Page 30 of Some Kind of Haunted

I sit up blearily. Everything kind of aches. Not surprising considering how old this mattress has to be, and after a night of extremely long and detailed nightmares. That often leads to waking up with tight muscles and achy joints.

I know it was a dream, because I have no memory of getting back into my bed last night. The last thing I remember is Jack’s green gaze meeting mine while Harrison’s words echo in my head.

But I wouldn’t, if I were you.

Uncomfortable with the sheer vivid reality of the dream, I try to do a little full body shake to wake up my brain to reality. I clearly never left this bed. I did not meet Jack on a dark street or limp with Logan to hear crazy demon-deal stories from an antiques purveyor.

There’s a prickle in my eyes, all too familiar. The knowledge that things are bad again. That whatever control I thought I’d gained these past few years has slipped away in this brand-new place.

I stretch forward, then from side to side, trying to find a center of calm that will stop this from becoming a spiral.

Last night was hardly a full-blown nightmare. It was weird and creepy, no doubt. But I’ve certainly had worse. Usually, I end up dead in those worse ones. And then, for extra fun, I tend to wake up somewhere strange.

Luckily, most people who encounter me in that state assume I’m on the tail end of a wild night out. Or perhaps a whole series of unfortunate life choices. I usually pretend I’m having an ordinary, run-of-the-mill hangover and walk of shame, and call Logan.

I’m a little too relieved that I’m not doing that right now, from the side of some country road instead of in a city with abundant and convenient taxis.

Last night was fine. It was just . . . involved. My dreams are clearly bored of their own shit and decided to switch it up a little.

That said, I refuse to take off my socks and double-check my feet. They feel a little tender, but this wouldn’t be the first time a dream lingered physically the next day. Looking for proof makes me feel like more of a lunatic, more like I might need to consider that all my years of progress are tenuous at best.

The only way to handle any lingering is to ignore it. Sometimes, it’s the only way to get through these episodes. Along those same lines, I am certainly not going to search this room for a tiny delicate key with a locket on one end, either.

Because that would be a step toward the kind of indisputable mental instability I’ve been afraid of all my life. Things had been better before Iowa, and if I continue to behave as though they are remaining better, then it will have to be so.

Mind over matter. Even if the mind is a questionable beast.

I get out of bed and head out into the kitchen, all of three steps, hoping Logan made coffee recently.

Instead, I find an empty house. Unease settles on me hard, but there is a piece of paper on top of the dusty coffeepot—always my first destination on any given day, no matter where I find myself. In Logan’s scrawling script it says: Meet me at the diner.

I scowl at the note. And the empty, not-used-in-some-while coffeepot. I don’t know how my own twin can’t grasp the concept of a pre-coffee: The coffee you drink before you get presentable enough to go get your real coffee.

Grumbling the whole way, I change out of my bright cheese pajamas and into clothes fit to be seen in. I don’t go for a sweater today, not after yesterday’s blazing sun incident.

After I decide I can live with my hair and the makeup doing its best to cover up the bags under my eyes, I grab the keys Logan left for me and head outside.

It is, of course, freezing. Even with the sun shining, the air is cold. Brittle leaves skitter across the walk on an even colder breeze. I’m about to turn back into the house to begrudgingly grab a sweater when I see a woman out of the corner of my eye.

Cleo is standing on a path through the grass that leads from the side street I haven’t investigated yet to the back exit of the knitting shop. I haven’t quite oriented myself with the town. I get the feeling she was walking, but stopped when I stepped outside, or maybe when she heard the door close.

Is she waiting for me? Or wishing she could have avoided me?

When my gaze falls to her, she seems to make a decision and starts striding for me. So no sweater for me. For some reason, I feel honor bound to walk to meet her.

We reach each other right behind the knitting shop. With a shudder, I look toward the back door where we stumbled upon entrails yesterday.

Was that really only yesterday? It feels like ten lifetimes ago.

When I rip my gaze away to meet Cleo’s dark one, she’s watching me. Closely.

“No more dead animals, I hope?” I ask.

“Not yet.”

Which feels . . . ominous.

She eyes me critically, then gestures at the same door I’m in no rush to go through again. “I’m grabbing Nora on our way over to the diner. Come on in.”