Page 8 of We Live Here Now

The room is a bleak, cold space, void of anythinggood. As I stand there, my legs trembling under me, my bladder suddenly full, I’m too afraid to move. It’s as if the essence of every terrible event that has ever happened has been trapped inside this one room. Has gestated here, isstillgestating new horrors here.

I can’t breathe, and I don’t want to breathe in case the stench of it—because surely something this wicked must have some stench—eats into me like maggots on a corpse and I’ll have to carry it with me forever.

Something bad happened in here. Someone died in here.

I step backward, out of the room, and the temperature rises several degrees against my goosebumped skin as my heart pounds, the room stretching endlessly in front of me, that oval window mocking like a black eye glinting wickedness, malevolent and with purpose, and then suddenly something israt-a-tattingon the outside glass and I let out a small shriek, sure my heart is going to explode.

Only the screeching caw and its large beak tapping again at the window before flying away makes me realize it’s the raven, not some otherworldly creature, and I quickly yank the door shut. But not before a waft of cold air steals out after me. I look around, halfexpecting something—whatever was scratching—to physically manifest, grotesque, in a corner.

My fear of the room overwhelms my fear of the stairs and, clutching at the banister with both hands, I come down sideways like a crab, one foot at a time, looking backward more than forward, afraid I might see a thick, sticky black smog determined to rot my insides creeping down after me.What happened in that room? What is in that room?

“Why did you open the window?”

I startle when I see Freddie, irritated, standing on the landing as I round the corner, and then almost laugh with relief. He doesn’t wait for me to answer before he speaks again. “You know I was cold.”

I look up, confused. The lower half of the sash window has been pulled up, wide open. Freddie yanks it down and screws the latch tight. “And now this place is an icebox.”

“I haven’t touched it. I heard something upstairs and went to look, that’s all.”

“It didn’t open itself,” he mutters, shivering. “It must have been you. Maybe you were half asleep. And there’s nothing upstairs. The rooms are all empty.”

I open my mouth to protest, to tell him how horrible it felt in the room, but he’s obviously annoyed and tired so instead I say nothing. He yawns.

“God, I need more sleep.” He heads to the bathroom, leaving the door open, and calls out while he pees, “We’ve got to get everything ready tomorrow. They’ll probably arrive early on Saturday.”

I stare at the window. Was it open when I got up? Suddenly I don’t remember, unsure of myself. I don’t think it was, but I wasn’t looking. But surely I wouldn’t have been sweating in bed if the freezing night air had been swirling through the house.

On the other hand, if the windowwasopen, then I could havebeen hearing noises from outside, not upstairs. Maybe that was why it felt colder in that third-floor room? Maybe.

The window wasn’t open though, a little voice whispers in my head as I pull the duvet up over me.You know it wasn’t. Not when you went upstairs. So then who opened it? Or what?

I stare at Freddie’s back, wishing I could tell him that the house is freaking me out a bit. I wish I felt closer to him. I wish I’d felt closer to him back then. I wish I hadn’t done what I did. I’m the reason we’re struggling to be normal. Hiding this guilt. Guilt I’ll have to hide forever.

But what could I say now? I’m sorry I was such a bitch when we were on holiday, but I’d drunkenly cheated on you with my boss because I wanted that promotion so badly, and if that guilt wasn’t enough, I’d just found out I was pregnant and didn’t know if it was yours, and I wasn’t even really sure I wantedyouanymore?

God, this is such a mess. And all my own making.

As I roll away to face the wall, I touch my flat stomach and feel another stab of hollow pain. The baby died in the fall. My punishment, I’m sure. I’d been drinking when I shouldn’t have been, trying to convince myself that getting rid of the baby would be for the best, even though I knew I never could, the little life already gripping me like a small tight fist. And then, with one stumble, it was gone.

Freddie thinks we lostourbaby. But whoever the father was, the baby I lost was mine. And it was all my fault.

12

Emily

“Everyone should have a second Christmas in the middle of January,” Cat says as she opens up another box of books. “It’s such a miserable month.” She looks at me, trails of dark hair escaping her ponytail, over a handful of paperbacks. “But preferably without you scaring the shit out of us and nearly dying first.”

“My hiking days are over. Not that I really liked it in the first place.” I slide some cookery books into a space on the shelf and sip my red wine, nicely warm from the glow of the fire. While a January Christmas might be ridiculous, it’s good to have some fun. It’s been a busy day or so getting things ready—to be fair, Freddie did most of it while I directed him—and with no more strange sounds or feelings, any misgivings I’ve had about something odd in the house have almost faded away. “I only ever went hiking because Freddie wanted to.”

“I remember. I was surprised you went that day at all because you both were in such shitty moods. Hangovers, I guess.”

“Something like that.”

She looks up, curious. “Had you been fighting?” Nothing gets past Cat.

“Not really. Just been in a bit of a bad patch. You know how it is. It’s better now though, obviously. A coma will do that.”

“Maybe next time don’t go for such an extreme solution.” She smiles at me. “But seriously. I’m glad you’re better. Relationships can take work, but we all know it’s worth it. Marriage is teamwork, after all.”

---