I take out my phone and pull up the flashlight app. My hands are shaking so bad, I almost drop it. I point the light down into the darkness of the basement. Particles of dust drift in and out of the beam. I begin descending the stairs at an agonizing pace. I keep the light pointed to my left, to illuminate the basement as I continue down. Finally, I arrive at the landing at the bottom of the stairs.

The old wooden shelves sit against the stone walls. The single bulb hangs from the ceiling. I walk to the center of the room and pull the chain.

The bulb snaps on.

The shelves and carboard boxes sit undisturbed, collecting dust.

Everything is as it should be.

I release the air I’ve trapped in my chest and turn off the flashlight app.

Rational thought returns. I’ll call the plumber tomorrow.

I pull the chain again, plunging the basement into shadow, and begin walking back to the stairs.

“I can’t sleep …”

I stumble across the landing as I turn around.

A girl is standing in the middle of the room.

Her head is turned towards the floor. Her wet hair falls about her face, obscuring it from view. Her soaked nightgown clings to her frail body. Drops of water fall from the hem to the floor.

… drip … drip …

I scramble back against the wall and try to bring the light back up on my phone, but the image of the girl begins to fade.

As it fades, a soft whisper emanates from the shadows.

“I can’t sleep …”

August 2nd, 1900

I’m sorry that my last entry ended so abruptly.

I haven’t written for days. I couldn’t bring myself to describe what happened.

I didn’t want to write but I feel I have to. Something’s changed. He has changed. He changed that day, right there in the room. Of course, I was awkward and he was strong and forceful … I asked if he loved me. He wouldn’t answer. He only smiled. When I asked again, he grew annoyed and changed the subject, saying I should get back to the pharmacy before my father became suspicious.

After we dressed, we went downstairs to the front porch. I was still trying to make sense of it all. Then, I stupidly remembered Father’s request that he pay his account. Mr. Carrington found that terribly funny and laughed. When I asked him why it was funny, he said that of course, he would pay. He went back inside and returned with a ten-dollar note. I told him I didn’t have enough change. He laughed even harder and told me to keep it.

I felt stupid and ashamed. I asked when I would see him again, and he said, “When I need more deliveries.”