Chapter 35 - The Woman of the House

By the time I get home, it’s dark. The porch light above the front door flickers as I walk up the front steps. Every instinct tells me not to go inside, but I have no choice. Brian’s car is still in the driveway, which means he’s here, hopefully waiting for me to make things right with him.

My key slides into the lock and the door creaks open. As soon as my foot crosses the threshold, the flickering light on the porch dies and I’m swallowed by darkness. Somehow, it feels cooler inside the house than outside. The office and sitting room are on either side of me, acting like a pair of lungs that breathe in the unnatural breeze that’s flowing through the hall.

“Brian?” I whisper. Wind echoes through the chimney in response.

I take a cautious step forward. Then another. I’m like a fish on a hook getting pulled deeper and deeper into the house, unsure of who or what will greet me on the other side of the line.

After what feels like five minutes of walking in complete darkness, I reach the kitchen and living room, which are illuminated by the moon. My eyes are drawn to the corner, where I see a shadowed figure sitting in the darkness.

“Hello, Rose,” the figure says. My breath catches in my throat. Suddenly, the room is flooded with light.

“Brian? What are you doing?”

“Where were you?” he asks. His words are strung together. There’s a glass of whiskey in his hand and a bottle at his feet.

“I told you, Frances was upset. She and Helen were close.” My voice trails off as I take a step toward him, but he holds up his hand with the glass of whiskey in it, signaling me not to come any closer.

“Is there anything you want to tell me, Rose?” His face is flushed from drinking and his eyes are bloodshot like he’s been crying.

“Brian, what’s going on?”

“I said, is there anything you want to tell me?” He closes his eyes and grits his teeth as fear bubbles up inside of me.

Yes.

I shake my head no. Brian reaches into his back pocket and throws something at my feet. “Marriage is built on trust, Rose.” I pick up the small plastic sleeve. My birth control packet trembles in my hands. “I found it wedged in the back of the bathroom drawer. We talked about starting a family. You said you were ready, but you lied to me. Why?”

I’m too shocked to speak.

“Why?” he yells as spit flies from his mouth in anger.

“Please, it’s not what you think,” I manage to say as tears well up in my eyes.

“You told me this is what you wanted.” He holds his arms out wide, motioning to the house around us as whiskey spills on the floor. “Marriage. A home. Kids. You told me you wanted all the same things I did. But do you, Rose? Do you really? I thought you wanted to get married, so I proposed. I thought you wanted a place that was ours, so I moved us up here. I thought you wanted to have kids, so I said we should start trying. Don’t you see? All I want to do is give you what you want, but I don’t know if it’s enough. I don’t know if I’m enough.”

“You are enough, Brian. You’re more than enough,” I plead.

“I’m not so sure. Ever since we moved here, you say one thing and then do another.”

“Brian, that’s not true—”

“You said you’d leave Jonathan Walsh and his family alone, but then you go and visit him. You said you wanted to have kids, but then you take birth control. Next thing I know, our gardener’s wife dies and we have cops showing up at our door? What else have you done that I don’t know about? Huh?” He’s standing in front of me, breathless, as tears fall freely down my face. “I don’t know what to believe anymore, Rose.” He collapses onto the chair.

“Brian, please. I want to start a family, I do, but it’s not that simple,” I say through my tears. I bite the inside of my cheek until I draw blood. The metallic taste is harsh against my tongue, but that’s not what makes me want to gag. There’s something else, something poisonous and rank in my blood. It’s the tangy taste of the bad genes Mother passed down to me that makes my stomach curl into itself. Her disgusting DNA that flows freely in my bloodstream, infecting my arteries and poisoning my heart, is the reason I’m hesitant to have children. I can’t chance passing these genes down to a child. I can’t risk having a baby that turns out just like Mother. I won’t. But I can’t tell Brian that because he doesn’t know the truth about Mother. He doesn’t know the truth about me.

He looks up at me. His gaze takes me off guard as his eyes search my face. I feel unsteady on my feet, teetering on the edge of my future. Then I do the one thing you’re not supposed to do when you lie: I break eye contact. He shakes his head in disappointment.

“I don’t believe you,” he says.

“Brian,” I start, but he’s up and out of the room in four long strides.

I follow him up the stairs, into our bedroom.

He pulls a suitcase out from the closet and something in the back lands with a thud. “What’s this?” Brian asks.

“No, Brian, don’t!” I yell, but it’s too late. The box with Mother’s ashes inside is open at his feet.

“What’s the New Hope Mental Health Facility?” he asks, reading the return label on the outside of the box. He pulls out the small container and holds it at eye level. “Oh my God…is this?” The ashes fall from his hand and land with a thud on the floor, sending dusty remnants of Mother all over. “Jesus Christ, Rose!” Brian yells as he hurls himself across the room, trying to get as far away from the box as possible. “Who the fuck is that?”

My eyes are downcast. There’s no use lying about it now. All the air leaves the room as silence unfurls between us.

“Rose, who is that?” he repeats.

“My mother,” I say. My voice is low, just above a whisper.

“What do you mean? Your mom is in…” I wince, bracing for impact, as realization spreads across his face and his eyes linger on the return label of the New Hope. “Your mom isn’t volunteering, is she?” he asks matter-of-factly.

I shake my head. The weight of my lies makes my shoulders hunch as hot tears form in the corners of my eyes.

He looks at me like I’m a stranger. “You lied about your mom being dead? What kind of a person does something like that?”

“A desperate one. Brian, please, if you just let me explain—”

“Oh, yes, by all means, please explain to me why you lied about your mom teaching English on the other side of the world when really she was hiding in a cardboard box in the back of our closet.” His voice reverberates around the room, leaving a ringing noise in my ears.

“I wanted to tell you the truth, I swear I did, but it’s complicated. My mother is…well…I mean she was a complicated person. And…” The wood floor feels like it’s shifting right beneath my feet.

“You lied about her being dead because she was complicated?”

I bite the bottom of my lip, unsure of where to start. With Mother and me, there was no beginning, only an end.

“No…I mean yes, well…she was sent to New Hope—”

“A mental facility?”

I nod. “See, she was sent there after everything that happened at the gas station…” The words spill out of my mouth as the four walls of our bedroom inch closer toward me.

“What gas station? Sent by who?”

“The gas station where she worked. The judge sent her to the facility after she set it on fire. Two people were inside, but they didn’t die.”

Brian’s eyes are wide. “Oh my God.”

“I know it sounds bad, but—”

“It doesn’t sound bad. It is bad. You lied about your mom being alive when really she died in a mental facility because she almost killed two people!” Brian shakes his head, defeated. “You’re not the person I thought you were.”

“Brian—”

“You know, ever since we met I had this thought, this nagging feeling in my gut telling me this was all too good to be true, that you were too good to be true. Like an idiot, I ignored it. I only saw what I wanted to see because I believed you. I thought I loved you, but I don’t even know you.”

“Please, I’m begging you…”

“Did you ever love me?”

“Of course I did. I still do.”

“How can I believe you? After you lied about your mom, about wanting a baby. Tell me, did you really hear footsteps in the hall that night, or was that just a story you made up so you could obsess over Angela and her family?” He throws some clothes into the open suitcase.

“No, no. I—I’m not obsessed.” The words trip over themselves as they leave my mouth.

“Then why did Jonathan call and tell me he saw you outside his house the other day?”

I take a step back. All this time I was afraid Jonathan would call the police, but he didn’t. He called Brian instead.

“I wasn’t—it wasn’t me.”

“And Helen?”

“What about her?”

Brian stops packing and faces me. His shoulders are square with mine. A few strands of his hair have fallen out of place and hang over his right eye. For a moment, we’re both still. Then with one swift movement he grabs my right arm and pulls up the sleeve of my sweater, revealing the neat row of scratches along the inside of my forearm that the cops were looking for earlier but didn’t find.

“I can explain—”

“I saw the marks on your arm when you were getting dressed for Helen’s funeral. She scratched you, didn’t she?” Brian asks, sullen. I open my mouth to respond. “I don’t want to hear any more of your lies.”

The other night, before Vick called and told us Helen had died, I’d apologized to Brian. I’d hugged him and he’d hugged me as he breathed the same words back into my ear, making me believe all was well between us. Now, standing in the middle of our bedroom, I can’t ignore the possibility that he was lying to me just as much as I was lying to him. He doesn’t love me. He’s been biding his time, collecting all my missteps and wrongdoings like little tokens, waiting for the right moment to leave me, just like Mother said he would. He thinks he has me all figured out, but he doesn’t even know the half of it. He doesn’t know what I did, what I’m capable of.

He zips up the suitcase and heads out of our room. I throw my body against the doorframe, blocking his way out, knowing the moment he leaves I’ll be alone for good.

“Rose, move,” he says with a tight jaw.

“No!” I scream.

Brian moves me aside with one arm and walks down the stairs.

“Brian, please. There must be something I can do,” I yell after him. “Anything!”

He pauses in the open doorway with his keys in one hand and his suitcase in the other.

“You can tell me the truth,” he says without turning around to face me. “About everything.”

I inhale deeply. Admitting the truth to Brian would mean I’d have to admit it to myself first. And the carefully constructed story of my life, the one I built lie by lie, would be destroyed the moment I unearthed the truth I had buried so deep that even I lost sight of it. I’d have to admit that he’s right. I don’t really love him. I love the idea of him. I love that he gives me everything I didn’t have growing up. Stability. Security. Safety. And the only reason I married him was to prove to Mother that someone was capable of loving me. Because she wasn’t. I’d have to admit that the reason I dragged myself to Mother’s bedside like a dog on a chain was because I couldn’t bring myself to break free from the hold she had over me, but also because I enjoyed watching her suffer. And even if he forgave me, even if he understood, I’d still have to explain why I broke into Jonathan’s house to look for his missing wife’s diary. I’d still have to confess how Helen really died. How my mother really died. I’d have to say it out loud.

You can’t. You have too much to lose.

My left hand grips the railing. Blood rushes from my head down to my feet. “I’ve told you the truth…all of it,” I say through a shaky voice.

Brian sighs.

“I’ll be at my parents’ for a while,” he says without looking back.

A moment later, the front door slams and the house creaks in response. I’m left alone at the top of the stairs as the night creeps in from the corners.

—

It’s been four hours since Brian left. Four hours of sitting alone on the wood floor of our room. Four hours of gripping the small kitchen knife I hid in my nightstand, afraid that the shadowed figure lurking around the house will appear.

The room is still. Brian is gone.

He left you, just like I told you he would.

No, he’ll be back. Any second now I’ll hear his car in the driveway. Listen.

He doesn’t want you anymore. You were foolish to think he could ever love someone like you.

He loves me. I know he does. He just needs time, that’s all. Yes, he needs time to cool off.

How could he love someone so selfish?

Stop it.

Someone so broken?

I bet he’s turning the car around right now. When he comes back he’ll tell me how much he needs me.

He already has everything he needs. A family. A job. A life. He doesn’t need you. You need him.

I just need him to listen to me. I need him to understand. I need him to forgive me.

He’ll never forgive you, Rose. He doesn’t want to.

That’s not true. He’ll forgive me and we’ll move past this. We can move past this, right?

Soon, he’ll be married to someone else.

Any minute now I’ll see his headlights in the window. Just wait.

But don’t worry, you won’t be alone. You’ll have me.

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!” I yell into the darkness.

For a moment, it’s just me and the quiet. Then, there’s a tap at the door. It’s soft, but significant. I wait, frozen. It happens again. This time, in threes. Tap. Tap. Tap. Silence hangs between each sound. Tightening my grip on the kitchen knife, I stand up from my crouched position in the corner. Tap. Tap. Tap. I walk toward the door with the knife leading the way.

“Brian?” I call out, my voice cracking. No response. Then it happens again. Tap. Tap. Tap. This time, it’s louder and more pronounced. It’s coming from the other side of our bedroom door, just inches away from where I’m standing. I picture the figure, a woman, cloaked in darkness, standing with her long, pale hand outstretched in front of her. She taps her fingernail against the door to get my attention. She has it. What does she want? To lead me somewhere? I put my ear to the door. The wood is cold on the side of my face. My breath appears in front of me before disappearing back inside my lungs. I hear it again. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound is sharp and clear. Like a nail striking a piece of hollow wood.

Brian is gone and I have nothing left to lose. Something similar to courage wells up inside me. My hand grips the doorknob. I steady myself as I prepare to face whatever is on the other side of the door.

I fling the door open and slice the knife straight ahead of me, hitting nothing but air. The hallway is cold and dark. My breathing is heavy. Each exhale reveals a small puff of air that idles in front of me. I wield the knife to the left and then to the right, but there’s nothing there. I walk through the doorway and stand where the sound of the tapping was coming from. Behind me, the bedroom is empty. My corner, abandoned.

The stairs in front of me are a black hole. All I can see is the first step down. After that, nothing. I move past the stairs toward the guest bedroom. The porch light flickers in the window. The sporadic light guides my way down the hall. Tap. Tap. Tap. I turn around and the knife scrapes against the side of the wall, unable to keep up with my chaotic movements. I change course and head toward the bathroom. Tap. Tap. Tap. I’m getting closer.

“I know you’re here,” I say once I’m in the dark bathroom. “I can hear you.” Tap. Tap. Tap. With one sweeping motion, I lunge toward the darkness and fall through the air. The tile floor meets my elbow with a thud. The knife skids across it, out of sight. My hands search the cold floor around me for the knife, but it’s not there. My face is wet. With blood? No, I’m sobbing.

I wipe my tears from my face and force myself to extend my throbbing arm. It isn’t broken, just badly bruised. My legs are weak under me, but I manage to hoist myself up with the help of the vanity. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness and the rest of the bathroom comes into view. The closet is in front of me, the door to the hallway is on my left, and the mirror is behind me.

I face the mirror. Through my reflection, something behind me moves. There isn’t time to scream. I run out of the bathroom, into the hallway, and down the stairs. My feet tangle beneath me and I fall. My spine hits one step; I roll over and my head hits another. My arms and legs thrash against the wooden stairs until I reach the bottom with my limbs in a twisted pile around me. I stagger to my feet. She’s coming for me. The next thing I know, I’m out the front door and limping into the night.

My fingers are tight around the steering wheel. I push my hair out of my face. Soon I’m on a two-lane road. With no dotted lines to divide the road in half, I drive down the middle. Even inside my car, I feel like I’m being watched. On either side of the road, just beyond the glow of the headlights, several pairs of eyes linger in the darkness. I shake my head. There’s no one there. My foot pushes down on the gas as I try to escape them, but I can’t. They’re still there.

The engine rattles with exhaustion, begging me to take my foot off the gas. I press it down farther. The speedometer ticks up past seventy, past eighty, and hovers over ninety. It feels like the tires aren’t touching the road anymore. I’m hovering just above the pavement, flying farther and farther away from the house as the road in front of me blurs.

Then it occurs to me: I could just let go. If I just close my eyes and loosen my grip, all of the pain and trauma that live underneath my skin, between my tendons and my bones, would be gone. I’d be free from all my uncertainties and doubts about how to act and who to be. All the trouble with the house, Brian, and Helen would be over in an instant. My grip loosens on the wheel. I close my eyes. My mouth parts and I let out a sigh of relief, but the sensation is short-lived. I open my eyes as tall antlers emerge from the darkness, standing right in the middle of the road. The buck doesn’t twitch or dart out of the way. He doesn’t know I’m about to ram my car into his puffed-out chest.

His eyes lock with mine. They remind me of Helen’s in the moments leading up to her death. But unlike Helen, the deer won’t put up a fight. He doesn’t run. He doesn’t brace for impact. He stands, unmoving. A force daring to be reckoned with. I want to hit him, just to prove that he isn’t as indestructible as he thinks. He’s made of the same skin and bones and flesh as me, and he can just as easily break and splatter across my windshield if I want him to.

Just before we make impact, I’m the one who loses the game of chicken. My foot moves from the gas to the brake. The steering wheel jerks hard to the right. The air beneath the wheels is gone. The rubber tires scrape over debris until the car skids to a stop in a small ditch.

I cut the engine and try to catch my breath. The deer, uninjured, looks back at me. A smug expression passes over his face, like he knows something I don’t. Then he disappears into the woods on the other side of the road.

Defeated, I rub my eyes. I check my phone to see if Brian has called. He hasn’t, but something else catches my eye. The date. It’s November 3. My breath becomes uneven as the phone shakes in my hand. With everything that’s been going on, I didn’t realize what day it was. It’s the anniversary of Mother’s death.

The first time I saw the figure of the woman was the day after Mother’s ashes arrived from the facility. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air while Brian stroked the top of my hand with his index finger. His touch was gentle and warm against my skin. Then, a cool breeze tickled my neck. I glanced up at the windows and there she was. Hidden in the corner with the shadows, a woman stood behind me in my reflection. With her body hunched over and strands of hair covering her face, I didn’t know who she was, but I knew what she was doing. She was watching me. Waiting for me.

On the night Brian’s parents came over for dinner, I watched her hands grab at her neck in the reflection of the windows. Her head rattled back and forth, like she couldn’t bear to see me have dinner with my new family.

Then there was the time she lured me out of bed in the middle of the night. A scratching noise had woken me up. When I went to the closet to see what it was, her bony hand wrapped itself around my neck, her fingernails digging deep into my skin. They were sharp as tacks, just like the ones that had pinched and prodded me my entire life. It was dark, but not so dark that I didn’t know I was standing in front of the closet where I had squirreled away her ashes.

Strange things happened around the house from the moment we moved in. The footsteps in the hallway. The bloody water in the sink. The moving portrait. But those things could be explained away. I never saw the shadowy figure of a woman until Mother’s ashes showed up at the house. All this time, I thought an evil entity or Angela herself roamed the halls, but ever since I was reunited with Mother’s burnt skin and bones, she’s been tormenting me. I can’t be sure if the house is haunted, but I know I am.

I hear her voice inside my head. It’s the same one I’ve heard my whole life.

You have nowhere to go.

I know.

You have no one.

I’m alone.

Just like I knew you would be.

What do I do?

You have to go back.

No. I won’t.

It’s the only way.

I have no choice.

You have to go back.

I have to go back.