Page 15 of The Narrow

One of my lower front teeth shifts under the gentle pressure ofmy finger. I pinch it gingerly, testing it. A slight wiggle. I’m lucky I didn’t lose it or any other teeth. A fist to the mouth can do a lot more damage than a split lip.

Lucky, lucky, lucky.

In bed, burrowed under the covers, I reach over for the light. The bedside table is set awkwardly far away, and I have to lean out to reach the switch. My hand on the ridged plastic knob, I pause, staring down. Then I get out of the bed and walk slowly around it.

The hardwood floor is blotchy, mottled with darkness. But only around the bed.

A ring of water damage. As if a flood spilled around the bed and seeped into the wood. I bend and press a palm to the floor.

It’s dry as a bone.

8

THE PAIN INmy arm keeps me dipping in and out of sleep all night. Each time I wake, I hear the steady drumming of the rain. It almost sounds like someone tapping against the windows. When I finally wake, I feel like I’ve been dreaming, my heart hammering and my hands reaching for something, but I can’t remember the dream.

It’s too early for breakfast in the dining hall. To kill time, I look around my new abode. There isn’t much to see. A linen closet with fresh sheets, blankets, and towels. The bedroom closet with Aubrey’s forgotten clothing. I open the dresser, worrying that I’ll find more, but these at least have been cleared out except for a single stray sock.

I’m closing the bottom drawer when it sticks. I shove at it, thinking it’s gotten off track, and try opening and closing it again—but it still sticks four inches shy of closing. Grumbling, Ilever it off its tracks and peer back inside to see if there’s something blocking it.

A slim red book is wedged behind the back of the drawer, preventing it from closing all the way. I reach in and lever it free. Gold text on the cover readsJournal. Was Aubrey the kind of girl to keep a diary?

I sit with it in my lap, my fingers tracing the edge of the cover. I shouldn’t open it. But I can’t stop thinking about what happened to Aubrey—and what she might have known.

Before I can think twice, I open the diary. Where I expect to find writing, there are blotches of ink, the ghosts of words bleeding across the page. The paper itself is rippled and stained, as if it’s been soaked through and dried out. The pages stick to each other stiffly, and as I ease them apart, some of them rip. Most of the writing has been completely destroyed, but here and there a few lines and phrases remain. Fragmented, they’re even more unsettling.

rain again, but it didn’t

hear her

don’t let it in

she knows

don’t let it in

again

watching me

cameras everywhere

does she know?

know

DON’T LET IT IN

here she’s here she’s

she’s here

here

Delphine know

can’t trust her

the Drowning Girl

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