Pen Pal

Istare at the coin with my heart palpitating and my mind recoiling as if it spotted a rattlesnake.

After a while when I get up my nerve, I reach for it with a trembling hand. It feels abnormally cold in my fingers, as if it’s been stored in a freezer.

But it hasn’t been in a freezer. It’s been where I left it, in a drawer in my office desk.

And now it’s here.

In my car.

The car parked outside the bar that Aidan lives above.

I glance around, but there’s no one in sight. The parking lot and sidewalks are deserted. There are a few cars parked along the street, but they’re down a block or so, near a bakery.

Truly frightened, I stare at the coin again.

One of only two things happened here. Either I took it from my office drawer and don’t remember doing that—or leaving it on the dash—or someone else took it from the drawer and left it here for me to find.

Which makes no sense. Who would do that? And why?

Starting to shake, I drop the coin into the cupholder between the front seats and reach behind the passenger seat for my purse. I only brought the key inside to Aidan’s with me last night, but now I can’t be certain if I locked the car doors or not. Did I unlock them a moment ago?

I don’t know. I don’t remember.

How can I not remember?

As I dig into my purse for my cell phone, my panic builds. I navigate to the security app and load it. I curse when I realize I’ll have to rewind about twelve hours of video feed to see if anyone was in the house while I was gone.

“But that can’t be possible,” I whisper. “The alarm would’ve been triggered.”

Which means I would have received a call from Jake’s security company, but there isn’t one. The notifications are blank.

So the only remaining possibility is that I left the coin here and forgot.

I lean my forehead against the steering wheel, close my eyes, and take deep breaths, trying not to hyperventilate.

This memory problem has to be caused by more than stress, but I’m extremely wary of doctors. Both my parents’ deaths were caused by medical misdiagnosis. My mother’s when her doctor misdiagnosed her lung cancer symptoms as asthma, and my father’s when his doctor told him those chest pains he’d been having for the past twelve hours were nothing more than heartburn. The doctor prescribed antacids, when in fact the culprit was a heart attack. By the time Dad was admitted to the emergency room, it was too late.

And didn’t I read somewhere that most deadly infections people get are picked up inside hospitals?

“You need help,” I tell myself. “Stop rationalizing.”

But what would I even tell a doctor? “Hi, I’m Kayla! I’ve been hearing strange noises in my house, jars fly out of my kitchen cupboards on their own, my memory has more holes in it than a spaghetti strainer, I’ve got a new pen pal in prison, and I started an intense sexual affair three weeks after my husband died with a man who calls me his bunny rabbit!”

And let’s not forget the mysteriously reappearing buffalo nickel and the weird guy in the hat who spied on me from behind a tree and didn’t leave any footprints behind. In mud.

Psych ward, here I come.

Just breathe, Kayla. Just calm down and breathe.

Back at the house, I’m worried I might not have armed the alarm before I left, but it’s working as it should. I enter in my code to reset it, then stand in the foyer, listening.

For what, I don’t know.

The house is silent. When I enter the kitchen, I half expect to see more open drawers and cupboards, but nothing is amiss. I go from room to room, checking things out, until I’m satisfied there are no bogeymen hiding in closets or behind doors.

Only I’m not really satisfied. I’m paranoid, and I don’t know what to do about it.

So I do what any rational person would and pour myself a glass of wine.

Then I lock myself in my office and force myself to work, ignoring the disturbing fact that I’m drinking wine before noon and trying to pretend it’s normal behavior, when in reality, everybody knows denial about your drinking habits is a total red flag for alcohol use disorder.

“Oh, who cares?” I mutter, glaring at my drawing board. “I’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

After an hour, I give up. I drop my pen and rub my eyes, then go into the kitchen and refill my wineglass. Leaning against the counter, I hit the Rewind button on the security app on my phone and settle in for some high-speed, backward video viewing.

I have a bad feeling that daily reviewing of the damn camera feed is about to become my new hobby.

It takes a while to get through it all from the time I left last night to when I returned this morning, but I find nothing unusual. Around dawn, two squirrels chased each other across the driveway. Just after midnight, a fat raccoon trundled out from the woodpile on the back porch and wandered away into the darkness. Other than that, everything was still.

It isn’t until I return to my office with another glass of wine that I see something interesting.

A little blond boy about five or six years old plays by himself on the back lawn. Dressed in a red jacket, matching pants, and yellow rain boots, he runs around grinning, chasing leaves and throwing them into the air. He falls at one point, screaming with laughter as he tumbles face-first into the grass, then rolls over and waves at the sky.

Staring at him through the window, I wonder if a new family moved into the neighborhood. Or maybe someone’s grandchild is visiting? I can’t think of anyone nearby who has little kids.

But why would his mother think it was a good idea to take this kid to play on my back lawn? The house sits in the middle of two wooded acres. You have to make an effort to get here. Unless they walked down the beach? And where is his mother, anyway? There’s no adult in sight. Just this jolly little preschooler tearing up my grass.

Sighing, I set the wineglass on my desk and leave the room. I pass through the kitchen on the way to the laundry room, then go through the garage and out the side door to the backyard.

When I look around, however, the kid has disappeared.

I holler, “Hello? Anybody out here?”

My only answer is the lonely cry of a seagull circling far overhead.

Chilled because I forgot to put on a jacket, I walk all the way around the back of the house and look down toward the street. I see no one. The driveway is empty. I look back toward the beach, and it’s empty, too. So are the woods on either side of the house.

Irritated, I mutter, “Where’d you go, you little fucker?”

The last thing I need is some dumb kid breaking his leg on a rock he tripped over on my property. I can see the lawsuit coming a mile away.

I spend another fifteen minutes hunting for him, then give up and go back inside for more wine. Then I get the idea to review the camera feed from the last half hour to see where little blondie went.

But when I open the app, all I get is static. The screen shows nothing but pixelated snow.

Great. The security system works as well as the electrical system. Maybe I should just sell the place and move.

Feeling defeated, I go back to my desk and work for the rest of the day.

The next morning, I wake to the sound of the alarm screaming.

Disoriented, I jolt upright in bed and look around in panic. Gray daylight sifts through the cracks in the curtains. My robe is where I left it, draped over the arm of a chair. Nothing in the room appears to be out of order, except for the ear-piercing shriek of the security alarm.

In my panic, I fall out of bed. I hit the floor with a thud, but scramble to my feet, adrenaline burning through my veins.

Someone broke into the house.

Fuck fuck fuck oh holy fuck, someone broke into the house!

The noise cuts off as abruptly as it began, leaving my ears ringing with the silence.

Hyperventilating, I move quietly to the door, open it a crack, and listen. Within moments, I hear a female voice grouse, “Blasted thing. What a bloody racket. I’ll go deaf, and that’s a fact.”

I nearly faint with relief. It’s Fiona.

Throwing open the door, I walk down the hall and lean over the balcony that overlooks the first floor. “Fiona! It’s you!”

She screams and jumps, whirling around. Gazing up at me from the foyer, she presses a hand over her heart.

Looking cross, she says, “It’s ten o’clock Monday morning, dear. Of course it’s me.”

“Ten o’clock?” I repeat, astonished. I can’t believe I slept this late, but get distracted from that thought when another occurs to me. “How did you know how to turn off the alarm?”

A strange pause follows. It seems fraught. “I entered the code.”

“How did you know what code to enter?”

Another strange pause follows. She asks hesitantly, “How do you think I know it?”

Oh shit. I told her the code, that’s how she knows it. I told her and forgot.

I pass a hand over my face and exhale. “Because I gave it to you. Of course I did. Sorry.”

When I look at her again, she appears relieved.

“No need to apologize.”

A clap of thunder rumbles through the sky. The gray morning is about to erupt into rain again. And whatever this creeping memory loss is of mine, it seems to be accelerating.

“Are you quite well, dear?” asks Fiona, tilting her head and peering at me with an expression of concern.

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, the way 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 fuck 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.

Fiona rises from her chair, gets two mugs from a cabinet, and pours hot water into both. The tea bags go in next, then she sets one of the mugs in front of me and sits back down across from me.

As if she hasn’t just given me an aneurysm, she says, “It would be proper with a drop of milk, but I’ve gone lactose intolerant in my old age. Would you like some?”

I barely manage a shake of my head.

“Now, now, dear, please don’t be frightened. I know being haunted is a bit much for our twenty-first century minds to deal with, but we’ll get through it together.”

Maybe I’m still asleep. Maybe this is just a bad dream. Maybe all that wine I had yesterday went to my head and killed more than the usual amount of brain cells.

Ever the practical one, Fiona turns businesslike. “What we need is a séance.”

I say flatly, “That’s ridiculous.”

“No, the federal tax rate is ridiculous. This is simply a situation that needs to be remedied.” She sips her tea and makes a yummy noise. “As soon as possible, I might add. The longer a spirit is trapped in this dimension, the greater the odds it will never be able to move on.”

“Fiona, I don’t have a ghost in the house!”

She clucks her tongue in disapproval at my tone. “I know it’s alarming, dear, but please try to control yourself. Scots have a genetically built-in aversion to overt shows of emotion, and I’d hate to think less of you over something so minor as being haunted. Now, what about visual disturbances? Have you seen anything strange around the place?”

Into my mind flashes an image of the strange, hostile man in the hat hiding behind the tree who left no footprints behind. Another image comes, this one of the little blonde boy playing in the yard…

The boy my security camera didn’t catch, presenting me instead with a recording of static.

Horror creeps over me, starting at my feet and slowly moving up my body until I’m gripped in a cold, tight skeleton hand of fright.

As if her case is closed, Fiona says sagely, “Ah.”

Chilled to the bone, I say, “It’s impossible. Ghosts don’t exist.”

Fiona smiles. A bass rumble of thunder rolls through the sky. The rain increases, peppering the windows and drumming against the roof.

Then the overhead lights turn themselves off and on three times, like a smug supernatural fuck-you.