This is a chipper kind of musing about a subject I am finding very unchipper.

“Listen. I don’t know what you think happened. I really don’t. But I do know that I’m not that comfortable being around you right now,” I confess.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she deflects. “We’ve always been together.”

I stop. Always . . .

No. I didn’t just imagine it. I know what she said. She said, “We’ve always been together,” and the words send a jolt of fear down my spine.

A WHOOSH like I felt that first night when I wandered out onto the grounds.

I feel suddenly sure that I am in the presence of some thing.

Some thing that wants to push me out and away. Some thing with a terrible kind of power.

My throat is dry. I force myself to swallow.

“I don’t want you here in this house.”

“But my dear, you need me. You can’t flit around through this place alone. You must remember that—”

I stop my ears, pressing the palms of my hands to either side of my head. “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here but I need you to leave right now!”

The sound of my voice echoes in the room, now silent.

She sighs.

“It’s quite alright. I’ll just be going then.”

She stands up and begins gathering her things.

I look on, feeling a combination of guilt, confusion, and anger.

Normally, I would say something here in the form of an apology. But somehow my mouth can’t form the words. I refuse to utter even a syllable that will bring her back. I do not want her back. Ever.

The image of the hammer in her hand.

The image of the knife in her hand.

She grabs her hat, tips it as a final gesture, and says, “Adieu.”

I stand there, silent, as she makes her way to the front of the house and then out the front door. I wait a few moments . . . hoping to give her time to leave, to not have to say anything more, before making my way to the front door.

I race to it and throw the bolt.

And there I stand, behind the front door, looking out the window at her figure making its way down the winding road.

As if through telepathy, she looks back at that very moment.

I stand there, caught.

She gives a small nod, turns back, and keeps going.

I stay behind the front door, watching her saunter down the winding road, until I can no longer see her.

A sigh of relief.

She is gone.

I should feel better, but somehow I feel much, much worse.

Chapter 37

If I build my own fire, first crumpled-up newspaper, then kindling, then the log . . . I can just sit here next to it, by myself, and read one of these random books collecting dust.

So that is what I do. I tend to it like a living thing, getting lost in the flame.