Chapter 3 - The Script of the Stolen Life
I reached out and touched one of the photographs.
It was a photo of me at the Dallas airport, taken only four days ago.
The realization hit me like a physical blow to the stomach.
"She was there," I whispered.
"She wasn't just here in Chicago. She followed me to Texas."
Ethan stepped closer, his shadow stretching long against the basement wall.
"She didn't just follow you, Sarah."
"She was alternating."
"The nights she wasn't here, she was there."
"The nights she wasn't there, she was here."
I thought about the strange gaps in my memory over the last four months.
The mornings I woke up feeling more tired than when I went to bed.
The times my coworkers mentioned a conversation I didn't remember having.
I thought I was just stressed.
I thought I was working too hard.
"Why didn't you call me?" I cried, turning to Ethan.
"Why didn't you tell me someone was in our house?"
"I tried!" Ethan shouted, his voice cracking with desperation.
"Every time I called your 'Dallas' number, she answered."
"She sounded like you. She talked about the project."
"She told me not to worry."
"I thought I was going crazy, Sarah."
"I thought I was the one hallucinating."
The nurse, Claire, appeared at the top of the stairs.
"Mr. Miller? Noah is asking for the medication."
"He says the scratching is getting louder."
I looked at the ceiling.
Above us was the kitchen.
Above that, the bedrooms.
The apartment was old. The walls were thick, but full of voids.
"Noah isn't having a psychiatric break," I said, the truth crystallizing in my mind.
"He’s hearing someone."
I ran past Ethan, up the stairs, and back into the kitchen.
I started pulling open the cabinets.
"What are you doing?" Ethan asked, following me.
"The bleach," I said.
"You said the house was too clean."
"If she was living in the walls, she’d leave a trail."
"She’d leave a scent."
I knelt down and looked at the baseboards beneath the sink.
There was a small gap where the wood had been pried away and then loosely replaced.
I grabbed a butter knife from the drawer and jammed it into the crack.
The wood groaned and snapped.
Behind the baseboard wasn't just dust and insulation.
There was a small, narrow crawlspace.
And inside that space was a pile of discarded food wrappers.
A half-empty bottle of water.
And a wig.
A wig that was the exact shade and length of my hair.
I felt the air leave my lungs.
She wasn't gone.
She had been here this morning.
She had been watching me walk in with the cinnamon rolls.
"Noah was right," I whispered.
"She’s in the house."
Just as the words left my lips, a loud crash came from upstairs.
It was the sound of glass shattering.
Then, the monitor in Noah's room began to emit a long, continuous flatline tone.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
"Noah!" Ethan screamed.
We scrambled up the stairs, our feet heavy on the wood.
We burst into the bedroom.
The window was shattered, the cold Chicago air rushing in.
The nurse, Claire, was slumped on the floor, unconscious.
The bed was empty.
May you like
Noah was gone.
***
