Читать книгу The Good Girl - Christy Barritt - Страница 8

Each scratch tightened my nerves. Was that someone trying to cut the screen and get inside? Tomorrow I had to turn the AC on. No more of this crazy, enjoy-the-fresh-air ideology. No, I needed Freon-charged cool air blowing through these vents and each window locked down tightly and securely. Just because the neighborhood looked all perfect didn’t mean it was.

Especially if there was a ghost.

I shook my head, noticing the sweat across my forehead. A ghost? Did ghosts scratch at windows? I doubted it.

The Ghostbusters theme song began repeating in my head. Who you gonna call?

That was my problem. I had no one to call. No family here, no friends, not even some crazy local ghostbusters. I sighed. This was getting me nowhere.

I suddenly didn’t want to be alone. I’d never wanted to be alone, but right now especially I’d do anything to have a friend with me, so I could talk through this crazy situation. I felt like I was being pulled into some kind of dark abyss. My soul was flailing and reaching for help that wasn’t there.

I took a few deep breaths. I was going to get through this. I just needed to control my thoughts and stop singing that stupid Ghostbusters theme song.

I closed my eyes, beyond frustrated with myself. I needed help. Serious help.

And answers.

Ghosts couldn’t plunge knives into cutting boards or unlock gates or scratch windows...could they?

But a burglar could. Or some sicko bent on scaring someone. Like Lana’s stalker. Like the people who’d chanted “crucify her” back in Miami. I mean, I had gotten some death threats. Had someone followed me here? If so, they’d been smart. I could disappear here in Minnesota and no one would notice for days.

The scratch raked across the window screen again, stretching my nerves tight. And immobilizing me. Some people might check out the sound. Not me. I couldn’t move. I could hardly breathe.

A loud boom cracked the air. I screamed and pulled the covers over my head. Gaga also panicked and nosed under the covers with me, letting out a small whine.

Thunder. That was thunder. I laughed but only for a moment. My heart had sped and now slowed—but not to a normal beat. Its rhythm was still erratic, and the fact that I was so aware of each beat only increased my anxiety.

I pulled the covers down, just below my eyes. I could hardly hear anything else over the pounding of my heart in my ears. I thought of Poe’ story “The Telltale Heart.” My own heart was telling its own tale right now, a tale of living in fear.

Lightning lit the room in an electric shade of blue-white. I half expected the light to reveal someone standing in the room, staring at me with ghastly white skin, a hollow look in their eyes, and a butcher knife in their hand.

I should have never let Lana convince me to watch all of those scary movies, movies that I’d claimed had no effect on me. Obviously, they did because my subconscious pulled them to the surface at the absolute worst times. Like now.

Thunder boomed again, causing another squeal of horror to escape. At least Cooper wasn’t around this time to see or hear me embarrass myself. No, he was probably at home, cuddled in bed with his wife. Had Austin woken up and ran to jump in bed with them?

The thought twisted my heart. That’s what I had wanted. A warm, cozy little family.

Instead, I was hiding like a nine-year-old in a haunted house—alone. Without anyone to tell me things would be okay. Without faith in God that everything would somehow work out for the best.

How pathetic.

Thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed. Rain pounded the roof. I straightened at another sound. What was that?

Music?

The sound was soft. A guitar maybe? Playing a little lullaby?

But where was the music coming from? It almost sounded like it came from the guest bedroom.

I shook my head. No, not the guest bedroom. That wouldn’t be possible.

Chills prickled my skin, fear tightened my lungs and sent my heart racing.

And what about the scratching? What was the scratching? Should I call the police? And tell them what—that a ghost was haunting my home?

~*~

I looked like a ghost myself when I glanced into the mirror the next morning. Okay, it was actually closer to noon than morning, but who was keeping track? Bags hung beneath my eyes, and my skin looked pale.

At least there wasn’t an eerie message on the bathroom mirror. I’d count the victories, however small they were. And, right now, that was a victory.

I splashed water on my face, dried it, and then stepped into the short hallway. I stared at the door on the other side. It was the guest bedroom. I hadn’t been in there yet. I’d had no reason.

But I had heard music last night, and I didn’t know where it came from. That room was my best guess.

Even though the storm from last night was long gone and bright sunny skies lit the house, I couldn’t escape my fear. But pride wouldn’t allow me to escape the problems of this house either. I was stronger than this. I’d been defeated in a lot of ways.

But I wouldn’t be driven away by a ghost. No, if I could face this ghost here then I could also face the demons of my past. Even if it killed me.

Speaking of demons…I shook my head, squeezing out the images of Satan’s minions and spiritual attacks. I couldn’t go there.

No, there was a logical explanation for all of this. Not a supernatural reason. A logical one.

I put my hand on the doorknob, wondering what waited on the other side. Nothing. Nothing waited there. I’d just been hearing things. Or a car had parked outside and its music had drifted into my home in between bursts of thunder. Maybe an alarm clock, programmed to play music, had gone off in the middle of the night.

I drew in a deep breath. There was no better time to find out than now. I twisted the knob and the door creaked open. Creaky floors and creaky doors.

My throat felt dry as I got a glimpse of the room. Look for a radio. A radio. My gaze scanned the furnishings. A spare bed. Spare dresser. Clear plastic tubs full of clothes. A bookshelf stuffed with hardbacks.

No alarm clock.

No radio.

My breathing labored as I crept across the floor. That stubborn floor gave out another squeak, as if just to spite me. I touched the closet door. Last place to check in the room. Why did I half expect someone to fly out as soon as I opened the door? Or to see a penetrating blackness on the other side, a darkness so deep it might reach out and grab me?

Get a grip, Tara. Open the door. Get it over with.

Before I could psyche myself out anymore, I yanked the door open. I released the breath I held as I saw the space was jammed full of clothes.

I laughed at myself, at my foolishness.

I’d never realized just how big of an imagination I had.

I started to close the door when, for good measure, I shoved a few dresses and suits out of the way. Shoes at the bottom of the closet came into view. One final nudge in the corner stopped me cold.

I dropped the dresses and took a step back. It couldn’t be. But it was.

A guitar.