Making my way through the path, I had every intention of going back upstairs, but something else stopped me. A large notebook sat on top of a tote. The words Calvin’s Guest Book were written in thick black letters on the cover. My fingers grazed over them.
Each page was filled with names and dates. I quickly gathered that the dates were check-in and checkout times, beginning one year ago. I found the last page and ran my finger down it, reading the names. Cristina Colton stuck out because the rest before it were all male names. Then Kayla Whitehead. I remembered Calvin’s words: I don’t really get any female guests. Kayla had been a guest just nine weeks before me. My eyes moved down the page and when I got to the last row I gasped. The words were written neatly with a heart over the letter i. The check-in column had a date. The checkout column didn’t. The final name on the page was Bri Becker. Calvin lied about her. She was here, and according to this guest book . . . she never left.
A car door slammed outside. I jolted and quickly closed the guest book, putting it back where I found it. I ran to the stairs but before I ascended them, I stopped. Something behind the open staircase caught my eye. A folding table sat behind it. Several guns, knives, and bullets were laid out, an arsenal for mayhem. I picked up the small handgun and turned it over and over again. I set it back down, and my fingertips slid over a large hunting knife. The blade was curved, and the handle was wooden. It appeared homemade. I held it, studying it closely. There was a red tint to the edge of the blade as if it weren’t cleaned properly the last time it was used. I backed away from the table with the knife in hand and quickly ran up the stairs, closing and locking the basement door behind me.
I slid the knife and photo under the mattress and crawled into bed. I could feel my heartbeat everywhere in my body—from my feet to the back of my head. I’m not sure how long I laid there. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe twenty. When I didn’t hear footsteps, I sat up and pushed the curtains aside. I nearly screamed when I saw the ghostly figure standing in front of the house, dressed in a long white nightgown. It was dark out, and it took a few seconds to realize it was Betty. She swayed side to side, staring at the house. I considered staying in bed, but I needed to see what she was doing here.
A few moments later, I was standing in front of her. She hadn’t even noticed me. Her eyes were laser-focused on the ranch like she was seeing something that no one else was privy to. I was about to speak when she started to mumble. I stepped closer, trying to hear what it was she was saying.
“The house is evil. It infects everyone,” she said just above a whisper. “Nothing good happens here.”
“Betty, are you okay?”
She didn’t react. She just continued whispering. “You shouldn’t have come here because now I’m not sure you’ll be able to leave.”
“Betty,” I said again, but this time I grabbed her hand.
She flinched and let out a gulp, like all the air had been sucked out of her body. She blinked several times. I must have come into focus for her because she turned her head toward me almost robotically.
“Grace, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I said.” Betty shook her head and took a step back, bringing her hands to her face. She rubbed at it violently like she was trying to wake herself from a bad dream. I was going to tell her to stop but my voice got stuck in my throat. Betty turned and scrambled toward her vehicle.
“Please don’t tell Calvin I was here.”
Before I could clear my throat and ask her what she meant, she was backing her car down the driveway. I stared up at the ranch. It looked different now.
A truck rumbled in the distance. I sprinted back into the house and closed the bedroom door behind me just as the engine shut off outside. When I reached for the lock, it was then that I noticed what Calvin had done. The handle had been installed the wrong way. Instead of locking others out, it would lock me in. It was no longer a bedroom. It was a cage.
Day Nine
42.
Calvin
It was noon and Grace still hadn’t come out of her room. I stood in front of her door three times already, pressing my ear against the wood and listening. It was quiet. I knew she hadn’t left yet because her car was still parked in the driveway with the hood popped up. Joe said he ordered the parts and that one of the guys from the auto shop would be here this evening to fix it. I hoped he wouldn’t show. Albert wasn’t here either. His bedroom door was open, and the bed was made like he hadn’t slept in it last night. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, I filled it with water and chugged the whole thing. I still felt parched, and it seemed like nothing could quench my thirst. Refilling it again, I took a seat at the kitchen table and waited for Grace. My goal was to look nonchalant—like I wasn’t waiting for her—but I’m sure it was plastered all over my face, written in Sharpie: I NEED YOU HERE WITH ME NOW.
Finally, I heard her creaky bedroom door open. Her footsteps were light and then another door closed—the bathroom, I presumed. I considered getting up and waiting outside of it for her but figured that would be too much, so I stayed put. She was already scared and skittish. I unfolded the local newspaper and pretended to read it. The toilet flushed. The faucet ran. You could hear everything in this house. The door opened. Her footsteps were light again but grew louder. Then they stopped suddenly. She was just standing in the hallway, listening. When she appeared in the kitchen, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding in. Cliché, I know. But it’s true. Grace always took my breath away.
She was dressed in a white T-shirt and black leggings. Her hair was pulled up in a high ponytail. Her makeup didn’t cover the dark circles under her eyes.
“Good afternoon,” I said with a smile.
She gave a tight smile back. “Hey.”
Grace walked to the coffee pot, not making eye contact with me. I turned around and watched her pour herself a cup.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She nodded and took a sip. Grace slid a piece of bread into the toaster and collected everything she needed to make peanut butter toast. Her back was to me while she waited for her toast to be done.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
Grace didn’t turn around. She just nodded again. The bread shot out of the toaster like a jack-in-the-box. She jumped a little. Her muscles tensed, and she took a moment to compose herself. Grace pulled the toast out and slathered it with butter and peanut butter. She was acting strange, but could I blame her? Joe really shook her up, and I wondered what he had said. She opted to stand at the counter to eat her toast and drink her coffee, rather than sit with me.
“Betty’s coming over today to replace the drapes,” I said, trying to get her to talk to me.
Grace just stood there, chewing on her toast—not saying a word.
“Joe spent the night in county jail. They’re charging him with arson. He just can’t stay outta trouble. I told him not to come around here no more.” I sipped my water and set the glass back down on the table.