Page 36 of We Live Here Now

My leg screams at me to stop but I push onward, the white fire of panic fueling my adrenaline, and I wonder if I can get to Paul’s house before whatever or whoever it is catches me. I hurry down the lane, not caring about cars or even looking out for headlights, little half moans of fear escaping me as I manage some shambles of a run as far away as I can get from Larkin Lodge.

I barely see the figure coming the other way until I collide with him, and I let out a shriek of surprise, almost falling backward, my balance gone. I probably would have crumpled if he hadn’t grabbed my arm and kept me upright.

“Woah there, you nearly gave me a heart attack.” It’s a thick Devonian accent, and as my panic slows and he comes into focus I see a rough but concerned weather-hewn face looking back at me.

“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter, getting my breath back and taking him in. He’s wearing a red fleece and hat and has a bag slung over his shoulder. A postman. “I didn’t see you.”

“Can’t see a thing in this. Worst mist this winter. You need to take care on the lanes. I left the van at the last turn, otherwise I might have knocked you down.”

I apologize again, my heart slowing. I glance behind me but cansee nothing. No monster.But who knows, my rebellious brain whispers.Maybe it’s waiting for you farther back. You can’t run forever.

“Were you coming down to check the postbox?”

It takes a moment before my brain, still focused on what may or may not be chasing me through the fog, recognizes what he’s said.

“What postbox?”

“You’re the new woman at the Lodge, right?”

“Yes, Emily Bennett.”

“You’ve got a mailbox on the lane. Just twenty yards that way. I’m happy to come to the front door, of course, but your husband told me to put the post in there.”

“Oh, of course,” I say breezily, as if I already know this. “I forgot. So much going on in a house move.” Freddie never told me about the postbox. And why would he put himself out when the postman would easily deliver it to the house? I look down at the keys in my hand. “I guess it’s one of these keys to open it?”

My heart’s thumping hard again, but this time with a very real-world fear. A truth in my gut that Freddie’s hiding something from me. And I’m starting to think I might know what it is.

“That small one looks like it. Do you want me to walk you back? It’s right against the wall just up there. Or are you going to carry on with your run?”

“No,” I say with a smile. “No, you’re right. It’s probably not safe in this weather.”

“I’ll keep putting it in the box then?” he asks. “Like your husband said.”

“Yes. Thank you, yes,” I mutter, already walking back the way I came. “That’s great.”

I stand at the open postbox for a long time, staring down at the collection of letters there. I’m aware of the caw of a raven overhead, and then the answering cry of another, and while the breath is knocked out of me from what I’m seeing, a small part of my brain wonders if the raven I released from the house has found a new love.

Maybe I need to find a new love.

My heart is heavy as I turn and head back to the only place I have to go, back home to Larkin Lodge. There are lights on inside—lights I’m sure I didn’t turn on—and now I can see it through the mist from the lane, guiding me back.

Oh, Freddie, I think, once I’m through the front door to find the smell vanished, the house warm, and no awful footsteps sending me running from the house.Oh, Freddie, what have you done?

It’s only later, when my mug of tea is cold and I’m staring at the pieces of paper around me, all the evidence I need, that I realize that if the house hadn’t terrified me so much that I ran out into the lane to collide with the postman, then I’d never know about the postbox and allthis.

Maybe the house wanted me to know.I curl up, hugging a cushion on the sofa, holding it protectively against my stomach.Maybe it was protecting me.There’s no affirmation from the Lodge around me. The other alternative presents itself again—that maybe it’s all in my head—and this time it makes more sense. Maybe Freddie mentioned the postbox to me ages ago and I forgot. Maybe my subconscious drove me out of the house to find my answers. Right now, I don’t even carehowI found out. I lie there, staring at the walls, waiting for Freddie to come home.

47

Emily

I wait for him in the sitting room, choosing the wingback chair in the corner that’s always been more for decoration than use. All I can think is,How could you, Freddie, how could you?I haven’t lit the fire, and with only one lamp on, I’m sitting in the shadows, barely visible, as if I’m a ghost myself. I can hear my heartbeat. The tick of the clock. I don’t look at the walls. I don’t want to see the gray lines on the blue flock wallpaper pulsing like veins. I don’t want to see anythingripplein the corner of my eye. When I’ve dealt with this I will damn well go up to the third floor and put thefind itto rest once and for all. I can’t think about the ethereal right now. The physical world—and my husband—is what’s screwing me over.

“Emily?”

The noise of the front door and a gust of cold air heralds Freddie’s arrival, and my stomach instantly tightens with nerves. I’ve never been good with confrontation. The last time we had any kind of major row was nearly twenty years ago, and it was the same row we’re about to have again. The same subject matter, the same lies, the same weakness.

“Sorry I’m late.” He appears in the doorway and my mouth dries. He looks so normal. As if he hasn’t been lying to me since I woke up in that hospital. As if everything is fine. “Traffic was shit.” He frowns, spotting me in the corner. His eyes narrow, the first hint that he’s realizing something is wrong. “Don’t you want the lights on?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before flicking the switch, flooding the room with brightness.

---