Copyright © 2007 Kit Wylde
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
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Two days passed. Not another soul came to visit her, and Eleanor wondered if she had imagined everything, if her mind was playing tricks on her due to her long periods of solitude and grief over her mother’s death. Watching someone lose her life essence in a painful, slow descent into nothingness stole a portion that person’s soul too. Had it sapped some of her sanity?
She shook her head. No. Michael lived beyond her dreams. Their passionate kiss of two days past still sent electrical currents racing through her nerve endings. And the bathtub scene... She flushed at the memory of the dream. Best not to think about it. As for Officer Tyler, he was real. His card proved his existence. And, surely, the empty plate, once filled with Lily’s cookies that now sat on her counter waiting for her to return it could, only mean Lily was part of this world and not a dream.
Against her better judgment, Eleanor hoped that Michael would drop by.
A sigh escaped her. It figured. She likes a guy, he likes her—or so it would seem from his kisses—then he disappears, and she spends her days creating fantasies out of thin air and pining for him. She should just call Officer Tyler. At least she had his phone number.
Eleanor shook her head. Maybe later. Right now, she would rather procrastinate and finish the Sudoku puzzle. She might not solve it, but it wouldn’t reject her.
A few hours later, Eleanor looked up from washing the dinner dishes and gasped. A face smiled back at her in the condensation. Her heart pounding, she shook her head in denial. Her mother used to tell her that her imagination rivaled that of ten people combined. She had always taken it as a compliment. Now, she wondered. Leaning closer for a better look, she studied the face. It was really quite defined. Had the mouth twitched? She jumped back, fighting the urge to run. Lily’s voice echoed in her head.
Impossible. “Get a grip, Eleanor.”
Her voice echoed in the quiet house, mocking her. She didn’t believe in ghosts. She just needed some human companionship besides her imagination.
Putting the towel in its place under the sink, she turned her back on the window, the mist, and the face, flipped the switch on the radio to “on”, grabbed her book, and walked into the living room to read. A fire crackled in the fireplace. Its flames leaped and danced, pulling her attention away from her book.
With a sigh, she set the book down in disgust and turned off the radio. Maybe television would relieve the feeling that she was being watched. She snorted. She doubted it, but she had to try even if it meant watching something stupid. Anything to help her escape the uneasiness.
Eleanor switched the television on. Men wearing tights and chasing after or carrying around a ball invaded the screen. Great! Football. She hated football. If nothing else was on, she might return to it. She changed the channel.
“Damn it,” she muttered when Spanish filled the air. She’d forgotten that 21, one of her four channels, was Spanish speaking. A lot of good that did her, although the wildly gesticulating man in his gaudy sequined suit was rather amusing. His scantily clad partner with long bleach blond hair and big boobs who bounced up and down next to him added to the feeling of farce emitting from the television. She chuckled and wished she understood at least some of it. Now, this could take her mind off of her own problems.
“Eleanor.”
The sound of her name whispered through the house. She clenched her teeth, tamping down the sliver of fear trickling down her spine, clicked to a new channel, and turned up the volume, but the show was Mysteries of the Unexplained. The host followed some paranormal psychologists into a haunted house.
“Great,” she muttered.
With a press of a button, she changed to the last channel and shuddered. Bloodcurdling screams blared out of the television as a monster chased a young woman through dark, mist-filled woods. Too stupid and too close to her situation. As much as she enjoyed traipsing through the woods during the day, nothing could induce her to brave them at night.
“Eleanor.”
Her name came louder this time, piercing through the sound of the television. Her heart raced. A deep, calming breath didn’t help. It was just her mind playing tricks on her. If she pretended she didn’t hear them, maybe they would go away, whatever “they” were. She flipped it back to the football game, but the game flickered on the screen before returning to Mysteries of the Unexplained. Had she pressed the number in error? She tried again, but the scene didn’t change. A man with a suitably creepy voice spouted nonsense about ghosts. She dropped the remote control as if it was a live sample of the Ebola virus.
Giggles erupted in the kitchen, and she heard whispering. Goosebumps skittered along her skin. Ruthlessly, she smothered the reaction, grabbed a poker from the fireplace, and crept toward the kitchen. Cold air swirled through the house, and the backdoor slammed with a bang. Just as she suspected it would be, the kitchen was empty when she entered. Her gaze studied the room, inspecting every inch. Not a trace of another human lurked in the room, but one of the cupboard doors stood open, and a small muddy handprint marked the otherwise clean surface of the back door. When she finally glanced at the window, the imprint of a face stared back at her.