipes are rusty it can get into the water and turn it red.”

Surprised by his eagerness to dismiss my blood-soaked face, I got defensive. “No, no, this wasn’t rust. This was blood. I know it sounds crazy, but there was blood on my face. I could smell it.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Rose,” he started, his voice calm and even.

“What about the footsteps? I really think I heard someone walking around the other night. And you remember what Vick said about being superstitious?” The more I said, the more concerned he looked.

“Rose, do you think there’s a chance you were sleepwalking?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. Frustration builds in me. I never bother telling Brian what I really think or how I feel, always showing him the most agreeable part of myself so as not to disturb my carefully crafted image, but the incident in the bathroom was so terrifying, so stomach-churning, I had to tell him. And now that I have, he chalks it up to sleepwalking. I try not to let my disappointment show.

“Are you sure?”

Once the immediate emotion of the moment passed, I thought about what he said. When I heard the footsteps, I thought I was awake, but what if I wasn’t? What if I was in that middle area between consciousness and sleep? When my face was covered in blood, I was drunk. I remember thinking how exhausted I was. Was it possible that I dreamed the whole thing up?

“Maybe,” I said at last.

“Sounds like you just need a good night of sleep. I wouldn’t worry about it,” Brian said. “I promise I’ll take a look at the sink myself.”

He squeezed my hand one more time before kissing the top of my head. For him, the issue had been resolved. Whatever happened in the bathroom was a figment of my unconscious imagination. I wanted to accept his explanation, but I couldn’t ignore how my intestines twisted themselves into knots whenever I was alone in the house.

The gardening glove is still on my hand when someone in the yard calls my name. I throw the glove on the floor and walk outside to see Frances standing in the yard with a handful of white roses.

“Thanks again for having me over for lunch last week,” Frances says, holding out the flowers.

I push back the flyaways that have fallen out of my ponytail and wipe my hands on my sweatpants before I take the bouquet.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I say, my voice full of surprise. She smiles, but not before her eyes flutter to our neighbor’s house. That’s when I notice the white roses planted along the edge of their property. “Come inside. I’ll put these in some water.”

While I fill the vase in the sink, I watch Frances walk the length of the windows. Her large Chelsea work boots thud against the wood floor with every step.

“Rose?” Frances asks.

“Huh?” I say. The vase is overflowing with water in the sink. “Oh.” I pour some of the water out before placing it on the counter between us.

“I hope you like them. The roses, I mean. I know it’s a little on the nose, but I saw them and I thought they’d look nice in this great big kitchen of yours.” Frances sits down on one of the stools along the countertop.

“That’s so thoughtful,” I say as I arrange the roses in the vase. “I’ve always—ouch!” I pull my hand away from the flowers. A small bead of blood emerges from the tip of my forefinger.

“Thorn?” Frances leans over the counter to get a better look.

Droplets of blood scatter across the white marble countertop. I run my hand under warm water before wrapping it in a paper towel. When I wipe down the surface the blood disappears, like it was never there.

“I knew it was too on the nose,” Frances says, sinking back onto the stool.

I realize I’m frowning. “No, no, I love them. Thank you.” It’s too late, though. Frances’s face has fallen. “It’s just, this is how I got my name.” I hold up my freshly pricked finger wrapped in a white paper towel.

Frances perks up in her chair a little and I take it as a sign to continue.

“My mother always says I’m a thorn in her side. That’s why she named me Rose.” I squeeze the paper towel around my finger and feel the blood drain from it.

Frances twists a rogue piece of frizzy hair around her finger while her eyes stay on mine. “Bitch,” she says under her breath. For a moment, I’m not sure if she said it or I only thought it. It’s only when a smile creeps across Frances’s face that I know I didn’t imagine it. I let out a giggle. Frances does the same. It’s not long before both of us are doubled over, our faces red and fists pounding on the countertop. Our laughter is nonsensical, bordering on hysterical. It’s the type of laughter that’s shared only between friends.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the glass cabinet. The laughter has brought some color back to my face, but my hair is thick with grease and my eyes are heavy, begging for sleep. I guess I haven’t just been avoiding the house—I’ve been avoiding the bathroom altogether, and it’s starting to show. I press my fingers to the soft spot underneath my eyes to wake myself up.

“Not sleeping well lately?” Frances asks after she catches her breath.

“It’s that obvious, huh?” Frances shrugs. “I’m just overwhelmed from the move, that’s all.” I fiddle with the roses to busy my hands and ignore Frances’s narrowing eyes. She knows I’m being less than truthful. Again.

“Rose?” Frances asks. She tilts her head as I watch her whole face soften. “Is there something wrong? You know you can tell me if there is. We’re friends, after all.”

I swallow. Frances is right. Friends tell each other things. In the reality shows I used to watch, the women would lower their voices and confide in each other over espresso martinis at ritzy charity events or cocktail parties. I feel like I’m having one of those moments with Frances now, like she’s a safe person to talk to. So I lower my voice. “This is going to sound crazy,” I start. My tongue is a cotton ball in my mouth. “But weird things have been happening since we moved in.”

Frances’s big eyes widen. “Like what?”

I suck in some breath and press my lips together. I tell her about waking up covered in scratches, hearing footsteps down the hall, and seeing my face covered in blood.

Frances listens with her whole body, but I can’t tell if she believes me or not.

“You think I’m crazy, right?”

She crosses her arms and leans back on the stool without taking her eyes off me. “No.”

I breathe a sigh of relief before I continue. “I told Brian about it. He says I’m sleepwalking and that there’s rust in the pipes, but I don’t know. I just can’t shake the feeling that…” My voice trails off.

“What?” Frances asks.

“That something bad is going on here,” I say. Outside, the wind picks up. Trees sway in the breeze, their branches waving at me like a warning. A coolness moves through the kitchen, sending a chill straight to my bones. I walk over to the sliding door, which is open just a crack, and slam it shut.

“What do you know about the people who lived here before you?” Frances asks. Her expression is sullen.

“Not much. Just that it was a family who remodeled it.” I’d seen the before pictures of the house online. Stained carpets covered the original wood flooring, the cabinets were a dark brown, and the tiles in the bathroom were covered in mold. Paint was peeling from every corner like dry skin flaking off a sunburned body, and the slanted ceiling in the main bedroom looked like an accident waiting to happen. All of that was gone now, updated by the previous owners, whom we never got a chance to thank for making this house a home. “Why?”

Even though sunlight floods the kitchen, Frances’s face finds the shadows from the windowpanes that look out over the ever-moving lake. I tuck a piece of hair back behind my ear as I settle onto the stool next to her.

“You’re right, it was a family. The Walshes,” Frances says.

“Sounds familiar.”

“They lived here for a little under a year, I think. Then the wife, Angela, went missing.”

Air catches in my throat. “Missing?”

“This was the last place she was seen.” Frances taps the countertop with her fingernail. “At least, that’s what people said.”

I gaze around the kitchen. The woman who picked out my cabinets, cooked at my counter, and stood at my windows while she drank her coffee, is missing.

“What happened?” I ask. My body is a ball of tangled muscles perched on the barstool, waiting for more.

“She was here one day and gone the next. No one knows what happened to her,” Frances says with a shrug before she rubs her palms against her dark denim jeans. She reaches into the deep pocket of her coat and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “You mind?” My mouth opens, but no words come out. Frances takes my silence as a no, and a second later, a small flame emerges from her palm.

“When was this?”

“A year ago. Maybe longer.” Frances inhales deeply. When she exhales, a cloud of smoke follows. “Time moves differently out here.”