She made it to her feet, unclenching her hands, and listened.
Nothing. No whispers. No voice. Silence.
There had never been any sounds coming from the closet, she reminded herself. Only the misfiring of neurons in her mind caused by a gene handed down to her from a man long dead. She was sick, like her father had been. Then why is it still so dark in the closet? The voice in her mind sounded like her own, a sharp edge of fear in it.
Clare stepped forward, peering deeper into the depths. Conscious of the fact she was sidling up to the doorway as if it were a thousand-foot drop, she leaned forward but still couldn’t make out any of the familiar objects.
You’re being foolish, she thought. You didn’t hear anything and it’s just dark inside the closet. Nothing more. Turn on the light.
She reached out to flip the switch positioned on the interior of the wall before she could second-guess herself.
Something moved inside the closet.
She yanked her hand back as a quiet sliding sound met her ears, followed by a furtive thump.
A waft of damp earth drifted past her and was gone.
Exhaling hard through clenched teeth, Clare lunged forward and swung her arm around the doorjamb into the inky pool, hand fumbling for the switch and knowing any second something would latch onto her wrist and drag her forward.
Her fingers caught on the switch, flipped it up. Light bloomed in the closet.
Blankets folded neatly on shelves. Plastic tubs stacked in one corner. And one of her skis tipped over against the right wall.
The front door swung open, triggering a warning from the security system, and this time she did scream.
Chapter Nine
They sat on the porch, Clare’s coffee refreshed and overly diluted with whiskey she’d sloshed into it before coming outside.
The air was cool and carried the first scent of winter’s intentions. Gulls wheeled and called to one another. A horn honked on the road bordering their neighborhood. Clare glanced around at the surrounding houses for the third time, half expecting one of their occupants to be standing outside with a concerned look. But no one seemed to have heard the drama unfolding in their home, and the tranquil Sunday morning on the street rolled on undisturbed.
When she’d cried out Eric had come running, not bothering to turn off the alarm. By the time she’d convinced him she wasn’t in mortal danger, the system had gone into full crisis mode. Both of their phones lit up with calls from the security company alerting them of a breach, and it had taken several minutes of answering security questions before everything grew quiet again.
Eric glanced around the cul-de-sac. He was still in his running gear and the rings of sweat circling his neck and underarms were beginning to fade in the crisp air. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked for the third time.
“Yeah. One of the skis fell over in the closet as I was walking by and it startled me.” She didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. It would only frighten him in turn, reopen the door she was attempting to close on what happened. She could still feel the remnants of fear in her system, like a drug slowly metabolizing. The fact that there’d been nothing in the closet was only slightly less troubling than knowing it had all been in her head.
“Have you been feeling okay?” Eric asked slowly.
She nodded, taking another deep drink of the spiked coffee. The alcohol was doing its work and some of the surrealness of the closet had faded slightly. “Yeah, fine.”
“Because you can tell me, you know? If you’re struggling, I wanna help.”
She favored him with a weak smile. “I know.”
He watched her a moment longer. “Are you hungry?”
Not in the slightest. “Sure, I could eat.”
“I’ll whip up an omelet.” He stood and made it to the door before stopping with one hand on the knob. “It’s really all it was? You were startled?”
She could tell he knew there was more; they’d been together too long for him not to. “Yeah. It’s the last few days all building up, I think. I’m fine.”
He bit his lower lip, frowning. “You know I’ll take care of you. No matter what.”
“I know.”
“Okay. Need any more coffee with your whiskey?”
She smiled. “No. I’m good.”
He disappeared through the door and she was alone.
The normalcy of the neighborhood was a comfort, the way the ocean looked beyond the sprawl of land below soothing. She knew she was safe, yet knowing did nothing to assuage the tension continuing to ratchet tighter in her mind.
There was something wrong.
Almost certainly in her head. She’d experienced panic attacks that left her reeling, unable to cope with the most simple and mundane tasks. At one point in her life it had taken almost a half hour of ritualistic counting before she could leave the house feeling like doom wouldn’t befall her and everyone she knew.
And yet she’d never felt like this before. Like something was looming on the horizon. Something terrible coming straight for her she couldn’t avoid even if she tried. She guessed it was the revelation of inherited psychosis. And as much as being diagnosed with schizophrenia terrified her, there was treatment. She had a support system, people who loved her. There was hope. But beneath the worry there was a deeper fear she couldn’t name.
The memory she’d experienced in the hall returned to her. She’d always been able to recall the occasion when she’d ventured down into the basement in search of her father, but this time the recollection had taken on a new clarity. She could still hear her father’s voice and smell the kerosene. See the yawning opening in the floor like a miniature grave.
She gulped the remainder of her drink, willing the liquor to burn away the memory before she could analyze the most disturbing part. But it was too late.
The other voice beneath her father’s murmured in the back of her mind—words bitten and raw as if the mouth and tongue speaking them was ill-formed.
She rose from the chair, pacing to the railing, unwilling to allow the memory any credence. It had been nearly twenty years ago—she’d been thirteen and terrified. The details of what happened couldn’t be trusted. She’d been a witness to her father’s unfiltered insanity and at best heard an echo, at worst imagined the second voice.
Her phone rang, jarring her from the discordant reverie. When she drew it from her pocket the number was unknown and she hit the decline button. Damn robocalls—the only thing worse than losing your sanity.
She laughed from exhaustion and the darkness of her mood. The door opened behind her and Eric leaned out. “Breakfast is served, madam.”
Inside, the smell of sautéed onions and chives along with buttered toast nudged her appetite. As they sat at the table her cell chirped notice of a voicemail and she opened the phone app, staring at the unknown number. She was about to delete it but on a whim hit play, holding the phone to her ear as she cut into the omelet.
There was a pause on the recording as if the caller were gathering themselves, then a gravelly voice spoke. “Ms. Murdock, this is Reginald Hughes from the Cairn County Sheriff’s Department. I’m calling in regard to a situation we have here and hope you can help us out.” At the mention of the county’s name her hand trembled and she set her fork down. Eric paused in eating across the table, watching her face intently. “Please call us back at your earliest convenience.” Hughes paused after reciting a phone number. “It’s very important,” he said, and the message ended.