Page 11 of The House on Haven Way

And she still doesn’t see me. I know, because she hauls herself up and falls back on the bed, robe hanging open now, showing smooth legs all the way up to the place I got no business looking.

Yeah, I’m shaken up. Just a little.

Go down the hill. Sit on my headstone for a while.

I left the house—but just for a little. I’ll be back.

Ain’t no living doll gonna put me out of my house.

She still has to go—just not leave the world in the permanent sense.

Chapter Three: Fright Night

September 24th, 2026

“It wasn’t a ghost. It was perfectly logical. There are some strong breezes up here in the fall. I’m watching one right now,” I tell Honey, after I previously made the mistake of telling her about the popcorn incident.

“So, a breeze slammed the closet door?”

“I did have the window open.”

“Okay, okay. I see the logic. And it startled you.”

“It was way louder than I thought it would be, but hey, this is a pretty empty house. You imagine living in a 500-square-foot studio apartment and then going into a three-bedroom rancher. Sometimes when I’m singing in the kitchen, it echoes.”

“Girl, I’m imagining every day. I’m so jealous of your busted ass.”

“Busted is right. I choked, panicked, and had a flashback to the accident. The way the seatbelt wrapped around me and the car crushed and pinned me.” I close my eyes, barely able to breathe—but at least this time my mouth is empty. No popcorn dives into my throat.

I swallow, mouth dry. The panic of choking while alone floods me. New fear unlocked.

The flashback and the accompanying physical sensation weren’t real, though. It would have been all in my mind. So...

So what hit me in the back? It felt like an actual object, and it reminded me... Oddly enough, it reminded me of when I used to stay with my Uncle D, and he had a waterbed. I’d run and flop down on it, and giggle as the bed shifted and swayed under me, warm and almost living.

Warm.

Almost living.

If I close my eyes hard and just tune out everything, I feel...

The weight against my back. Lukewarm. Not entirely solid.

And then—not the seat belt across my chest. Arms. Around my middle. Pulling in tight and up.

The Heimlich.

My skin goes clammy, and Honey’s words fade in and out as I force myself to push the thoughts away and listen to her complaining about her boss and how she’s going to leave Javon if he doesn’t propose this winter.

I make noises in the right places, but even as I sit, kind of numb, kind of spaced out, I start to notice a whole lot of little things.

The kitchen lights are buzzing again.

Old house, Amber. They do that.

The closet door’s screw is on the table in front of me. Gotta get a screwdriver. I have a set, but I also found a well-kept, dust-free metal toolbox, the kind with fold-out shelves and a painted metal lid, under the sink.

Old. The tools in it were old. Meticulously clean, but nothing there was modern. No power tools, no rubber, no plastic. All metal and wood.