Layla Page 8

  It’s become our nightly routine. She stresses out. I soothe her. We make love.

  I took a shower after Layla fell asleep. I still couldn’t sleep after that, so I went downstairs and crammed in an entire day’s worth of stuff in the span of two hours. I’ve shaved, washed the dishes, written some lyrics for a new song.

  It’s now one o’clock in the morning, and I’m finally back in the bed with Layla, but my mind still won’t settle down.

  I close my eyes and try to force myself to sleep, but my mind is racing. I thought today would be different for Layla. Stress-free. I thought maybe it would be like the first time we were here—but it hasn’t been. Today has been like all the other days since the hospital. As much as I don’t want to suggest it again, I really think she needs to start seeing a therapist. The doctor recommended it. Her mother and sister recommended it. But she insisted she would be fine. Until now, I’ve been on her side. I thought if I supported her through her recovery, the anxiety would pass. But it’s getting worse.

  I’m staring at the alarm clock when I feel Layla’s side of the bed shift. I hear her stand up and walk across the hardwood floor.

  At first, I think maybe she’s heading to the bathroom. But the sound of her walking ceases, and she doesn’t move for a while. I can feel that she’s not in the bed, though, so I turn over to see what she’s doing.

  There’s a standup mirror on the wall a few feet away from the bed. Layla is staring at herself. It’s dark in here, other than a little light from the moon shining through the window, so I’m not sure what she’s trying to see. She turns from left to right, inspecting herself in the mirror. It’s strange how long she stares at herself. I wait another couple of minutes, thinking she’ll come back to bed, but she doesn’t.

  She steps closer to the mirror, lifting a hand to the glass. She traces her index finger over the mirror as if she’s outlining her body.

  “Layla?”

  Her head snaps back in my direction. Her eyes are wide with embarrassment—like she got caught doing something she shouldn’t have been doing. She rushes back to the bed and slips under the covers with her back to me. “Go back to sleep,” she says in a whisper. “I’m fine.”

  I stare at the back of her head for a while, but then I turn away from her. I certainly can’t sleep, though. Especially now.

  I’m staring at the alarm clock when it turns over to 1:30 a.m. Layla has already fallen back asleep. She’s snoring lightly.

  I can’t sleep, no matter how long I lie here.

  I sneak out of bed, grab my cell phone, and go downstairs. I take a seat on the couch in the Grand Room. It’s 1:35 here, but it’s only 11:35 back in Seattle. My mother never goes to sleep before midnight, so I text her to see if she’s up. She responds with a phone call.

  I lie against the arm of the couch and swipe my finger across my phone screen. “Hey.”

  “You guys made it to Kansas?” she says.

  “Yeah. Got here around five o’clock.”

  “How’s Layla?”

  “Fine. Same.”

  “How are you?”

  I sigh. “Fine. Same.”

  My mother laughs because she can tell when I’m full of shit. But she also knows I’ll tell her what I feel like telling her when I feel like telling her.

  “How’s Tim?” He’s the first guy my mother has dated since my father died. I’ve met him a couple of times. He seems all right. Meek. Gentle. Just the kind of guy I’d want for my mother.

  “He’s fine. His morning class didn’t have enough students, so it got dropped. Now he has an extra free hour in the mornings. He’s really liking that.”

  “Good for him,” I say. And then, before I can even think about the words coming out of my mouth, I ask her, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “That’s random.”

  “I know. I just don’t remember you ever talking about ghosts.”

  “I’m kind of indifferent to the idea of them,” she says. “I don’t not believe in them, but I don’t know that I’ve ever had an experience that would make me believe in them.” She pauses for a moment, then says, “Why? Do you?”

  “No,” I say. Because I don’t. “But earlier . . . I don’t know. Something weird happened. I almost caught the house on fire while I was cooking. I was upstairs before I noticed the smoke. When I got back to the kitchen, the rag I had left on the stove was in the sink. Water was running on top of it. The pan had been knocked to the floor, and someone turned off the burner. Layla was upstairs the whole time, so it couldn’t have been her.”

  “That is weird,” she says. “Does that place have a security system?”

  “No. But the house was locked up from the inside. Even the windows, so no one could have put a fire out and then left without being seen.”

  “Hmm,” she says. “It’s definitely weird. But if someone saved the place from burning down, it sounds like you have a guardian angel. Not a ghost.”

  I laugh.

  “Or a haunted house . . . keeper,” my mother says, laughing at her own pun. “What else is going on?”

  I sigh again, but don’t elaborate on the sigh.

  “It’s okay to feel what you’re feeling, Leeds.”

  “I didn’t say I was feeling any certain way.”

  “You don’t have to. I’m your mother. I can hear the stress in your voice. And guilt has always been your worst trait.”

  She’s right about that. I press my palm to my forehead. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Let’s see . . . ,” she says. “You were attacked in your own home. The girl you love almost died. You spent an entire month by her side in a hospital, and even longer after that caring for her. I can imagine that’s pretty stressful,” she says. “And to top all that off, you have a ghost.”

  I laugh, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders. She’s always had a way of justifying everything I don’t even have to tell her I’m feeling.

  “You know what I miss?” my mother asks.

  “What?”

  “You. It’s been six months since I’ve seen you, and those weren’t good circumstances. When are you coming to Seattle?”

  “Soon. Now that Layla has been cleared to travel, I’ll see what she wants to do. Next month sound good?”

  “I don’t care when you get here as long as you eventually get here.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow after I talk to her.”

  “Sounds good. Miss you and love you. Hug Layla for me.”

  “I will. I love you too.”

  I end the call and stay motionless in my defeated position on the couch. Maybe I’m depressed. Maybe I need therapy.

  As shitty as it is to think, I kind of hope everything I’ve been feeling lately is a result of depression. A chemical imbalance of some kind. I could take a pill every day and then hopefully start to fall back in love with my life.

  This all sounds like it could be a song. I reach over to the end table where I left my laptop earlier, and I open a Word document. I start typing out lyrics.

  I’d feel nothing if you punched me in the heart

  I’d feel even less if you stabbed me with a knife

  But I didn’t fall out of love with you

  I fell out of love with life

  I study the lyrics, convinced I’ve never written truer words. Nothing excites me anymore, it seems. Not even writing music. It feels like I’m opening wounds I’ve been trying to heal.

  I should just buy this place. We could stay here forever, plant a garden, get a dog and some cats. Maybe some chickens. We could reopen it as a bed and breakfast and watch people get married in the backyard every Saturday.

  I minus out the Microsoft Word app and open Google. I type in the Realtor’s website and search for the house. I have the listing saved in my favorites because I’ve looked at it almost daily since I found out it was for sale. It’s not hard to imagine me and Layla building a life here.

  Maybe I could accept growing the publ
ic side of my career if I also had an extremely isolated private life. I’m sure there’s a way to find a good balance between both.

  Her recovery would probably be less stressful here, especially if I installed a privacy fence and an electronic gate. Get her out of the city where all our bad memories began.

  I click on the email icon to email the Realtor. I have some questions about the property, and I’d like her to meet us here at the house so Layla can be a part of the decision.

  As soon as I’m finished typing the email, I move the cursor to send, but before I click it, my laptop slams shut—right on top of my hands.

  What the fuck?

  I toss the laptop away from me. It’s a gut instinct to throw it, even though it pains me as I watch it crash against the hardwood floor.

  But what the fuck was that?

  I look down at my hands. I look at the laptop that’s three feet away from my feet. There’s no way to explain that. It closed with enough force that two of my knuckles are red.

  I immediately run up the stairs. When I get to the bedroom, I lock the door behind me.

  I think of all the things that could have caused that to happen, but I come up empty. That can’t be blamed on a broken hinge, or a faulty appliance, or wind.

  I don’t believe in ghosts. This is stupid. Fucking stupid.

  Maybe I’m delirious. I woke up at 4:00 a.m. in Tennessee yesterday so I could get us packed for our trip here. I’ve been up almost twenty-four hours now.

  That has to be it. I just need sleep. Lots of it.

  I crawl into bed, my heart still pounding. I pull the covers over my head like a scared toddler trying to shut out the monsters.

  I’ll go find a Best Buy tomorrow. Figure out what’s wrong with my laptop. While I’m there, I’ll buy cameras. Some kind of security system that can be connected to an app on my phone.

  From this point forward, anything weird that happens in this house will be recorded.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It’s almost nine in the morning when I wake up. It took me forever to fall asleep last night. I feel like I still have hours of potential sleep left in me, but I want to get up before Layla. The idea of coffee and isolation on the front porch is all I really want right now after last night.

  After I get the pot of coffee started, I open the refrigerator to look for the creamer, but I immediately pause when I catch something out of the corner of my eye.

  My laptop is sitting on the kitchen table.

  I stare at it—afraid to move. Did I dream that last night?

  I hate that I immediately begin to question myself. I never get my reality confused with my dreams, but this feels like maybe I have, because I know this laptop was on the floor in the Grand Room last night. I threw it there after it slammed shut on my hands.

  Maybe Layla got out of bed after I fell asleep. I don’t know why she’d use my laptop, though. She has her own.

  I walk over to the table and take a seat in front of it. I slowly open the laptop and then move my finger over the track pad to wake up the computer. I want to look at the browsing history and see what Layla thought I was up to.

  When the computer powers on, the Word document I wrote the lyrics in last night is pulled up. I specifically remember minimizing this document before I opened Google, which means Layla definitely used my computer after I fell asleep.

  A sinking feeling settles in my stomach, as I realize Layla read the few lyrics I’ve put into this document. Does she assume they’re about her?

  I go to minimize the document, but before I do, I notice in the left-hand corner at the bottom it says there are two pages.

  I only wrote four sentences.

  I didn’t write anything else that would have created another page in this document.

  I scroll down until I get to something on the second page I’m certain I didn’t write. It’s just five words, but it’s enough to make my blood run cold.

  I’m sorry I scared you.

  I read and reread the words typed into my document no less than twenty times before Layla comes downstairs. As soon as she walks into the kitchen, I say, “Did you use my laptop last night?”

  She shoots me a funny look, like that’s a stupid question. “No.” She walks straight to the coffeepot. Her back is to me now, but I’m not sure I believe her.

  Does she not like it here? Is she trying to scare me into leaving?

  She probably saw my browsing history and is worried I’m buying the house. Maybe it’s not something she wants anymore. But why go to such elaborate lengths to move my laptop and then make me think she didn’t type these five words? Why wouldn’t she just tell me she doesn’t want to live here?

  Someone is fucking with me, and since Layla is the only one in this house, it has to be her. But the kicker is, she’s too fragile for me to confront her about it. I’m afraid if I accuse her of lying to me, she’ll feel attacked and she’ll go upstairs and pop another pill and zone out.

  I read the words again before closing out the document, but I don’t bring it up to Layla. She either already knows about it and is the one who wrote it, or she’s going to freak out if I tell her someone moved my laptop while we were sleeping.

  Neither of those outcomes is okay.

  “You need to post something today,” she says. She’s at the coffeepot, stirring Splenda into her cup of coffee. “Maybe a shirtless selfie by the pool,” she says with a wink.

  I can’t think about my fucking platform right now. Either I’m sitting across from someone who is trying to manipulate me, or I’m sitting in a house where someone—or something—is fucking with me.

  Either way, I need a security system.

  I google where I might be able to find one, but the nearest Best Buy is hours from here. The nearest Walmart is sixty-three miles away. Damn, we really are in the middle of fucking nowhere. I could order it online, but that would take a few days before anything is delivered.

  “Want to run into town with me?” I ask Layla. “I need a few things.”

  She makes a face. “Town? Leeds. There is no town we can run into.”

  I close my laptop. “It’s just an hour away. I’ll take you to lunch.”

  Layla looks like she’s contemplating it as she sips her coffee. But now that I’m thinking about it, she might question me when I start buying a security system for a house she assumes we’re only staying in for two weeks.

  “Or I can go alone,” I say. “It’s fine if you want some alone time.”

  She thinks about it for a moment, and then gives me a sheepish look. “Is it okay if I don’t go? I couldn’t sleep last night. I’ll probably just go back to bed for a couple of hours.”

  “Yeah, babe. Totally fine.” I kiss her on the forehead before I leave the kitchen. “I’ll be back after lunch. Text me if you need anything.”

  THE INTERVIEW

  I’m leaning forward with my elbows resting on the table. The talking is becoming less of a nuisance. Maybe because we got past the hardest part.

  “Why did you buy a security system?” the man asks. “Why didn’t you just leave?”

  I pick at a chipped fingernail. “I have no idea. Maybe because it was the first thing to happen to me in a while that I actually felt.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I was numb inside. Had been for a while. But the things that were happening in the house were as fascinating as they were inexplicable. I didn’t leave, because in some twisted sense . . . I think I was enjoying it.”

  “So you stayed out of boredom?”

  I think about that for a moment. “Not boredom, really. I had Layla. But I certainly wasn’t scared of whatever was happening. It’s hard to find something threatening that you don’t believe in. I thought the security system was going to explain away everything that had happened.”

  “How about now? Do you feel threatened now?”

  I think back on all that’s happened since we’ve been here. There have been times I’ve wanted
to leave . . . to run from it all. Things have happened that were downright terrifying. But even through it all, I’m resolute in my answer when I say, “No. I don’t feel threatened. I feel sympathetic.”

  “That’s usually not the reaction people have in these situations.”

  “I know. It’s why I reached out to you, though. It isn’t because I feel threatened. It’s because I want answers.”

  “Did the security system help you find any?”

  “Not at first. But . . . eventually. Yes.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I put one security camera in the kitchen and one on a bookshelf in the Grand Room. The cameras are connected to an app on my phone, so anytime there’s movement, I get a notification.

  That was two days ago, and so far the only times it has gone off are when Layla or I walk into view of the cameras.

  I came here to focus on Layla, but to say I’ve been distracted would be an understatement. I’m always looking over my shoulder, waiting for something to happen. So much so I disguise my late nights as work, but all I’ve been doing is sitting in the Grand Room, browsing websites about supernatural shit. I stayed up so late last night I ended up falling asleep on the couch.

  I just woke up. It’s still dark out now. I’d guess it’s probably around five in the morning. I’m still on the couch, but I haven’t moved since I opened my eyes.

  I’m trying to think about what position I was in when I fell asleep, what I was holding, the fact that I wasn’t covered up. Because I don’t remember the blanket I’m clutching. I remember it being on the back of the couch, but I don’t remember using it to cover up with.

  When I fell asleep on this couch last night—this blanket was folded and draped over the back of it.

  I know Layla more than likely came downstairs and covered me with it, but I still mentally retrace my steps before opening the app.

  Layla doesn’t know about the security cameras. I’m not trying to hide anything from her, but I did set them up while she was asleep. I just figured if she saw one and mentioned it, I’d tell her they were here when we showed up so she wouldn’t grow concerned.