Page 21 of Some Kind of Haunted

That doesn’t make me feel any better.

Neither does the drive down the main drag. Because unlike last night when there was not a single soul to be seen, there are people everywhere now, swarming in and out of all the shops. Chocolate shops, antique shops, clock and watch shops—no, thank you.

I remember Nora mentioning something about fall festivals, but this is giving Times Square on a weekend night—another place I avoid like the plague.

Logan inches through traffic, the narrow street bumper to bumper, and I want to claw my own face off. I never thought I was claustrophobic until this moment. I start ripping off the necklaces I usually wear, since the feel of them—the weight of them on my neck—makes me feel like I’m being choked. I toss them in the cupholder, a jumble of sweaty silver and gold.

“Why are you going so slow?” I demand of Logan. I adjust the vents and make the AC as cold as it will go. It’s so hot in here it feels like a stomach flu.

“So I don’t commit vehicular manslaughter, Lexi,” Logan says on a sigh. He’s not sweating or looking too uncomfortable, but his grip on the wheel is tight as he navigates down the overcrowded street.

That reminds me why I’m subjecting myself to this instead of buying myself a plane ticket and an Uber to get me out of here.

I make myself breathe. I tell myself that the crowd should feel like any given day in New York, but it doesn’t. There’s something wrong about all these people being here. It just doesn’t sit right, and not only because I don’t really understand why anyone would choose to come play tourist in an Iowa town I never would have heard of if my dad wasn’t from here.

And it feels more wrong as the clock tower heaves into view around a bend in the narrow road. As we inch down the street, it’s there. Down at the far end, looming.

The afternoon sun is behind it. I should find it beautiful. I tell myself I do.

But it makes me want to scream.

I remind myself to keep the crazy on the inside.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I practice my deep somatic breathing and pretend I am somewhere, anywhere, else. One-two-three, everything is fine.

The car stops and I pop my eyes open. Logan’s paused at a stop sign. Pedestrians seem to stream around us. Families with shopping bags. Older couples with canes, helping each other along. It’s nice, I try to tell myself.

But then I glance out the passenger window and there is a woman standing there, hunched. Yet, she’s looking right at me. She seems a little dead behind the eyes, and that wouldn’t bother me overmuch—I’ve been to Staten Island, unwillingly—but one of those eyes is a pale, unearthly blue. The other a dark, dark brown.

Staring right at me.

And when I stare back, her lips widen into an ugly smile.

She takes a lumbering step toward the car, an arm outstretched like she’s going to just . . . open my door and come at me. Or worse, get in.

But just as I’m about to actually scream, the car moves forward. Logan is driving again.

And I can’t breathe. I certainly can’t stay here—what was I thinking? That man at the gas station. Raccoons—entrails and mine-shaft lurkers. The woman who was right here a second ago, but now seems to have vanished. They’re all coming for me. I know it.

I want to put Jack in his diner on that list, but I can’t actually believe any man that hot could be coming for me like these gross, forked-tongued and dead-eyed things seem to be doing. Surely he was not given the gift of that jaw to use it for ill.

I decide to cling to that.

The crowds dissipate a little as we drive, and I can breathe again. Everything gets familiar again. The glare seems less harsh, the crowd less malevolent. No more dead-eyed crones at intersections. Logan pulls the car to a stop in a spot in front of Darling Knits & Notions. It’s not so busy in this part of town, a little ways off the main drag, but there are people outside the store.

People we know, which feels like an upgrade from creatures and carcasses. It’s Nora, speaking to the oh-so-friendly Jack. I note that his obnoxious male beauty was not a function of bad sleep and no caffeine, because he looks even better in the light.

That doesn’t make it any better that he had some kind of intense reaction to me on sight that might not have been a forked tongue, but still hurt my feelings. And may or may not have been lurking at windows last night.

Nora lifts a hand in a wave as Logan parks. Jack does not. He gets that arrested look on his face again when he sees me. Then he scowls and strides across the street, disappearing into the diner as if he never saw us at all.

Maybe he didn’t, I tell myself. But I know better.

When we get out of the car, I smile at Nora. Because she’s been so nice, and I want to hold on to any nice there is. Logan, by contrast, doesn’t look at her as he pops the trunk and starts grabbing grocery bags.

“Can I help?” Nora offers sweetly. “I always helped Amelia with her groceries. It’s a shame there’s no parking closer to the house and—”

“Not necessary,” Logan says, sharp and overloud, cutting Nora off.