I think of all the things that could have caused that to happen, but I come up empty. That can’t be blamed on a broken hinge, or a faulty appliance, or wind.

I don’t believe in ghosts. This is stupid. Fucking stupid.

Maybe I’m delirious. I woke up at 4:00 a.m. in Tennessee yesterday so I could get us packed for our trip here. I’ve been up almost twenty-four hours now.

That has to be it. I just need sleep. Lots of it.

I crawl into bed, my heart still pounding. I pull the covers over my head like a scared toddler trying to shut out the monsters.

I’ll go find a Best Buy tomorrow. Figure out what’s wrong with my laptop. While I’m there, I’ll buy cameras. Some kind of security system that can be connected to an app on my phone.

From this point forward, anything weird that happens in this house will be recorded.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It’s almost nine in the morning when I wake up. It took me forever to fall asleep last night. I feel like I still have hours of potential sleep left in me, but I want to get up before Layla. The idea of coffee and isolation on the front porch is all I really want right now after last night.

After I get the pot of coffee started, I open the refrigerator to look for the creamer, but I immediately pause when I catch something out of the corner of my eye.

My laptop is sitting on the kitchen table.

I stare at it—afraid to move. Did I dream that last night?

I hate that I immediately begin to question myself. I never get my reality confused with my dreams, but this feels like maybe I have, because I know this laptop was on the floor in the Grand Room last night. I threw it there after it slammed shut on my hands.

Maybe Layla got out of bed after I fell asleep. I don’t know why she’d use my laptop, though. She has her own.

I walk over to the table and take a seat in front of it. I slowly open the laptop and then move my finger over the track pad to wake up the computer. I want to look at the browsing history and see what Layla thought I was up to.

When the computer powers on, the Word document I wrote the lyrics in last night is pulled up. I specifically remember minimizing this document before I opened Google, which means Layla definitely used my computer after I fell asleep.

A sinking feeling settles in my stomach, as I realize Layla read the few lyrics I’ve put into this document. Does she assume they’re about her?

I go to minimize the document, but before I do, I notice in the left-hand corner at the bottom it says there are two pages.

I only wrote four sentences.

I didn’t write anything else that would have created another page in this document.

I scroll down until I get to something on the second page I’m certain I didn’t write. It’s just five words, but it’s enough to make my blood run cold.

I’m sorry I scared you.

I read and reread the words typed into my document no less than twenty times before Layla comes downstairs. As soon as she walks into the kitchen, I say, “Did you use my laptop last night?”

She shoots me a funny look, like that’s a stupid question. “No.” She walks straight to the coffeepot. Her back is to me now, but I’m not sure I believe her.

Does she not like it here? Is she trying to scare me into leaving?

She probably saw my browsing history and is worried I’m buying the house. Maybe it’s not something she wants anymore. But why go to such elaborate lengths to move my laptop and then make me think she didn’t type these five words? Why wouldn’t she just tell me she doesn’t want to live here?

Someone is fucking with me, and since Layla is the only one in this house, it has to be her. But the kicker is, she’s too fragile for me to confront her about it. I’m afraid if I accuse her of lying to me, she’ll feel attacked and she’ll go upstairs and pop another pill and zone out.

I read the words again before closing out the document, but I don’t bring it up to Layla. She either already knows about it and is the one who wrote it, or she’s going to freak out if I tell her someone moved my laptop while we were sleeping.

Neither of those outcomes is okay.

“You need to post something today,” she says. She’s at the coffeepot, stirring Splenda into her cup of coffee. “Maybe a shirtless selfie by the pool,” she says with a wink.

I can’t think about my fucking platform right now. Either I’m sitting across from someone who is trying to manipulate me, or I’m sitting in a house where someone—or something—is fucking with me.

Either way, I need a security system.

I google where I might be able to find one, but the nearest Best Buy is hours from here. The nearest Walmart is sixty-three miles away. Damn, we really are in the middle of fucking nowhere. I could order it online, but that would take a few days before anything is delivered.

“Want to run into town with me?” I ask Layla. “I need a few things.”

She makes a face. “Town? Leeds. There is no town we can run into.”

I close my laptop. “It’s just an hour away. I’ll take you to lunch.”

Layla looks like she’s contemplating it as she sips her coffee. But now that I’m thinking about it, she might question me when I start buying a security system for a house she assumes we’re only staying in for two weeks.

“Or I can go alone,” I say. “It’s fine if you want some alone time.”

She thinks about it for a moment, and then gives me a sheepish look. “Is it okay if I don’t go? I couldn’t sleep last night. I’ll probably just go back to bed for a couple of hours.”

“Yeah, babe. Totally fine.” I kiss her on the forehead before I leave the kitchen. “I’ll be back after lunch. Text me if you need anything.”

THE INTERVIEW

I’m leaning forward with my elbows resting on the table. The talking is becoming less of a nuisance. Maybe because we got past the hardest part.

“Why did you buy a security system?” the man asks. “Why didn’t you just leave?”

I pick at a chipped fingernail. “I have no idea. Maybe because it was the first thing to happen to me in a while that I actually felt.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I was numb inside. Had been for a while. But the things that were happening in the house were as fascinating as they were inexplicable. I didn’t leave, because in some twisted sense . . . I think I was enjoying it.”

“So you stayed out of boredom?”

I think about that for a moment. “Not boredom, really. I had Layla. But I certainly wasn’t scared of whatever was happening. It’s hard to find something threatening that you don’t believe in. I thought the security system was going to explain away everything that had happened.”

“How about now? Do you feel threatened now?”

I think back on all that’s happened since we’ve been here. There have been times I’ve wanted to leave . . . to run from it all. Things have happened that were downright terrifying. But even through it all, I’m resolute in my answer when I say, “No. I don’t feel threatened. I feel sympathetic.”

“That’s usually not the reaction people have in these situations.”

“I know. It’s why I reached out to you, though. It isn’t because I feel threatened. It’s because I want answers.”