A young man has moved into my home. Despite being unaware of my haunting presence, he is helping me discover who I am - and what happened to me.
Excerpt:
“Is this her?” Sybil asks, holding one of the pictures from the mantel.
The doorbell rings and Amy goes to answer as Matt replies, “Yeah, that’s her.”
“She was pretty!”
“Yes, she was.”
All eyes turn toward the speaker and my buoyant mood sinks when I see who Amy has ushered in.
“Guys, this is Matt’s next door neighbor, Charles.”
After a round of greetings, Sybil asks, “You knew her?”
He takes the picture from her, looking at my image with an inscrutable expression. “I did.”
“Could you tell us about her?”
As curious as I am, I have no desire to hear myself described by my killer. Wandering off, I end up at the study. I’ve come here a few times since that night, but still haven’t ventured inside. Occasionally an image will flash before my eyes, brief but potent. Scattered books. A broken lamp. Grasping hands. And always, Charles’ angry face.
I’ve been brooding for a while when familiar footsteps snap me back to the present. What is Charles doing here? He trudges into the study and his stern features relax into… what? He is a very hard man to read.
“I feel you here sometimes.”
Is he talking to me? “I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can…” He takes a deep, ragged breath. “I’m so, so sorry.”
A young man has moved into my home. Despite being unaware of my haunting presence, he is helping me discover who I am - and what happened to me.
Excerpt:
“Is this her?” Sybil asks, holding one of the pictures from the mantel.
The doorbell rings and Amy goes to answer as Matt replies, “Yeah, that’s her.”
“She was pretty!”
“Yes, she was.”
All eyes turn toward the speaker and my buoyant mood sinks when I see who Amy has ushered in.
“Guys, this is Matt’s next door neighbor, Charles.”
After a round of greetings, Sybil asks, “You knew her?”
He takes the picture from her, looking at my image with an inscrutable expression. “I did.”
“Could you tell us about her?”
As curious as I am, I have no desire to hear myself described by my killer. Wandering off, I end up at the study. I’ve come here a few times since that night, but still haven’t ventured inside. Occasionally an image will flash before my eyes, brief but potent. Scattered books. A broken lamp. Grasping hands. And always, Charles’ angry face.
I’ve been brooding for a while when familiar footsteps snap me back to the present. What is Charles doing here? He trudges into the study and his stern features relax into… what? He is a very hard man to read.
“I feel you here sometimes.”
Is he talking to me? “I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can…” He takes a deep, ragged breath. “I’m so, so sorry.”