Within These Walls

by Ania Ahlborn

  As it turned out, she wasn’t tall enough to reach the rod; even when she went up on her tiptoes she couldn’t reach the bar. Pressing her left hand flush against the tiled wall, she carefully placed her bare foot along the edge of the ugly blue tub. It was a maneuver her mother would have screamed at her for even considering, let alone going through with.

  What if you slip? You could break your neck!

  And what if I did? she wondered. Would it be enough for you to forget everything that’s happened? Would it get you both to love each other again?

  With her feet teetering along the bathtub’s ledge, Vee flopped her pajama pants over the bar. She tried to arrange them in a way that would lend to quick drying, but she stopped short of tossing her shirt over in the same way. She froze where she stood, poised like a tightrope walker, her gaze fixed on the reflection in the medicine cabinet’s mirror.

  “What . . . ?” The word slipped past her lips, a mere whisper. Because while she could see the lip of the tub, the tension rod, and the blue tile that lined the wall behind her, she couldn’t see herself. Her brain immediately screamed vampire! She had yet to read Dracula, but Tim had. As soon as he discovered Vee had read the likes of Twilight, he’d schooled her in classic Nosferatu folklore. Real vampires could shape-shift. Their shadows could move independently from their owners. They didn’t spend eternity going to high school, didn’t sparkle, and, most importantly, they had no reflection because they had no soul.

  She blinked hard, convinced that if she squeezed her eyes shut for long enough, her brain would trip back into what it was supposed to see. There she’d be, reflected back at herself.

  But instead of seeing herself, she opened her eyes to a girl staring back at her—a person that most definitely was not Vee.

  The girl in the reflection was pale, with hair blond like Vee’s, except stick straight rather than curly. She wore an old, stretched-out sweater, and she would have been pretty had she not rolled her eyes into the back of her head. Vee opened her mouth to yell, but she couldn’t catch her breath to produce any sound.

  The girl moved.

  Her mouth began to open.

  Wide.

  Wider.

  So wide that it turned half her face into a gaping hole.

  Her teeth glinting in that shadowed maw.

  Vee mimicked the girl’s expression, unable to fight against the thudding of her pulse. Was she imitating the girl because they were the same person? What if, by some trick, the girl took her place while Vee got stuck in the mirror somehow? Impossible thoughts spiraled through her brain. She wanted to yell for her dad or Uncle Mark.

  Suddenly, the dull gray of the girl’s sweater began to bloom with something dark. Blood began to soak into the soft, misty-colored yarn, creeping across the fabric like a slow-moving disease.

  A voice in Vee’s head screamed look away! She was imagining things, had to be, but she couldn’t bring herself to tear her gaze from the mirror. Fighting against temporary paralysis, Vee’s throat clicked dryly as she struggled for air.

  The whites of the girl’s eyes now rolled forward, snapped into place. Vee found herself staring at a person who couldn’t possibly exist. Chewing on the air, Vee struggled for sound, any sound—a scream or a mew—anything to assure herself that the girl in the mirror hadn’t somehow taken over her body, that they were two separate entities in a single unfeasible moment.

  The girl seemed to mimic Vee’s silent gasping with that wide-open mouth. A baby’s disembodied cry slithered from the mirror-­girl’s throat.

  Vee finally managed to twist away in a panic, the feeling of her feet slipping out from beneath her momentarily derailing her horror. Her palm skipped down the tile wall, scrambling for purchase.

  That was when she inhaled and finally screamed.

  CASE NOTES—REDWOOD PARANORMAL

  DATE: October 7, 1986

  INVESTIGATOR: Judith Depley, Conrad Milton

  RESIDENTS: Michael (35) and Janice Clayton (28), Sam Clayton (5)

  ADDRESS: 101 Montlake Road, Pier Pointe, Washington

  RP received a call from homeowner Janice Clayton on 10/3 complaining of possible poltergeist activity. Homeowner reports hearing voices, items being moved. Sam Clayton, age five, isn’t sleeping—a condition both parents insist only developed after their move into the home this past July. RP entered the home on 10/7 at approximately 8:00 PM. Investigative session lasted from approximately 8:30 PM–2:45 AM. RP ran full EVP, EMF, and temperature scan. No EVP or fluctuations recorded. No evidence on photography stills. Neither investigator received any physical feedback. One glimmer of conceivable evidence: a faint scent, possibly vanilla or almond. However, homeowners have many scented candles throughout the home. Could not rule out environmental contamination. Homeowners have decided not to pursue further investigations—potentially moving away from the property.

  FINAL RESULT: Inconclusive

  ADDITIONAL NOTES: Home was the scene of the Halcomb cult murder/suicide of 1983. We had our fingers crossed on this one, but are relatively confident that the property is not haunted.

  J Depley

  11

  * * *

  Wednesday, February 17, 1982

  One Year, Three Weeks, Four Days Before the Sacrament

  EVERYTHING HAD CHANGED.

  The house, which had once been quiet save for the subtle murmur of the television and the patter of rain, was now boisterous and happy, redolent of exotic incense burned by Gypsy on a constant loop. From patchouli to amber to pine, the entire place smelled of a Moroccan bazaar. When Avis (Audra?—she wasn’t sure what to call herself anymore) asked why Gypsy drifted from room to room with tendrils of smoke trailing her every move, Lily explained it was a cleansing ritual to rid the place of bad thoughts and ugly feelings. “Energy and emotion can get trapped in a place,” she said. If that was true, Avis was certain the house was noxious with her own resentment. It would be a wonder if there was enough incense in all of Pier Pointe to wipe it away.

  The ever-kinetic Kenzie proved to be as addicted to Avis’s rec­ord player as Gypsy was to purification. Avis hadn’t marked a single moment of silence since Deacon and his friends had stumbled out of the wind and through the front door. If it wasn’t Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd, then it was Rush or Lynyrd Skynyrd or the Doors. Despite her slow-mounting exhaustion from the onslaught of noise, she didn’t dare ask for quiet. She was trying to adapt, to grow into her new skin and her freshly given name. If she had to give up the silence for Jeff to grant her a new life, so be it. She’d listen to those records forever if Deacon’s promise of euphoria was upheld.

  She hadn’t heard her birth name uttered even once since the night Jeffrey stepped into the house and took her breath away. And while she wasn’t sure, it seemed to her that, over time, Jeff had given everyone their rightful name just as nonchalantly. Clover, Gypsy, Sunnie, even Noah and Deacon; the names struck her as ones that had been gifted rather than mandated by parents—people that were clearly no longer part of their lives. As far as Avis could make out, Jeffrey’s renaming was as much a convention as Gypsy’s smoke. It was a way to purge the soul of its past life and welcome it into its newfound family. Somehow, “Avis” felt right, like the name she should have had all along. As though, maybe, the fact that she had been born mislabeled had somehow contributed to a less-than-happy life.

  Even Maggie noticed a change. “You sound different,” she had said during their phone call the day before. “Did you go back to the beach? You did, didn’t you? You saw that hot Tom Selleck look-alike again.”

  If Maggie thought Deacon was good-looking, she had no idea. Next to Jeffrey, Deacon was ordinary, nothing but a guy with shiny mother-of-pearl buttons and a pair of scuffed-up cowboy boots. But Avis held her tongue, keeping her new living situation a secret from the girl who had, up until recently, been her only friend. It was that very evasiveness t
hat had her skittering to the window when a pair of headlights slashed across the window glass.

  Jeffrey was sitting on the couch with Clover and Gypsy at his feet when the light cut across the living room wall. They were watching a random TV show Kenzie had found in the TV Guide. Kenzie—the sultan of music—was also the one who picked out the evening’s entertainment. He chose the shows, was in charge of the volume knob, and never once let the TV rest on something as boring as the local news.

  For a second, Avis convinced herself of the worst: those headlights probably belonged to her father. In the two years she’d been living on her own, he’d checked up on her only once. But maybe he’d gotten a wild hair. Perhaps something had compelled him to make the drive down from Seattle. And now he’d find a house—his house—full of peace-preaching hippies, the type of people he swore were screwing up the world.

  Trying to keep her sudden bout of anxiety under wraps, Avis nudged the window curtain aside, wondering what the hell she’d do if it was her old man. But the whoosh of her pulse settled, if only by a beat, when, instead of her father’s white Cadillac, she spotted Maggie’s old Volvo parked in the driveway.

  Maggie sauntered up the drive in a pair of bell-bottom jeans, avoiding rain puddles as not to soil her platform sandals. She did this while balancing a Saran-wrapped plate in her right hand. Avis opened the door before she had a chance to ring the bell.

  “Audra,” Maggie said.

  “Maggie.” Avis gave her a weary smile. “Hey, I . . .” Hesitation. “I wasn’t expecting you. You should have called. Where’s Eloise?”

  “At my mother’s. And since when do I need to call before coming over?” Maggie peered over Avis’s shoulder and into the living room, then crushed the plate of what looked to be cookies against Avis’s chest, nudging her out of the way. “What’s this?” Raising an eyebrow, she noted the trio in the living room. An outburst of laughter sounded from somewhere upstairs. She shot a look up the steps, her face a mask of surprise.

  “Just some friends,” Avis said, keeping her voice down.

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  Avis glanced down at her feet. She felt bad, like the worst friend in the world. Maggie had always been there for her, and what had Avis done? She’d cut Maggie out, had kept the group a secret, as though Maggie hadn’t been important enough to be privy to such a huge change in her life.

  But Maggie had a tendency to puff up like a peacock around people she didn’t know. She was smart and pretty and had a weakness for showboating—all traits that Avis found more threatening than before. She had yet to properly forge a relationship with Jeff. How would she make that happen if Maggie stole his attention away?

  “Audra Snow, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve been a rotten friend.” She made her statement at full volume to garner attention. When Avis shot a glance back to the living room, wondering if anyone had heard her above the din of the TV, her stomach twisted. Jeff and both girls were watching them from the couch. Jeffrey’s expression seemed to be a careful balance of curiosity and fascination. Clover and Gypsy exchanged a knowing look before allowing their attention to return to Avis and her friend.

  Other than shoving her out the door and ruining their friendship, Avis had no choice but to let Maggie float by her and into the living room. As soon as she did, a wide smile replaced Maggie’s annoyance.

  “Hi there,” she singsonged, homing in on Jeff like a cheerleader sniffing out a quarterback. “I’m Maggie, Audra’s friend. I live just next door.” She caught one of Jeff’s hands with both of hers. Nausea roiled at the pit of Avis’s stomach as she watched them, Jeffrey’s mouth curling up into a strange, amused sort of smile. “And you are?”

  “Jeffrey.”

  His voice twisted Avis up. Her nausea grew tenfold. Suddenly, realization hit her. Perhaps she’d just run out of time to make that lasting impression. Maggie was going to steal away the man that was supposed to save Avis from herself.

  Gypsy introduced herself, her voice deep and husky, like Stevie Nicks’s. She fingered the cross around her neck, as if considering something, then nodded to her cohort. “This is Clover.” Clover smiled, then exhaled a quiet laugh at something funny. “And Avis . . .” Gypsy motioned to her, reintroducing everyone’s host by her newly given name.

  Every nerve in Avis’s body sizzled at the vocalization of that name. The moniker that had felt so right over the past few days felt fake now, as though she was only pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

  “Avis . . . ?” Maggie gave her a questioning look.

  “She likes it better,” Clover said. “It means ‘bird.’ ”

  Avis’s face felt hot. Maybe she was supposed to stay Audra after all. The sudden flush of her cheeks might be proof that her life would never be different, that she was doomed to remain the person she’d always been—isolated, unseen.

  “I’ll go make some coffee,” Avis murmured. She turned away from them, the plate of Maggie’s cookies held in both hands. Ducking into the kitchen, she slid the plate onto the island. Laughter sounded from the living room as soon as she left. Were they laughing at her? Anxiety rolled inside her like an undertow, threatening to overwhelm her, to stifle her with her own dismay.

  This isn’t right, she thought. This isn’t me. Who am I kidding? I’m not Avis. This will never be my life.

  Perhaps it had all been a mistake—inviting Deacon and his group to stay with her, befriending them at all. Deacon had convinced her that she was strong enough to surrender to change, but the longer she stood at that kitchen counter, the less she believed it to be true. She wanted to change, but she was weak. She wanted to be part of something bigger, but she was nonessential; she had nothing to offer. Her mother had been right. She was irrelevant. Inconsequential. Hardly worth mentioning at all.

  The earth seemed to tip beneath her feet. With her fingers wrapped around the edge of the sink, Avis—no, she was still Audra—crouched to stop the world from spinning only to feel a hand press against her back. When she looked up, Jeffrey stood above her, his face a mask of concern.

  “Come on,” he said, “let’s get you some air.”

  And before she knew it, it was just the two of them standing out in the twilight, his arms around her, her pulse thudding inside her head.

  Maybe it was the tender way his arm had looped around her shoulders, or that worn leather smell that clung to him even when he wasn’t wearing his jacket. Regardless of what compelled her, she tucked her arms against herself and turned toward him as if to block out the world. Lifting her hand, she dared to repeat the gesture he had done the first time they had met. She caught a strand of his hair between her fingers and held it in a wordless hello.

  “I need you to understand,” he said, “we don’t take adopting people into our circle lightly. We only allow those who truly want to be part of our group, those who we believe we can trust with our lives into our family. It’s what keeps us honest, what keeps us faithful, what makes us unwavering in our beliefs.”

  “Your beliefs,” she echoed back to him. “Like love and friendship . . .”

  “Like whatever we deem worthy to believe in,” he said. “It’s everyone’s job to have faith in whatever belief we adopt, because every belief is for the good of the group and the good of our hearts.”

  Blind faith, she thought. They don’t know what Jeff is going to ask them to believe in; they only know that they’re going to believe. It was a dangerous proposition, like signing a contract without reading a word. A red flag waved wildly in the back of her mind, assuring her that only the insane would agree to such allegiance. No free-­thinking human being could offer the type of undiluted loyalty Jeffrey was describing. Every aspect of such devotion went against what she knew about free will.

  And yet she remained in his arms, unflinching, because the idea of him telling her what to believe in was better than battlin
g inner demons and figuring it out on her own. She’d spent her entire life feeling hollow, not knowing where to place her convictions. Jeffrey could relieve her of that indecision. He was offering to erase her uncertainty, promising to quell her meekness. Believing in the group was, in essence, believing in herself. If she believed, maybe she could be Avis after all.

  “To be with us, you have to forget about your own individual needs. Everything we do, we do for each other. Do you understand?”

  He pulled her closer, and it was then and there that she decided Deacon was right. Jeffrey would make things better. She had sloughed off her individual need for solitude when she had invited them all to live in her home; the group had given her a new name and constant companionship in return.

  Jeffrey was real, what he was saying was true. If she made her old self disappear, she’d become something more than she was. Something better.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I understand.”

  She would believe, because it was easy when the alternative was believing in nothing at all.

  12

  * * *

  SHE’S HAVING AN affair,” Lucas confessed.

  Mark readjusted the cardboard box held fast in his arms and stared up at his friend. Lucas loomed in the shadowed interior of the moving truck. “Are you . . .” He paused, as if trying to find the precise words to convey his surprise. “I mean, you’re sure, right? You’re sure?”

  Lucas frowned, looked down at the box next to his feet. He felt claustrophobic. The walls of the truck seemed to inch inward as rain pelted the roof with fat, lazy drops. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, he thought. Maybe confessing that my worst nightmare is taking place will somehow solidify Caroline’s intent. Perhaps Caroline was right that Lucas had developed some weird inferiority complex. His insecurities were manifesting themselves into the ugly illusion that the woman he loved was a villain, a heartless bitch that was reveling in his misery. But how do you know that she isn’t?