Rebecca Jones-Howe

Copyright © 2020 by Rebecca Jones-Howe

All rights reserved. This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Annie sent the invitations out before the pandemic. The wedding had been set for for the end of May but Annie managed to get a few the vendor deposits back without Chris noticing. A month passed in quarantine. Then Chris got himself wasted and called Annie a cunt for the very last time. She called her mom for help, though her mother lived out of town and had little to offer.

“What if you stayed with your Uncle David?” she suggested.

Annie hadn’t seen Uncle David in a while. He still lived in his partially-restored heritage house downtown. Built in 1910, its dilapidated siding peeled in slivers of deep red. Its stained glass windows revealed only darkness inside. Uncle David had aged as well, sporting a beard that matched his greying dark hair. He helped Annie load what little possessions she carried from her old life into her new normal, which was the furnished room located of the house’s main floor.

Annie lifted her duffel bag onto the mahogany bed.

“We never got to renovating this room,” Uncle David said, running his finger down the pale blue walls, the paint slathered thick and uneven. “Eliza wanted it to be her glass studio.”

Annie peered through the yellowed lace curtain at the overgrown rose bushes outside. “I’m just glad I had a place to stay,” she said. “With family.”

Distant family. Removed family. Annie’s connection to Uncle David ultimately died with Aunt Eliza, who ran her car into a highway meridian two years before. Just the mention of her was enough to break Uncle David’s focus. He nodded and stared at the floor, lifted his thumb to his teeth and bit down on the nail. “Emily’s here too, you know.”

“Oh,” Annie said. “Mom never told me.”

“Nobody knows,” he said. “I pulled her out of rehab.”

Annie swallowed. “Is she any better?”

“Not really.” He dropped his hand, burying his thumb into his palm, making a fist. “Some days she’s better. She got a job at the grocery store. It’s only part-time but it keeps her busy.”

“I haven’t seen her in, well—” Since the funeral, Annie thought, but she wasn’t about to mention the change that Aunt Eliza’s death had brought upon Emily. She’d adopted her mother’s collection of vintage clothes, penned her eyebrows black and perfected her mother’s ability to abuse a bottle.

“She’s spends most of her time up in her room,” Uncle David said. “My room’s upstairs too but you really don’t have any need to go up there.” He nodded down the darkened hallway to the right. “There’s a full bathroom right here. It’s renovated. You’ll like the bath. It’s a clawfoot. Eliza found it at an estate sale once.”

“I’m really grateful,” Annie said.

Uncle David smiled. “It’d be nice if it were under different circumstances.”

“It’s fine,” she said, but the unease still settled between them. The silence lingered for too long and Annie took it upon herself to step forward, to open her arms for an embrace. It was important, now more than ever, to maintain a positive focus. She was grateful for an opportunity to leave, grateful for him, for family.

He hugged her back, arms over her shoulders, holding her in place for just a moment before letting go.

In the morning, Annie found the wedding invitation still posted on Uncle David’s fridge.

She lifted the magnet to pry it off and the RSVP card slipped onto the floor. Annie’s mother insisted on sending it out of courtesy. Acknowledgement. Kindness. Love.

She tossed the card at the recycling bin before making herself an espresso. The groan of the machine vibrated through the main floor’s open layout. Its original walls had been taken down, allowing the stained-glass windows to cast a spectrum of light across the antique rug on the floor.

Between the living room and the kitchen stood a pool table, which Uncle David probably indulged in post-divorce. The kitchen stood finished in white farmhouse-style cabinets. Annie placed her computer on top of the black onyx countertop and pulled up a stool.

I’m grateful to have a place where I can safely work from home.

Her keystrokes echoed in the open space. It wasn’t a comforting echo, but Annie posted her daily piece of gratitude to her Facebook profile as a means of instilling the new normal. Making it comfortable. Making it hers and hers alone.

Uncle David walked the floor above, back and forth, the floorboards creaking. On the phone, probably. Work, probably. He said he had a little office in his room, a desk and a chair where he could work his public cases from home. His steps creaked slow, calm, steady.

Plotting steps.

Annie hesitated, watching the ceiling. None of the second floor was renovated. Construction supplies still sat under faded tarps in the backyard and the uneven blue paint still remained on what little she could see of the landing at the top of the stairs.

The front door creaked open and Emily stepped inside, her hair longer, messier, her lips darker, bold and vampiric like the exterior walls of the house. She wore one of her mother’s old fur stoles, which she draped carelessly over the coat rack before digging the paper bag-wrapped bottle out of her purse. “Hey.”

Annie smiled. “It’s been a while.”

“It has.” Emily smiled back, her expression wiser but worse for wear. She bit her thumb just like her father, obviously thinking of the Clark family reunion that took place subsequently after Aunt Eliza’s death, wherein Emily pointed fingers over the campfire and called her own father an abusive misogynist piece of shit. “So you left Chris,” she said.

Annie nodded.

“That’s good. I always thought he was an asshole.”

“It took a while to get up the courage.” Annie forced herself to laugh. “The whole pandemic thing helped. Some of the vendors cancelled. Some wouldn’t reschedule. Chris wanted to elope.”

“Fuck that,” Emily said.

“I thought the same thing.”

Emily nodded and glanced up the stairs where the creaking persisted.

“Your dad said you got a job,” Annie said.

“Yeah, I needed the money. They’re paying an extra two bucks an hour. Hazard pay. It’s okay. It’s just good to be out of there.”

“Like a small family reunion,” Annie said.

“In a way, I guess.” Emily pulled out her new bottle of vodka, burying the wedding invitation with the paper bag. “I’m going to head up.”

“Okay,” Annie said. “We’ll talk soon, okay?”

Emily nodded, her footsteps heavy. She banged the bottled between the balusters as she made her way upstairs.

I’m grateful for a fresh start.

A fog hung over the streets outside. Grey pressed against windows, dulling Annie’s view of the overgrown garden in the backyard. The espresso machine growled, brewing Annie’s second drink of the morning. Sounds creaked above her and Annie turned to the stairwell where Uncle David emerged, carrying a banker’s box. He smiled and placed it on the pool table before brushing the dust off his slacks.

“Just clearing out some of Emily’s things before heading to work.”

“You’re not working from home?” Annie asked.

“Nobody else is at the office. It’s quieter and all the client files are there.” He went to the machine to fill his Thermos with coffee.

Annie leaned over the table, glancing inside the box which held several stacks of old V.C. Andrews paperbacks. She flushed and smiled, remembering the reunions of her teens, all that time spent consuming the incestuous prose on the beach. Emily used to be obsessed. She used to read passages aloud, her voice registering in the open space. Annie dug into the box and pulled out a copy of Midnight Whispers.

“You want them?” Uncle David asked.

Annie shook her head. “Emily brought home alcohol last night.”

“She’s been doing it a while,” he said. “She thinks that I don’t know.”

“Is she okay, though?”

“She’s quiet in her room. She sorts through things in the spare room and tells me what to throw away.” He motioned at the box, twisting the lid onto the Thermos. “I try to talk to her. She never wants to. But she’s home,” he said again. “It’s better than it was.”

Annie held her breath instead of persisting, because it was already evident that the old Emily wouldn’t come back. She wouldn’t change under Eliza’s influence. Eliza’s spell.

“I offered to spend some time with her,” Annie tried.

Uncle David carried the box to the front door, burying his feet in his loafers. “We’ll spend some time together this week. We’ll cook. We’ll talk more, okay?”

“Sure,” Annie said. She forced a smile has the door closed, is shadow blacking behind the stained glass like a withered rose.

I’m thankful for fresh starts, Annie wrote. She found herself clicking over to Chris’ profile not long after. He’d changed his profile photo, from a portrait of he and Annie to a selfie of himself drinking a beer. She straightened in the barstool, trying to soothe the ache that weighted over her shoulders.

Uncle David had gone to the office again, leaving Annie alone yet again, though it wasn’t long before a black shadow emerged in the stained glass door. Emily stumbled over the doorway, her satchel slipping all the way off her shoulder, thudding against the hardwood floor.

“Oh shit!” A man followed behind her, his gait the same. He stumbled over her, laughing with relief when he looked inside the satchel to find that the bottle inside wasn’t broken.

“This is Tony,” Emily said.

“We’re not supposed to have outside people come into the house,” Annie said.
Emily shrugged. “Dad won’t mind. He let you stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere else, though.”

Emily headed for the stairwell, pulling Tony along with her. “You really shouldn’t have come here.”

Annie gawked. “Why?”

“You know why,” Emily said.

Annie exhaled, her spine curving again, her shoulders tight. “Your dad’s been really helpful.”

Tony pointed. “Who is she?”

“She’s my cousin,” Emily said. “She just left her piece of shit abusive fiance.”

“For your dad?” Tony asked, lips sneering.

Emily grabbed his elbow and pulled him the rest of the way up the stairs.

Annie willed herself off the barstool. She tiptoed across the floor and peered upstairs at the thick coats of blue paint. She drifted beyond the house rules, the steps creaking beneath her ascent.

“What are you doing, Annie?” Uncle David asked, easing the door closed with his foot.

“Emily brought somebody home.”

He set down the groceries and shrugged out of his coat. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Are you okay with strangers coming in here?”

He hung up his coat over one of Eliza’s vintage furs. “They went straight upstairs, didn’t they? They always do. Come and help me sanitize the groceries.”

Annie glanced up at the darkness.

“You’re safe down here, Annie. I promise.”

She looked down at her uncle, trying to find a little comfort in his expression as she descended all the steps she’d made.

Annie’s phone rang in the middle of the night.

“Please come home,” Chris pleaded, his voice sloppy. “I hate sleeping without you.”

“I can’t,” Annie said. “I’m done, Chris.”

“No, you’re not.”

She hung up but the phone rang a second time. Then a third. She blocked his number, replacing his desperation with the footsteps above her. She imagined Uncle David awake, walking back and forth across the room. She tried to imagine the reliable pace as a pattern, something to focus on. It only kept her heart racing, her limbs rigid, ready for anything.

She opened Facebook, the glow of the screen casting glare against the window and all the threats outside.

I’m grateful for a sense of calm, she wrote, hesitating before pressing Post.

Uncle David showed Annie how to make a decent broccoli beef stir fry. They ate over the kitchen counter, a lit candle placed between them to add some warmth to the rainy day outside.

“If there’s anything you need, just let me know. And I’m not just talking about groceries,” Uncle David said, stabbing at a slice of beef with his fork. “If it comes to you needing an attorney, I can refer you to one at the office—”

“It’s not that bad,” Annie said. She poked at the broccoli, her shoulders still tight from the night before. “Chris called last night but he was drunk.”

“What did he say?”

She shrugged. “Guys who get dumped always say the same thing.”

Uncle David placed his fork on the plate, trading his next bite for the hangnail on his right thumb. He chewed until a car pulled up outside, its throbbing bass stereo shaking the delicate stained glass. The front door creaked open and Emily swayed inside to the beat of the fading music, pulling off her wide-brimmed hat before closing the door.

A gust of wind slipped through the house, whipping at the candle between Annie and Uncle David. Its flame flickered and Emily narrowed her gaze at the unease.

“Don’t fuck my dad, Annie,” she said.

Uncle David hammered his fist over the black counter. His fork slipped off the plate.

Emily heaved a laugh before heading up the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” Uncle David muttered. “I’m, I’m really sorry about her.”

Heavy creaks sounded in response, the house settling. Annie’s throat tightened. Her lungs ached as Uncle David picked up his fork again. The flame calmed itself as they ate in silence.

I’m grateful for a routine without guilt.

Working from home held no rules, and so Annie closed her computer and poured a glass of red wine. She ran herself a bath and lay back in the embrace of the clawfoot tub, imaging Aunt Eliza in her place as the rain pattered against the window beside her.

Annie placed the wine glass on the wicker chair beside tub’s edge. She remembered buying it at an antique shop with her mother, once a birthday gift for Aunt Eliza. She reached out and scratched at the soap scum on the edge of the wood, a little relic of bath’s once taken.

Her phone chimed. Her mother sent a screenshot of Chris’ latest status update. He’d posted one of their engagement photos, the one where he held Annie in a soft embrace, her ringed hand draped over his shoulder, hanging on as though for dear life. Posed and fake and cheesy.

This woman is the best thing that ever happened to me. She is my life, my EVERYTHING. I’d be nothing without her. I need her. She makes me a better man.

Annie drank a mouthful of the wine, imagining the red settling in the crevices of her teeth. She leaned back, letting her face slip beneath the warmth of the water. Water filled her ears, the hammering rain like white noise against the stained glass.

He doesn’t love you. He called you a cunt.

She appreciated it, the lack of guilt.

Then she rose to breathe. Water dripped off her nose and her chin, trickled off the coiled ends of her hair. She reached for her phone again, taking notice of the shadow that lingered beneath the bathroom door.

“Uncle David?” The floor creaked and Annie took another swig of her wine. “Emily?”

The shadow moved closer, listening as the water dripped. There were no creaks from upstairs, not like normal. Annie climbed out of the tub and reached for her robe. Water trickled over the tiled floor, sounding frantic like her breaths as she tied the sash around her waist.

“Emily, please don’t mess with me, okay?”

The door rattled, gently, like a hand was pressed against it, fingers padding over the wood. It wasn’t Emily, couldn’t be Emily. Emily liked to laugh.

All that lingered on the other side of the door was a feeling, a foreboding cold that kept Annie locked in the room. She turned her head to the window, more cut glass roses, each petal pieced together by her aunt. Annie dragged the wicker chair and climbed up. She slid the pane up and wrestled herself through the opening.

Barefoot on the veranda, she pulled the robe tight around her frame. Rain pounded around the house, pocking her skin with goosebumps. She coiled her hair over her shoulder and twisted the water out, shivering in her panic before peeking back in through the window where the shadow still stood. The doorknob turned, rattling against the lock.

Annie rounded the house to the front door and squinted through the foggy glass. The window darkened, its rose turning black from the inside.

A hand touched her shoulder. “Annie, what the hell are you doing out there?”

She cried out, shaking. Uncle David tried to calm her but she squirmed out of his arms.

“Come inside before you freeze,” he said, unlocking the door.

He pushed it back to the house’s empty blue interior. “Come in, Annie. It’s okay.”

She shook her head, glancing out at the rainy street before sloping back against the house’s weathered red siding. Her shivers cut at her chest and her sobs fogged in the cold. Uncle David touched her shoulder again.

“Is it haunted?” she asked.

“What?”

“The house. There was something, someone at the bathroom door.”

Uncle David turned his head toward the hall.

“I swear I felt it,” Annie said, but Uncle David only leaned in closer, his expression changing. She knew that he could smell the wine on her breath.

“It’s not haunted,” he said, his hand braced over the wet fabric of her robe. “I’ve never felt anything but comfort here. Okay?”

Annie nodded.

“You’re just scared,” he said. “I don’t blame you. Not at all.”

She followed his guidance back into the house. He closed the door. Locked it. He turned the light on and her gaze went right for the top of the stairwell, where she was sure the shadows moved.

Movement woke Annie. Creaks. Cries.

She ventured into the hallway, her toes curled over the rough cracks between the floorboards. Emily appeared in the stairwell, dressed in a black peignoir set. Her steps hindered with alcohol, she wavered through the living room and caught her foot on the edge of the rug.

Fabric tore, echoing in the open space. “Oh fuck.” She drew a breath, gathering the fabric of the gown before stumbling into the kitchen for the last of the wine.

“Hey,” Annie whispered.

Emily yelped, the bottle shifting in her grasp. She clutched it tight, her voice breaking as she lifted the long skirt to show Annie the tear in the lace. “I ripped Mom’s nightgown.”

“I know you miss her,” Annie tried.

“She should have left him earlier,” Emily said. “Dad kept saying he’d change but that’s always bullshit, right? They never mean it.”

“No, they don’t.”

Emily took a long swig and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “I know you’re smart, Annie, but you can’t stay here and you shouldn’t be spending time with him.”

Annie lingered, gripping at the onyx counter, clinging over its cold surface for support.

“He does shitty things when he’s sad,” Emily said. She took another swig and lost her balance, her elbow knocking against the black counter. The bottle bashed against her lip. “Fucking shit.”

Annie reached out to help but Emily waved her back, gathering the skirt of the gown as she made her way back down the hallway. Her breaths echoed up the stairs. A door creaked open at the top. Light cut across the shadows and Annie knelt on the steps, watching as Uncle David’s figure appeared.

“Emily, what are you doing?”

Her voice cracked. “I just want Mom’s other robe.”

Uncle David sighed. He reached for her but she lashed out with the bottle, the wine sloshing inside the glass. “Emily, calm down,” he said. “Your lip’s bleeding.”

She struck again but he grabbed at her arm and twisted the bottle from her grasp. The glass crashed against the wall and shattered on the floor. Red over blue.

“Let me go!” Emily cried. She sobbed harder but Uncle David held firm, dragging her back down the hall toward her room.

“You’re drunk again,” he said. “You’re a mess.”

Emily’s cries faded as he closed the door. He made his way back down the hall, leaving the spilt wine and the shattered glass. Annie ventured up the next step to see around the corner of the landing, but her foot slipped behind her.

“Oh, come on, Emily!” Uncle David said.

Annie fell back, the steps creaking in her descent. She darted across the open floor and hid beneath the pool table just as his figure leaned over the stairwell banister.

“Annie?” His voice softened. “Annie, is that you?”

Annie covered her mouth. She held her breath, watching as Uncle David eased, his shoulders dropping. He bit his thumbnail and before turning back upstairs.

I’m grateful for quiet time.

Annie’s mother liked the status update, but fewer people responded to her practise of positivity now, nearly two weeks after the separation went public. She opened up her spreadsheets and worked until Emily came home.

She stood straight, sober but with a new paper bag. She wore a black crochet cardigan over her grocery store uniform, the pale blue shirt still poking through the loose stitches. It brightened her face, highlighted the flushed pink of her cheeks. She walked into the kitchen and set the new bottle down on the counter.

“You want to share some vodka?”

“I’m still working right now,” Annie said.

“You’ve got Facebook open,” Emily said, glancing at the computer screen while getting herself a glass. She bounced on her toes, her steps unburdened and her face brimming. She plucked a glass out of the cupboard and smiled.

Annie lowered her computer screen. “Just one, okay?”

Emily poured the vodka over ice, which clinked against the crystal as they each raised their glasses.

“To cousins and memories and female bonds,” Emily said.

The vodka warmed their cheeks like campfire.

“Remember when your mom got us drunk that first time?” Annie asked.

“That wasn’t my first time,” Emily said, her lips curving, already wrestled loose.

Annie forced herself to swallow. “I’m sorry about your robe last night.”

“What?”

“You ripped your robe when you came downstairs.”

“Oh, yeah. I noticed that this morning. All I remember about last night is Dad dragging me back into my room, honestly.” She didn’t look up again, just swished the vodka in the glass while holding her smile.

“Look,” Annie said, “I’m not doing anything him, if that’s really what you thought.”

“He’s not even a blood relative,” Emily said, shrugging. “You could fuck him if you wanted, pretend it’s like V.C. Andrews.” She finished her drink and poured a second. She chugged back the alcohol and laughed.

“What happened to you?” Annie asked.

“The same thing that happened to her.” She picked at the flap of torn skin beside her thumbnail, but she lifted her glass instead of biting it.

“Why’d you even come back here?”

“I wanted to be closer to her,” Emily said. “She has her own room upstairs. I borrow her clothes.”

Annie stared at the black cardigan, the hangnail catching in the yarn. “Do you ever feel like she’s here?”

Emily shifted. “Dad put her ashes in his urn she would have hated.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s this bullshit modernist wooden cube thing,” Emily said. “I want to get her a proper one. I want to get her out of here and put her in the ocean like she wanted.”

Annie sipped at her diluted vodka. The glass formed a ring of condensation on the counter.

“You should come with me,” Emily said.

“Where?” Annie asked.

Emily shrugged. “Tony’s trying to help me find a place in Vancouver. Doesn’t matter what it looks like, really. It’ll still be better than here.”

“But, the pandemic—”

“It didn’t stop you from moving away from Chris, did it?” Emily asked. “You can move again and you really should move away from here.”

Annie stared at the ceiling of her room, the creaking above her head replaced with a heavy fist that pounded on the front door. Hard. Angry. The sound of the man she almost married.

“Annie, I know you’re there!” Chris yelled. “Your car’s on the street!”

She climbed out of bed and lingered in the hallway. Her reflection froze in the door. Chris pounded again. Yelled again. Annie winced but forced herself forward. She turned the deadbolt and Chris stumbled in the threshold, heaving breaths.

“I’m not coming back,” she told him.

“You have to give me another chance!” He slapped his hand against the glass, taking a step into the house.

“Nobody’s going to come to the wedding,” she said, pushing her weight over the door. “This whole pandemic is a sign more than anything—”

He shoved her back, elbowing his way through the threshold, knocking the coat rack aside. Weighed by the vintage coats, its landing fell muted over the hardwood floor. Chris grunted and reached for Annie’s arm.

“Get the fuck out!” she screamed. “This isn’t your house!”

“It’s not yours, either!” he snapped. “You have your own home and your own life and your own fucking bed where you should be sleeping!” The anger shifted through his jawline. His lips pulled back. His neck tensed. “This whole thing is stupid,” he said. “I apologized for calling you a cunt. I always fucking apologize when I do something wrong!”

“I don’t care,” Annie said.

Chris lunged forward, reaching for the red floral fabric of her robe. She darted for the stairwell and he swiped at her sleeve and yanked her back around.

“You still love me,” he sneered. “I know you still care. Nobody just up and leaves like that.” His whiskey breath reached her face but then the upstairs light flicked on and Uncle David stood in the stairwell.

Chris staggered backward and blinked, shielding his eyes from the glare.

“Go to your room, Annie,” Uncle David said.

“It’s fine,” she gasped. “I’m okay.”

“Get into your room,” he said.

Chris backed onto the doormat but Uncle David rushed down the steps, grabbing the back of his jacket before he could run. Chris trashed. He threw a punch but
Uncle David seized his elbow.

Annie gasped, backing into the dark of the hall, hearing a whisper, a warning.

Leave now.

“I’ll talk to him, Annie,” Uncle David said. “I’ll talk him down.”

“Fucking prick!” Chris yelled.

“Just go to your room,” Uncle David said, leaning his weight over Chris’ drunken form. “Lock your door. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

Annie backed herself into the shadows, her skin going numb as she obeyed.

I’m grateful for the protection of family.

Annie spent the her next workday stalking Chris’ recent activity. He’d changed his profile photo to one of himself drinking a beer. Gone were the desperate updates and any trace of Annie. At night, she scrolled through the tamed Chris in the dark. He posted more than usual. Normal things. Everyday things. The screen of her phone cast shadows in her bedroom but it wasn’t until she heard the knock at the door that she glanced over.

The shadow lingered beneath. It breathed. It knocked again.

“Please stop,” she begged.

The knob jiggled.

No.

Annie moved the covers away and sat up in bed, watching the shadow move. The knob turned and clicked against the lock. Another gentle knock rapped but Annie kept her lips tight and her breath held.

A noise sounded. An echo in the blue walls.

He’s coming.

Leave now.

Annie pressed her hand over her mouth, listening at the footsteps moved above her. She wanted to call for Uncle David, wanted him close, needed his help. Her lungs ached. Her fingers shook. The door shook with her, its heavy mahogany rattling against the metal hinges, a hammering sound driving force like fists.

Uncle David showed Annie how to make vodka sauce from scratch, the crushed tomatoes in the food processor, blended bright red, drizzled over chicken and fuscilli.

Annie typed I’m grateful for second chances before pulling out two of the white china plates from the cupboard. She served dinner with Aunt Eliza’s antique silverware, its lustre lost to years of neglect.

Uncle David pulled a bottle of Merlot and poured two glasses. “This was the first meal I made for Eliza.”

Annie nodded, picking up her fork as Uncle David settled into his chair. He waited for Annie to cut into her chicken, to properly get a taste. She chewed but all she could do was nod, was smile, thinking of all the V.C. Andrews men that Emily laughed about, always stumbling and scary and obsessed with sheer nightgowns.

“She made me take cooking lessons,” he said. “She made me a better man.”

“It’s good,” Annie said, lying because she tasted nothing, could think of nothing other than Chris’ desperate Facebook vows.

The candle flickered and Uncle David stared at the flame. He shifted his thumb over his fork before shifting his jaw. “I did hit her,” he confessed.

Annie reached for her wine.

“It was more than once,” Uncle David said, his voice low. Controlled. “I know that being drunk isn’t an excuse. I know I was wrong. I treated her wrong.” He raised his gaze but lowered it again, prodding the chicken a little before picking up his knife, cutting in. “I don’t expect you to feel any different about me, Annie. I just thought it fair that you hear it from me because I know how Emily talks.”

“She never said anything about what you did.”

He chewed slowly, deliberately. “I wish I could fix it. I wish that being a changed person was enough.”

The wine weighed down Annie’s throat, thick and dark like blood.

“Is it all just words between you and Chris?” he asked. “He never hurt you, did he?”

The wine twisted in her stomach. “Emotional abuse is still abuse, David.” She pushed her plate to the side and tried to swallow. “He did hurt me. He hurt me a lot.”

He nodded, slicing through the chicken, the knife scraping over the plate.
Annie reached for the bottle and poured herself another glass.

The RSVP card waited on the fridge in the morning, clipped back into the place.

The joining in marriage of Christoper Daniel Weston and Anastasia Marion Clark.

Annie glanced at the emptied recycling bin, urged to lift the magnet, to toss the expensive cardstock back into its depths.

Tony’s car stereo blasted out on the street again. A door slammed upstairs and Emily hurried down the steps with a suitcase and a large wicker beach bag. She grabbed what garments she could from the coat rack and shoved them inside as Uncle David’s footsteps followed.

“We’re going to Vancouver, to the ocean,” she said, glaring at Annie. “You should come.”

The techno house music blared outside, shaking the stained glass like church bells.

Annie glanced from Emily’s determined glare to Uncle David’s furrowed brows. “We’re supposed to be in quarantine—”

“What exactly is he to you?” Emily asked, pointing at Uncle David. “Do you really think you’re safe here? Do you really think he’s got your safety in mind?”

Uncle David stood at the top of the steps, his fist gripped over the banister. “Emily, please.”

“Staying here is just prolonging the inevitable,” she said.

The rattling continued, vibrating against the back of Annie’s throat. Emily gripped at the doorknob.

RSVP

“Annie’s not going with you, Em,” Uncle David said. “Go ahead and leave if that’s what you need to do.”

The door slammed. The car revved. The music faded.

Uncle David descended the steps and turned the lock on the door. He walked past Annie, brushing a hand over her shoulder on his way to the espresso machine. “You alright?” he asked.

Annie nodded and turned. “Can you make me one too?”

Uncle David cooked spaghetti sauce for dinner, the fresh basil scent filling the house.

I’m grateful for comfort food, Annie typed, but then a text message appeared from Chris.

I’m NOTHING without you.

Don’t let one drunken word ruin what we have.

Please!

Annie lit the candle on top of the kitchen counter. The flame breathed life, throwing light against the shadow that lingered in the hallway, a ghostly hand reaching out.

Another text chimed.

Stop being a fucking CUNT and answer me!

She held her breath, not wanting to look up, not wanting to see. She stared at the words until her eyes burned and her lungs ached. The phone slipped from the sweaty grip of her palm.

“What’s wrong?” Uncle David came round the counter, prying the phone out of her hand. “I’m sorry, Annie.” He tucked the phone into his shirt pocket and pulled her into his embrace. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. He’s clearly not thinking straight.”

She cried on his shoulder until the food was ready. Served with wine, Annie ate until her appetite faded. She replaced her fork with the glass, her fear with anger. Uncle David watched with unease as she sloped over the table. He tried to help her out of her chair.

“You’re miserable,” he said. “You need some time.”

Leave now.

“Please don’t touch me,” she said, grabbing her phone out of his chest pocket. She carried it with her back to the bedroom, where the glow of Chris’ words kept the shadow at bay.

Annie woke to an empty house, her skull throbbing and the RSVP card still expecting a signature when she went to turn the espresso machine on. She called for Emily, called for Uncle David. She glanced at the ceiling, where the footsteps still creaked back and forth.

Annie opened her computer but the ache of her hangover prevented her from thinking of things to be grateful for. She moved across the floor, glanced up at the darkened stairwell.

The shadow moved out of view.

“What do you want?” she asked.

He’s coming.

Aunt Eliza wasn’t there. Aunt Eliza died in a car accident, drunk and alone.

Annie gripped at the banister, willing herself to take one step at a time, to go where she was told not to.

The hallway narrowed, tight, only three feet wide. To the left stood Emily’s vacated room, the bedsheets pried loose and empty bottles scattered on the nightstand. Next was a cramped bathroom finished in the same sickly blue as the hallway. Uncle David’s room stood open at the end of the hall, clean and tidy and minimal. A photo of he and Aunt Eliza stood on the dresser.

To the right was a closet, followed by the third room, its door closed. Annie felt for the handle, felt the warmth on the metal. She felt the presence waiting on the other end and she swallowed, still tasting the weight of the wine.

She turned the knob. She pushed the door back.

A slot of light pierced her eyes and she squinted at the bars of clothing. Eliza’s clothing, vintage and black, crochet and lace and fur. A trunk sat before her, flipped open and rifled through. Annie stepped into the room, the aroma of the alcohol swelling in her nostrils.

He’s coming.

The urn sat in the middle of the trunk, its bright wood finish so polished and so unlike her.

Eliza. Beloved Wife. Devoted Mother.

An omen. A presence. A foreboding return. Annie felt a hand on her back, willing her out of the room, wanting her gone, but she bent down and picked up the urn. The lid flipped open. Dust dust out, down her arm, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t all of her.

Annie brushed the ashes off, wiped her palms on her jeans, stumbling back on a pile of old coats that Emily had left behind.

He’s coming.

Leave now.

The voice growled in her temples and formed a migraine behind her eyes. She blinked tears and she stumbled out of the room, but not before the door opened at the bottom of the stairs.

“Annie?” Uncle David called. “Annie, are you up there?”

Footsteps ascended, more than one set.

Uncle David rounded the corner landing “I told you not to come up here,” he said. Not angry. Not stern. Just concerned.

“I felt her,” Annie said. “I think Emily took her ashes—”

“It’s okay,” he said, taking her by the arm. “I made a mistake. We all make mistakes.”

He’s coming!

“Don’t be angry with me,” Uncle David said. “I’m just trying to help.” His grasp tightened. Annie writhed but he moved his hands to her elbows, holding her still when a new shadow appeared on the landing.

Not that of Eliza, but of Chris.

He stood, cap in hand, his figure taking over the hallway, his smile forming, his lips curving too high.

Annie shook her head. “No. No, please!” She wrestled out of Uncle David’s hold but she had nowhere to go.

“Give him a chance,” Uncle David said, leaning over her shoulder as Chris approached. “Let him talk. Let him explain.”

Chris smiled harder, his teeth showing. A grin.

“No!”

“You can go back home!” Uncle David said, shaking her. “Just listen to him! Listen to what he has to say! He just wants to make things right.”