Page 250 of Haunt Me

After spending a few magical, freezing hours yesterday in the woods, we spent the rest of the day together. We were only separated for an hour or two, because she needed to rest, but she texted me to come get her. And I did. It cost me everything to leave her last night, but I sent her to her hotel, safe in Faith’s company, and I went to mine.

But between last night and this morning, something happened to her. Something that made her run away. The memories are grabbing me by the throat. My brain thinks I will find her in the middle of the highway again.

This is not like last time.

I manage to stay calm enough to not crash.

I’m stronger now. I will fight. I will not let fear consume me.

That’s when it dawns on me: I’m not afraid of her breaking my heart any longer: I’m afraid of her breaking her own.

And then, I see a tall, slim figure in the middle of the empty street, and my car screeches to a halt.

“I got her,” I tell Faith. “Don’t worry any more, she’s with me.” I disconnect the call: I need to focus all my attention on Eden.

She’s standing in front of her old house—the house where she grew up. The house where she was kept a prisoner. She is standing there, absolutely still, as I approach her slowly. If she hears my footsteps, she doesn’t react. Nothing moves except her fiery hair in the wind.

“Eden, are you ok, baby? Are you cold?”

She doesn’t appear to have heard me.

I would stay here with her all day if she wanted me to, but I don’t think these memories are what she needs right now. Or ever. Her eyes have a glassy, faraway look, like a ghost’s.

“Eden?” I hesitate to touch her, bringing my hands around her shoulders, but not quite lowering her them yet.

“I can see her—it’s me,” she whispers, her eyes glued to the window on the second floor. “Can you see her?”

“See who, baby?” For a second, I panic that she is seeing things. “Who do you see, Eden?”

“Myself,” she replies, still staring at that window. “That used to be my room. This house is haunted, don’t you see? It’s filled with ghosts. I can see myself pacing around my room in different ages, I can see a little girl crying in the corner. It’s me.”

She sounds detached, not an ounce of emotion in her voice, but I know better: I know her heart is overflowing with anguish, and it will spill out sooner or later. And I will be here to catch her when the tide pulls her under.

In the meantime, I just let her talk. My hands come down on her arms, and she doesn’t shake me off, so I just hold her.

“I am haunting my own house,” she says and for the first time her voice trembles. “I can seehim, looking at the little girl. He mostly ignores her, of course, but once or twice, he looks at her. He looks at me.” She stops to take a deep breath. “I hate how he looks at me.”

“How does he look at you?”

“Like I’m a piece of air.”

And that’s when she breaks. I barely have time to drop to my knees and catch her around the waist as she suddenly collapses to the ground like a rag doll and just shatters into sobs. I hold her as tightly as I can, as if I can put her back together by sheer force of will.

“It’s ok, baby, cry it out.” I let her soak my shirt with her tears, and when she starts shaking so badly she can’t hold her head up any longer, I pick her up in my arms and carry her to my car.

“That haunted house,” she murmurs with her head on my chest, gasping between breaths, “it will never let me go.”

“Listen to me.” I wipe tear strained strands of hair away from her flushed, wet cheeks. “This is not your house, ok? It’s not. Even when you were kept here, your real house was in the woods with me.” I take her hand and place it over my chest. My heart is beating so fast it’s about to jump out of my ribcage, but it seems to calm her a little to feel its soft rhythm. “This is your home. This, my heart, this is your home. And your sisters, your Dad. They are your real home too.”

She nods. She’s listening to me, but her head is filled with images of that damn house and her life in it. Of course it is. It truly is a haunted house, in that sense. But I won’t let it have any power over her.

“You are not a little girl any more, ok?” I tell her. My thumb is on her chin, keeping her eyes on me. “You are not that little girl. And she is not trapped in that house. No one is haunting it. You are here, alive, and no one can hurt you anymore, least of all, him.”

“He is,” she says, tears streaming silently down her cheeks, spilling across her lips. “He is haunting me, still.”

“No, I won’t let him.” I pull her to me and push my mouth on her forehead. “Ghost or no ghost, I am not letting him anywhere near your head ever again.”

She is just sobbing, but she is getting quiet in my arms, so I know that this time, it’s different. This time, it’s sinking in that she’s safe. That she is not that little girl’s ghost anymore. She is her own person. And she is also mine.

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