Page 17 of His to Haunt

Which brings me to my weird dream last night.

Nothing like studying to set things straight in my head, in particular, about how hypnagogic hallucinations or “waking dreams" happen in the transitional states between sleeping and waking and thus perfectly explain what I experienced.

Then again, I had thought that my being Rachel in the dream was proof that it was only a dream. But then, in the back of my mind, I thought, what if I was half in a dream state, but it was the awake part of my mind that actually did see an eyeball—a person—watching me from behind the wall? A crazy, disturbing thought.

Something else nags at me that no book can help, which almost makes me want to move out of Rachel’s room if only there were a better room to live in. It’s the idea that she and Zand were a thing and maybe had sex in her bed.

I know the two were cousins, but I can’t get his tone from my head when, after analyzing every inch of my body, he declared I looked like her.

I feel that there was something between them, but I can’t be sure. This reminds me of the spicy pine scent that hit my nostrilsat o-dark-thirty. What if I was smelling traces of Zand? What if his scent is still lingering in the space around me?

Which leaves only one solution.

On the drive back, I’m plotting my cleaning battle. When I get through with my new bedroom, there will be no hint, no essence, of Zand Byron to speak of. My only misgiving in doing so is washing away a beloved sister in the process. But I can’t cling to her physical objects. She’s in my heart and mind, regardless.

It’s Mr. Zand Byron who will be expelled, if not from the grounds, at least from the room where I sleep.

When I get back to the manor around lunchtime, I see Mom heading in the direction of the grey carriage house. It’s partly cloudy today, humid, with a cool breeze.

Ah, shit. I forgot to tell her about the stinking boundary line.

I follow her through the garden. But she’s already past the no-go zone and is going to get us both in trouble. I call out to her, but she’s lost in thought. She has an amazing ability to turn her ears off when in thought, let alone out here amongst the sound-buffering hedges and floral eye-candy.

I catch up to her, only to lose her again as she turns the corner of the hedge maze. In passing, I can’t help but glance inside the wide-open doorway to Zand’s house.

I pause ever so briefly, my heart thumping stupidly as I sidestep just close enough to glimpse the large painting sitting on an easel. So, the alpha-hole paints?

The subject is a nude woman lying on her side. Her perked white breasts and thick, curvy thighs frame auburn pubic hair.

But she doesn’t seem quite…alive.

She’s lying on the ground in a weirdly unnatural position. Her body is twisted as if she was in the process of rolling, but the rest of her body didn’t manage to catch up before she stopped. Her eyes are closed, her jaw slack as blood-red paint flows from her lips, confirming she’s as dead as she looks. There are flowers and greenery surrounding her pale, vacant face, which reminds me of the famous painting of Ophelia from Hamlet that I once rather poorly tried to recreate in college.

Just past the easel, an alive woman appears on a gold sofa, catching my eyes. She lays back, eyes blinking as she stretches out her legs. Then, a male hand appears atop the easel, and my stomach jumps into my throat as I leap out of sight.

I choke, catching my breath. Yikes. That was close. The last thing I need is to be confronted over being a bad neighbor by Mr. Bad Neighbor.

I turn the corner, walking quickly to catch up with Mom, who is sitting on a little iron bench facing a tiered stone fountain.

She’s panting like she’s been walking for a while. Then I realize she is crying.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says, wiping tears. “I like it out here. Very nice.”

“Yeah,” I agree, not wanting to press her on the topic, assuming it’s over Rachel. I look back over my shoulder in fear Mr. Byron saw me and is coming to have words.

Not seeing him, I follow Mom’s gaze to the blue-stone fountain where arches of water shoot out from a cluster of dolphins. I inhale the scent of pouring water, which reminds me how thirsty I am. I’ve had only coffee today.

Mom smacks her legs, standing and gathering a bouquet of flowers lying beside her. I hope that’s allowed. What if the groundskeeper doesn’t like flowers being picked? Maybe that’s just the kind of thing to piss him off.

Even though most of the grounds are technically mine, I’m not the one caring for them. Which is odd. Maybe I should change that. In fact, that’s a good idea. The mister can take care of the part he’s lording over and leave the rest to me. Not that I have experience with gardening. But I can learn.

I follow Mom out.

“Taking these flowers to Rachel. She loves daisies.”

Huh? Not what I wanted to hear.

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