Page 14 of The Witch

It almost feels like this house is trying to tell me something. That there’s some message that only I can hear.

That’s silly though, isn’t it? A house is just a house. It’s an inanimate object, without any specific feelings or desires of its own. That’s like saying the shower doesn’t want me to be clean, or the chair is looking at me funny. The house doesn’t have anything to say. It’s a house.

Besides, I won’t be here long. I’ll find some café that has free Wi-Fi tomorrow and apply for every job that I’m remotely qualified for, and as soon as I find something decent, I’ll move out. There’s nothing tying me here or anywhere. And while I’m happy to meet with some old guy from the museum, I’m not so sure my grandmother should sell Pemberton. Either way, the choice is up to her.

With those comforting thoughts in mind, I finally drift off to sleep.

9

I wake up in a cold sweat.

And when I say cold, I mean cold. It’s still only September, and the room was perfectly comfortable when I drifted off, but now the bedroom has morphed into an icebox. How could it be this freezing all of a sudden?

I glance at the clock display on my phone. It’s three in the morning. I’m exhausted, but how can I sleep when it’s this cold?

I am reluctant to abandon the warmth of my bed, but at the same time, I really, really want one of those extra blankets on top of the vanity table. Finally, I spring out of bed and grab the topmost blanket, which is made of fleece and feels really warm. I jump back into my bed, layering the fleece blanket on top of the other one. I make myself a warm little cocoon.

That’s better.

I let out a contented sigh and shut my eyes. I almost start to drift off again, but then I hear something that makes my eyes fly open again, bringing back memories of before. I sit bolt upright in bed, my heart slamming in my chest.

It’s a low-pitched moan. Like someone waking from the dead, and they’re not happy.

My mouth goes dry. What was that? Could it possibly be Ethel? Or Gram? But it doesn’t sound like either of them. It doesn’t even sound human.

The moans grow louder, and I wonder if that’s what woke me, rather than the cold. I clutch the blankets to my chest, my entire body sprouting goose pimples. And then I hear another sound.

The creaking of stairs.

There is somebody walking around this house. I can hear it with my own ears. There’s a person or thing climbing the stairs of the house. Did they come in through the front door and now are climbing to the second floor?

But then another thought occurs to me. The creaking sound does not seem like it’s coming from below. It seems more like it’s coming from above—from the ceiling.

Like there’s somebody in the attic who is coming out.

I stare at the door to my room. The creaking sound is growing louder, and so is the moaning. The floorboard right outside my door lets out a terrible whine, and I clutch the blankets so tightly, my fingers ache.

There is somebody outside the door to my room. There has to be. Somebody is making those noises.

Okay, I shouldn’t panic. There are three other people living in this house. Any one of them could be walking up or down the stairs.

I am suddenly seized by the urge to check outside my room to figure out what’s going on. What if somebody got into an accident near our house and found their way into Pemberton, and now they’re here looking for help?

Except I know that’s not what it really is.

Just lock your door at night like the rest of us, Julia. Please. For your own safety.

What if it’s a trick? What if they want me to come out of my room?

“Hello?” I croak.

I am frozen in my bed, still clutching my blankets for dear life. I stare at the doorknob, knowing that if it starts to turn, I will drop dead of a heart attack. The door might be locked, but I have a terrible feeling that whatever is out there might still be able to come inside.

But the doorknob doesn’t turn. Instead, the moaning abruptly stops.

“Hello?” I call out again, my voice less shaky this time.

Again, there’s no reply. It’s like I never heard anything at all—like it was nothing more than a bad dream.