Page 25 of Play Nice

Mom

I trace my fingers over her words. I forgot her perfect handwriting, the beautiful loops of it. I continue to flip through the book gently, careful not to damage what’s left. There are notes on almost every page. She annotated this copy. Annotated it for me. When? This thing is beat to hell.

Did she leave it here for me to find? Did she know she was about to die?

Squeak!

There’s movement. A flash of fur. I’m screaming before my mind catches up, before my brain comprehends there’s a mouse scurrying across the top of my sneakers.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”

I kick my feet and run. Down the hall, up the stairs, to the landing, wishing I hadn’t shut the door only a few minutes ago because now I’m fumbling to get it open, to dash through it and escape mouse house.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the ceiling fan in the living room spinning fast, like it’s caught in a hurricane. I turn toward it, and it stops. Suddenly, all on its own. Unless it wasn’t spinning at all, and I imagined it. Unless I didn’t see what I thought I saw.

I stand staring, arrested by confusion.

A blood-freezing cold grabs me by the back of the neck. Icy fingers press hard into my skin with the promise of bruises. I shake, throw my hands up, spin around. There’s no one, nothing, but it doesn’t matter, because I still feel that terrible chill on my neck and in my bones. Feel little mice crawling all over me, their claws scoring my skin.

What I don’t feel is alone. I don’t feel like I’m alone in the house.

I bolt through the door and pull it shut behind me, lock it with trembling hands.

By the time I get to the car, I’ve managed to take a few deep breaths, steady myself enough to drive. As I go to buckle my seat belt, prepared to speed to Starbucks, then go home and take an infinite hot shower, I find my mother’s book in my hand. I don’t remember it being there a second ago. I don’t remember carrying it out of the house. But here it is, and now I can’t seem to put it down. It sticks to me like it’s covered in glue, like it’s an extension of my hand, my body. Like it belongs.

One visit to the house, and I’m entertaining the possibility that maybe a place can make you crazy.

I open the book.

Demon of Edgewood Drive:

The True Story of a Suburban Haunting

-1-

New Beginnings

I bought the house sight unseen. I needed a place to live, for my three daughters to live, that was close enough to their father, my ex-husband, who had recently purchased an ostentatious brick Colonial in a wealthy town in a notoriously wealthy county. Coming off the divorce, I wasn’t in the best financial position. So it goes. Beggars can’t be choosers.

The house had belonged to an elderly couple who had already moved to a retirement community in Florida. Though I’d come to learn that the couple, who had built the house in 1972, had never lived there full-time. Their story is not mine to tell, but I will say this. Shortly after moving in, a series of family tragedies prevented them from spending more than a few months at a time in the house. Why they waited thirty-plus years to sell it is a question for them, though I suspect you’ll be able to intuit the answer by the end of this book.

Dramatic license. He had a secret second family that she found out about when his mistress showed up at the door late one night. She moved in with her mother, he moved in with his other family. They reconciled several times but couldn’t make it stick, not until after his mistress’s funeral. As far as I know, they lived happily ever after in Florida. At least as happy as two people can be when one betrayed the other. Maybe she just wanted to be around to watch him die.

The house was priced very low, but that didn’t raise any suspicion on my part because I was told by my agent that it wasn’t in the best condition. It passed inspection, I could afford it, the girls wouldn’t have to change schools, and I could move in right away.

I packed up the home I’d made with my ex-husband and my daughters, the home I’d once hoped would hold a happy future, and moved into Edgewood Drive piecemeal, making so many trips I lost track.

My first impression of the house was that it was in a nice neighborhood. Perfect for trick-or-treating, for making friends with neighbors. I was struck by the color of the house—an intense red—and how different it was from the other houses in the neighborhood. More angular. Harsher.

It was surrounded by woods, and I worried about ticks.

Inside was dated, a little musty, the layout a bit odd, but overall I thought it would work. A big open living area, a small kitchen. The appliances were old, but I was never much of a cook, so it didn’t bother me. Four bedrooms, two full baths. A split-level.

There were two bedrooms upstairs and two downstairs, and they were awkwardly sized. One big, one tiny on each floor. I decided I’d let the girls pick their own rooms. I decided it was going to be a new beginning for all of us. A house full of women. A safe place for us to be. I’d paint it pink. It’d smell like vanilla and nail polish remover. It’d be ours.

My fantasy didn’t last long.

I hired two college-aged kids with a van to help move the bigger pieces of furniture. One of them lived down the street. He was polite, but I couldn’t help noticing he was acting strange. He seemed anxious. His eyes darting around, his skin going pale.