Where the hell are you, Silas? Tobias isn’t the only one who can perform a séance in this house. He’s acting like some kind of supernatural drug czar, but he’s just some dumbass wannabe who couldn’t get a date back in college.
Now look at him. Look at the power he holds over these people. The absolute sway.
Silas will know what to do. Tobias always listens to Silas. He just has to show up.
“Silas?” No answer.
Marcia’s still asleep in the master bedroom, so that leaves the—nursery —second bedroom down the hall. My tag is still scribbled on the closet wall.
ERIN IS HERE
Is, not was, thank god, only now the black ink has seeped deeper into the plaster. The letters appear fuzzier than before, almost as if the words are spreading, growing on their own.
“Silas, can you hear me?” He should be here by now, shouldn’t he?
I worry my tolerance for Ghost is getting too high. When you take any drug over time, your body chemistry readjusts. How much will I need to take to achieve the same haunting?
Where are you where are you where are you where are—
Maybe I need to take more? Up my dosage?
—you where are you where are you—
The blue veins on the page start to pulse.
Finally. Here we go. I stole a grease pencil the contractors left behind. Closing my eyes, I press the stub against the page and start drawing circles. There’s no need to see. I simply grip the notebook in one hand and let the pencil glide over the blank page in a steady stream of spirals.
I need to shut off my mind and let Silas’s spirit enter. The page quickly fills with a kudzu of loops. When I sense one page is covered, I flip to the next and begin all over again.
Three pages. Now four.
“Take my hand, Silas…Speak to me.” I don’t have Tobias’s newfound eloquence, but I still have my connection to Silas. In college, we would all cram into his dorm room, smoking way too much and mouthing off about Infinite Jest or Gravity’s Rainbow. We’d read our own work. Silas could command the cramped space, his words drifting through the smoke-choked air. He lived within his writing, existing inside his work in a way I never did. He’d call in the dead of night to share a poem, eager for feedback, not even realizing it was two in the morning.
Those moments felt precious; the privilege of listening to something new. I became his editor. Maybe editor is going too far—transcriber? Agent? Benefactor? I typed up his poems and submitted them to publishers. They rejected everything. Rejected him. So I flipped for photocopying expenses, self-publishing a chapbook of his work. We agreed I’d get the money back after he sold out his stock, but Silas ended up giving away most copies to people he met at the bar. I never saw a penny back, but his words were spreading, weren’t they? Isn’t that what actually mattered? Isn’t that what I wanted for him?
I flip to a fifth page, picking the pencil up from the paper long enough to turn to a clean sheet, a record needle skipping through a groove on some vintage vinyl, barely missing a beat.
My wrist locks. I can feel the muscles in my hand contract. I’m no longer on autopilot—someone else is moving my arm.
Silas.
I let him take my hand. The pencil digs deeper into the paper, no longer loopy spirals but tight, jagged strokes. Silas’s voice flows through me now. I can hear him whispering his words into my ear, which I dutifully transcribe onto the page. It feels like we’re writing together. Is this what he wants? To bring his words back to life?
My wrist aches but I can’t stop. If I pull back now, our connection might— Crack! The pencil snaps in half in my hand.
My eyes fly open as if I’ve just woken up. I flip back through the notebook. A rough cursive spreads across the pages, every lacerated letter connecting to the last in a continuous stream. Slowly piecing the words together, I read his message out loud: THERE IS A LIFE WAITING FOR US HERE INSIDE THESE WALLS
JUST GIVE YOURSELF OVER TO OUR HOME TO ME
LET GO ERIN
That’s when I see something on the wall.
ERIN IS HERE SILAS IS HERE
I gasp as the words materialize like black mold, creeping out from the closet and across the wall.
ERIN IS HERE SILAS IS HERE ERIN IS HERE
SILAS IS HERE ERIN IS HERE SILAS IS HERE
I can’t stop myself from laughing. I clap my hands against my mouth, unable to stop. Silas’s correspondence turns the corner, into the hallway. I leap up to my feet and chase after it.
HOME ERIN HOME NOW
He won’t stop writing. I feel giddy as I keep reading, racing after him. He’s using our home to speak to me. His words flow from one room to the next. On the plaster. The wood.
They’re everywhere. He’s everywhere.
I chase him through the house, following his sentences as they scrawl across the hall and slip into the neighboring room, then scale the ceiling and wrap around empty light fixtures.
Who needs a notebook anymore? We have a whole house to write our masterpiece on.
Our home.
STAY WITH ME STAY ERIN STAY
Crying. Why am I crying? I can’t stop myself from crying and laughing all at once, the tears flowing along with the joy, the absolute glee of it all. I’ve never felt so happy in all my life.
I’m running faster now. Faster. Room to room. I can’t stop myself can’t stop from— “Erin!”
I spin around at the sound of my name. It startles me, hearing it out loud. Who said it?
“What’re you doing up there? Sounds like you’re running a marathon.” Now I recognize that voice. Of course I know who it is, but I can’t bring myself to say it out loud—say his name.
“…Erin? Helloooo?”
I tiptoe to the top of the stairs, taking each step slowly, straining to hear. How long has it been since we last spoke? It’s been days, hasn’t it? His voice draws me in, tugging at my skin.
“What’s taking you so long?” It’s him, his words, faint but alive. “Dinner bell’s ringing!”
I swear I hear him humming. What song is that? It’s on the tip of my tongue.
“Is that all there is…”
I take each step slowly, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet.
“If that’s all there is, my friend… Dinner’s growing cold, Erin! Don’t make me eat alone.”
The closer I get, closing in on his voice, as if the song itself is luring me in, the harder I can feel my heartbeat against my chest. I can’t tell if I’m excited or terrified or both. I’m intensely aware of my pulse, feeling it thrum with every step, until I reach the dining room.
“Then let’s keep…”
Candles are lit. The walls are painted a powder pink. I recognize it. I’ve seen it before, but I can’t remember where. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, pendeloques shimmering. If I look for too long at the crystals, a dizzy spell washes over me. The dining room shouldn’t look like this. None of this furniture was here a minute ago.
“There she is.” A silhouette stands on the other side of a mahogany dinner table. Their face is obscured by the chandelier, but when I step into the dining room, I finally find— Silas
—at the head of the table. “I was just about to send out the search party.”
He fills a glass of red wine and hands it to me before pouring his own. I don’t know what to do with myself, simply standing there. Staring. Silas holds up his glass. “To domestic bliss.”
“Domestic bliss,” I echo.
“Eye contact,” he says. “Don’t want bad luck.”
I look into his eyes—his hazel eyes—and lose myself as he taps his glass against mine.
Clink.
“Cheers.” The table is set for two. I take in the meal before me: steak, rosemary-scented roast potatoes, asparagus bundles. “I wanted to surprise you. Our first proper meal in our home.”
This doesn’t feel right. Something about this domestic spread feels…off. I push back, rejecting this on some subconscious level. Is this actually the kind of life I want? With Silas? It seems so, I don’t know, unlike him. So unlike me. And yet…Here we are. The perfect night at home, just the two of us, in our dining room. Who wouldn’t want this life? Who could— just say no
—turn him down?