Page 63 of The Roommate Lie

I’ve been eyeing that beauty since I got here, and it’s time to take the plunge. There’s a little basket of bath bombs under the sink that Lydia told me I could help myself to. I pick a lavender one that I know won’t do me wrong and pop it into the tub as it fills. The smell of lavender that surrounds me is the stuff of miracles.

After I light the candle by the sink, I listen to music while I soak in the tub. By the time I’m done with my bath, the day feels fresh again, full of possibility. Maybe a few bad things have happened here and there, but a lot has gone right. Today can still be incredible.

It isn’t until I climb out of the tub to get dressed that I realize I’ve made another big mistake: I forgot to grab a new shirt. But it’s fine. Lydia won’t get off work for hours, and I shut the guest room door before I got in the tub. This is no big deal.

I pull on everything else and sneak back into the bedroom. The windows are still open, but gauzy white curtains are pulled shut over top—I’m fine. This is fine.

Until it isn’t.

I lock the bedroom door, and I’m halfway to the dresser when I spot my first sign of trouble. There’s a potted succulent on the nightstand by the window, and it’s lying on its side. Plant toppled. Dirt everywhere.

That’s odd.

It’s worse than odd. It feels eerie. Like I’m watching a thriller, and this is where the music shifts, when the protagonist finally gets proof something isn’t right.

I try to ignore it. The curtains rustle with the wind, and I tell myself that’s the problem, that the wind is to blame for knocking Lydia’s plant over. Because that’s how heavy clay pots and light summer breezes work…right?

Deep down, I know that can’t be true. It defies every possible law of physics and common sense. But I recite that lie to myself anyway. Several times.

It’s just the wind.

It’s just the wind.

I should leave—I should grab my shirt and go. Instead, I inch toward that plant, creeping closer and closer to danger.Just like in the movies.

Something’s wrong in this bedroom. Something strange is going on, and the first possibility that pops into my head is the wrong one. The first culprit I want to blame doesn’t even exist.

Tommyknockers.

I can’t stop picturing that creepy wooden doll from the museum. I catch a glimpse of it in every dark shadow around the room. I hear it scuttling in each curtain rustle and gust of wind, but I know I’m being ridiculous—even if Charlie got the lore wrong. Even if I googled it before I got in the tub and found out some people thought they were malevolent spirits instead, not helpful at all.

That when they blew out your candle in those mines, it was because they never wanted you to find your way out.

As I get closer, holding my breath, I realize there’s something strange about all that spilled dirt on the nightstand. There are marks in it—little scratches everywhere—and a paw print. A very large paw print.

A light breeze stirs the air in the room, and a familiar scent drifts toward me. Is that…baby powder?

A growl echoes near the bathroom door, and I turn around to face my enemy. The ghost squirrel that’s waiting for me isn’ta squirrel at all. Sure, it’s got “fur as gray as smoke and eyes as black as pitch” like Muriel said. But that’s how raccoons always look.

“Hey there,” I whisper to the very large, very agitated trash panda a few feet away. As if I’m hoping we can be friends.

He isn’t interested.

I swear that raccoon recognizes me. He has a list of all his enemies, and I’m right at the top. This is what I get for trying to corner him in Muriel’s attic multiple times. This is my punishment for being a helpful neighbor.

And so the hunter becomes the hunted…

The raccoon hesitates before it darts toward me, and I screech in terror. Racing for the bedroom door, I unlock it as fast as I can, fumbling with the knob as I yank it open. Practically tripping over my own feet as I run for my life.

I’m halfway down the stairs before I realize my shoulders and stomach are colder than they should be. That my shorts-and-a-bra ensemble doesn’t actually count as an outfit.Too late now.There’s no way I’m going to stop running—not while I’m being chased.

The only thing worse than indecent exposure is a wildlife attack, and I tell myself a million sweet little lies as I run for my life.This isn’t that bad! It’s like wearing a swimsuit!

My bra is full coverage, and it’s fully lined. I’m not showing anything you couldn’t see at the beach. This is nothing…except who am I kidding? I’m a tankini girl. This iseverything.

It’s a nightmare of epic proportions, my wardrobe version of the apocalypse. If that raccoon wasn’t growling and shrieking behind me like it was possessed by tommyknockers, I would’ve gone back upstairs for a shirt a dozen times.

He’s still chasing me as I reach the bottom of the stairs, and I keep running, fleeing all the way to the mudroom. I almostlunge outside, but I hear voices in the yard. So many voices.Is Charlie throwing a block party?

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