Perception

by Eliza Lainn

  I took in a breath. "I guess that leads to the next question: how long have you been here? Since we moved in nearly a year ago? And at night, do you, um..."

  "No!" he shouted then cleared his throat. "No, we don't—nothing invasive. We value your privacy and try to give you your space. When you're in the living room, we're in the kitchen or the reading area. When you're in your bedrooms, we're in the living room. We know you didn't sign up to having men watch you in such a private place—we respect that as much as we're able." He sighed. "I'm trying to word this so it doesn't sound disturbing."

  "It's already disturbing, and we're definitely coming back to setting up rules or something, but how long have you been here? In the apartment, with us?"

  "Since you bought the pocket watch."

  I blinked. "The what?"

  "Pocket watch. It's on your fireplace mantle. From the estate sale."

  I tried to think back to the watch, envisioning it. The rusted glint of gold, the still hands, the broken chain. Bronte had seen it when we'd been yard sale hopping a few weeks after we moved in—looking for cheap decorations. She'd loved the history of it, how old it seemed.

  And we'd put it on the mantle fireplace with a massive painting of Paris in the past. I hadn't given it another thought since.

  "You're haunting a pocket watch?"

  "I suppose that's one way of putting it."

  "Both of you?"

  "Yes."

  "How?"

  He didn't answer. I gave it a moment and then opened my mouth to apologize. But his voice beat me to it. "I'm sorry—can we discuss that later? It's not a pleasant story."

  "Yes," I said, half a beat too fast, afraid that I'd touched on something too personal. I cleared my throat. "Yes, absolutely. But..."

  "Yes?"

  "As far as unpleasantness goes, there is one story I'm going to insist upon hearing."

  He sighed. It was heavy, resigned. He'd been expecting this. "The creature?"

  "You said it was harmful and angry. I need to know what that means. Are we in danger here? I need to know—Bronte didn't hear it. She doesn't understand how...it was..."

  "Haunting?" he offered, a slight tick of false humor as he ended the word.

  "I've never heard something like that before."

  "Me either."

  I frowned. "So it's gone then? It's..." my voice died without any words to add.

  "It appeared suddenly," he answered with another sigh. "It hasn't been here before. Neither Oliver nor myself had seen anything like it before—though Oliver was the only one to see it. Just as I was the only one to hear it. Well, aside from yourself, of course."

  "So Oliver could see it? And you could hear it? But you don't know what it was?"

  "Correct."

  "Is it dead? Or, I don't know, deader?"

  "No. It left. Vanished. But I believe it could return."

  I shuddered at the thought.

  "Stella, I am so sorry. I don't know why it's here, where it came from. It—it connected with you when you were here earlier. Do you recall? You stumbled into the refrigerator?"

  My body stilled as realization struck. I'd suddenly felt dizzy. Like when you stand up too fast. My head had spun and my body had felt cold. Weak. I'd felt suddenly so weak and tired and just...cold.

  Like a corpse, I thought.

  I shuddered again.

  "Stella—" Cyril's voice sounded closer and I jumped "—I'm sorry. Whatever it was, I am so very—"

  "You don't have to keep apologizing," I said, wrapping my arms around myself. My eyes swept the room again. "Are you still near the door?"

  He cleared his throat, embarrassed. "I, um, might have taken a few steps closer."

  My face flamed red. "How close?"

  When he didn't answer immediately, my blush deepened. Then, at the bookcase standing against the wall between me and the bedroom door, one of my hobbit Funko minis—a gift from Bronte—began floating.

  "Can you see it moving?" he asked.

  Samwise Gamgee hung in the air. "Yep. That helps. Thank you."

  "I am sor—"

  "You said it was harmful but the most I did was trip into the refrigerator. Is that the extent it can interact with us? Sudden wooziness?"

  Samwise floated back toward the door. The farthest point in the room away from me, I realized. "I don't know. It was aiming for me when it struck you. Bumping into you like that—I think it was unintentional."

  "Aiming for you?" I frowned. "Did it hurt you?"

  He cleared his throat, hesitated. "Slightly," he finally admitted. "I think...I think I'm bleeding."

  My frown deepened. "Ghosts can bleed?"

  "Evidently. I think this thing causes us to bleed. When Oliver strikes me, I ache, but considering I have no blood left to spill, that's the extent of the damage. This feels different. It hurts like when I was alive, when I was cut."

  "Maybe you aren't spilling blood then," I mused, "but something like..."

  "Whatever we're made of?" he guessed.

  I nodded uncertainly. "Could be? Spirit, or something? You're oozing your ghostly spirit from the cut?"

  "Makes the most sense, I suppose. Though it does nothing to relieve my concerns."

  "Or mine," I admitted.

  Cyril sighed. "Oliver and I will find a way of handling it before it returns. We'll not allow it a second chance to harm anyone. You and Bronte included, of course."

  "How do you plan on doing that?"

  A knock came from the door before he could answer. I pushed up from the seat as Samwise floated over the bed.

  Bronte peeked at me when I cracked the door open. Wide eyed, she glanced over my head to see into my room. "Is he still in there?" she whispered.

  I opened the door wider as I glanced over my shoulder, with Bronte moving to see in as well. Samwise continued to hover a few feet over my bed. "Yes," I said, turning back to Bronte. "What's up?"

  "I just had a thought."

  "Ok?" I worried at her tone.

  "Oliver's been telling me about this thing earlier—the one you heard. He could see it and he's been describing it to me."

  I could see my panic from earlier—from when I'd heard it—reflected in her eyes now. "But it's not here anymore, Bronte. Cyril assured me that it's gone. For now." I looked behind me to see that Samwise had floated closer.

  She nodded hurriedly and then glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes locked on something just there, something only she could see. Then she turned back to me. "I know that—Oliver's told me the same thing. But I was thinking, he told me that Cyril could hear it? Just hear it?"

  "Yes," Cyril answered, the frown evident in his tone.

  "Yeah, that's right," I told Bronte.

  Her eyes widened fractionally. "If only Cyril can hear it, and only Oliver can see it—and if only you can hear these two, and only I can see them—then, I don't know how, but—"

  "The ghosts are being haunted," I finished.

  Chapter Seven

  Furious knocking game from the front door. Bronte and I jumped in our skins. I swear, even Samwise jumped from the unexpected pounding.

  Bronte swirled to look across the living room to the front door. Then she spun back to me, her eyes widening. "What time is it?"

  Rose.

  My hands flew over my pockets, searching for my phone. "I don't—" I mumbled, shooting past her to the kitchen. To the oven clock.

  Nine.

  "We're late!" Bronte shouted at my shoulder, her fingers digging into my arm. "Oh my God, we're so late!"

  My eyes flew back to the front door. "Oh, we blew way past late, Charlotte. An hour and a half? We straight up blew her off."

  Bronte shuddered. "She's going to kill us."

  The pounding came again. "I see your light on! Open the door Stella, Bronte!"

  Rose didn't sound happy.

  Bronte hurried to the door.

  I spun around, snatching Samwise from the air and moving to my bedroom door to fling it onto
my bed. Then I slammed the door shut, hoping I didn't shut it through one of them. "Cyril, can you and Oliver—"

  "Say no more," he interrupted, his voice low. "We'll stay in the book nook, if that's ok?"

  "My bedroom," I insisted with a sharp shake of the head. "I don't know if Rose will be able to detect you—can she?"

  "I think time and proximity play a role," he said. "So maybe? She's here often enough."

  Bronte threw open the front door and stepped aside as Rose barreled into the room. She wore a deep-set frown beneath her Friday-night makeup. And even though she wore a floral dress with soft pink high heels, it did nothing to dampen the red-hot fury in her stance and eyes.

  "Bedroom," I hissed under my breath and hurried to intercept her. "Rose! I am so sorry. We—"

  She held up a hand, her eyes flashing. "I don't want excuses. You aren't even dressed yet! We were supposed to meet for dinner—what happened? No, wait, I don't want to hear it. How could you do this?"

  Her eyes began to water. She let out a huff of air and then stormed past me toward the bathroom. "Great," I heard her grumble under her breath, "just freaking great. Now I'm going to smear my make-up."

  Bronte stepped closer to me and we watched the bathroom door, huddling together in the living room, waiting for her to return.

  When she did step out, her composure had returned. She eyed us coolly. "Noah Walker."

  Bronte and I blinked at each other. Then at Rose. "Huh?"

  "Noah Walker," she repeated sternly. Her hands rested on her hips. Despite the fact that she was the shortest out of the three of us, at that moment, she towered. "I've been seeing him for the past month."

  I turned toward Bronte again. Her confusion mirrored my own—we'd never heard of anyone named Noah Walker before, let alone that he was dating Rose.

  Rose wasn't the type to gush nonstop about her dates but she did usually tell us when they were happening. When she'd met someone, when they went out, how it went. Typical female banter but she always told us these things.

  We both turned back to Rose. "What?"

  "Stop doing that," she waved dismissively. "It's creepy—both of you talking at the same time. And yes, I have been seeing Noah Walker for the past month. And, tonight, I was going to introduce the pair of you to him."

  "You never mentioned him before," Bronte said. "I thought tonight was supposed to be a girls' night?"

  "I said that because I didn't want to two of you to ambush him or anything." Her face took on a slightly pink hue and she looked away, her posture relaxing. "And ok, yes, I do know that neither one of you has ever ambushed anyone I've dated before, but I just didn't want to risk it, you know? I really like this one. A lot." Her blush deepened.

  Then, with a thought, her anger snapped back. She straightened, towering once again, as she addressed us with venom. "That's why I pushed this girls' night so hard. Because I told Noah that I wanted the three of you to meet. And what happens? We get to the restaurant and neither one of you show. I can't get a hold of you, either one of you, and I'm sitting there thinking you're both wrapped around a pole or something." Her voice waivered at the end.

  She let out a shaky breath. "So I insisted we drive over here. And what do I find? You blew me off for a séance."

  Bronte grabbed my arm, her fingers digging in. "A—a what?"

  Rose waved at the Ouija board still on the ottoman. "What? Did you watch The Conjuring one too many times or something?"

  My eyes were fixed on the board. We'd sent the invisible ghosts away, yeah, but we'd left the stupid board out plain as day. Idiots.

  With an annoyed shake of her head, Rose marched past us to the front door.

  "Wait—" Bronte called out, following her. "Rose, we're sorry, please don't—oh."

  Rose yanked the front door open to reveal a man standing on the other side. He looked cold without a coat on, rubbing his hands together. The yellow light from the entry accented his stylish blonde hair and made his green eyes flash.

  That's when I noticed what he was wearing. A loud red, yellow, and blue plaid button up shirt, the sleeves rolled up (thank God it wasn't tucked in), with khakis and boat shoes.

  Bronte and I exchanged a quick look. A frat boy? Our bohemian queen was out on a date with a frat boy?

  And it was serious?

  He strolled into the room and flashed us a well-used, suave grin. "Hello ladies—it's wonderful to meet you. My name is Noah Walker."

  "Likewise," Bronte whispered on instinct, her eyes still wide as she took in the man standing just inside our front door.

  I couldn't even get my mouth to do that much.

  Speechless. I was speechless.

  The ghosts hadn't even left me speechless.

  At that thought, I lost it. Laughter bubbled up from my gut. It pinched my sides and tickled the back of my throat. I bit down on my lip to trap it but it escaped in sharp snorts through my nose.

  Noah's smile faltered. Rose shot me a glare that could have killed.

  I slapped a hand over my mouth.

  "She's sorry," Bronte said, stepping to my side. "She's had a very long, very exhaustive day. Please—ignore her." She moved toward Noah, her hand outstretched. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Bronte. That's Stella."

  He shook her hand, his smile lighting up again. "Bronte. Rose has talked about you." He looked past her toward me. "And Stella, of course. I was warned to watch out for that forked tongue of yours."

  Behind me, beyond the closed door, I heard the ghosts laugh.

  Then time slowed as three things happened at once.

  Rose moved toward Noah, mouth opened to say something.

  Bronte's hands flew toward her mouth to cover her shocked face.

  And Noah's eyes slid past me toward the bedroom door. Pulled in the way like when you hear something unexpected and you try to find the source. Instinctually.

  My eyes widened.

  Then his eyes slid back to meet mine.

  Time snapped back to normal. Noah's lips pulled down into the smallest frown…full of…I couldn’t place it. But he was—something. Not upset, not surprised, not confused. What I saw in his eyes could have been a mixture of all three. Or something else entirely.

  "No, you meant sharp tongue," Rose said, taking his hand and looking up at him with a smile. She turned back to me. "Sharp tongue, Stella. But only when you're caught off guard—I warned him it might happen considering he was supposed to show up at dinner without you knowing."

  His eyes turned toward her but then fell on something behind her. On the coffee table. The Ouija board.

  He stared at it. His face impassive—impossible to read.

  Rose let out a nervous laugh and squeezed his hand. That jerked him from the board and he looked down at her and smiled. "See? I told you they were fine."

  Rose snorted and rolled her eyes. "If you count having a séance as—"

  "We weren't," I snapped.

  Three sets of eyes turned to me. Two surprised. One suspicious.

  "We were just goofing off," I said, aiming for nonchalance. I moved toward the board and scooped it up. I felt his eyes on me, following every move I made. Watching like a hawk. It took everything I had not to panic, to act calm and composed. "You're right—I've watched The Conjuring one too many times. We just wanted to try it out. See what happened."

  "I'm surprised you managed to get Bronte to go along with it," Rose said as I moved to put the board in my bedroom. She turned toward her. "I thought you hated those things."

  Bronte shrugged. "I was convinced to try it."

  Rose giggled and lowered her voice in mock suspense. "Did you summon anything?"

  "Stella—" Noah called out as I reached for the door handle. He sounded concerned. Unsure.

  I froze, my fingers tightening on the board. I turned around as casually as I could. Our eyes met. "Yes?"

  His eyes moved toward the board. "Um, I'm sorry. Sharp, I meant to say. Not forked. I'll make it up to you, if you want. I'll b
uy dinner tonight."

  "Tonight?" Bronte frowned.

  "Why not? We haven't eaten yet," he said, sparing a quick glance at Rose. Then he looked back at me, his eyes shooting past and lingering on the bedroom door. "What do you say?"

  Bronte answered for me. "We aren't exactly dressed for a night out," she said, looking down at her work skirt and cardigan. Then her eyes darted to my jeans and Hogwarts T-shirt. "Give us a minute to change?"

  "You're fine," he snapped. Then he let loose a shaky laugh to try and lighten his tone. "You're fine. It's just dinner—I think you two look fantastic. And who doesn't love Harry Potter, am I right? But we should go now, before the late dinner crowd really sets in."

  Rose and Bronte exchanged a curious look but Rose finally brightened. "You know, that sounds perfect. I am starving. And this'll give everyone a chance to get to know each other."

  "Exactly," he said, giving me a tight smile. "Just drop that on the table and we can get out of here."

  He didn't want me to go into the bedroom.

  He knew what was in there.

  He knew.

  "Sure thing," I said, sliding the board onto the kitchen table just at my side. "But you're buying."

  Relief washed over him. His tense, rigid posture relaxed and he slid an arm around Rose's shoulders. "Absolutely. How does Italian sound?"

  "Perfect." I moved toward the front door, the only thought on my mind getting him out of the apartment. Away from Cyril and Oliver.

  Chapter Eight

  "You don't seem like a Noah," I said, swirling around the straw in my iced water.

  We sat in a booth at a local Italian restaurant. It'd been darkened to cater to the late-night daters, with mood candles flickering and soft guitar music dancing throughout the room. We took up one of the large booths, tucked away from the two-seater tables, which ironically gave us the most privacy.

  And judging from the way Rose and Noah kept glancing at each other and smiling, they might need here pretty soon.

  In the meantime, I tried to get to know him. All the time hoping he'd reveal something about how he'd heard Cyril and Oliver.

  He grinned, helping himself to another breadstick. "And what do I seem more like?"

  "Mark," I said, then frowned. "Clark. Stark. Oh, that last one fits better, but not quite. Something with a sharp 'K' sound though, I think. Like your last name."