I step inside, leaving my own prints in the dust that collects between my toes. The bed is similar to mine with intricately carved wooden posts. I trace the pattern, and my finger comes away dirty.
The music takes a dip. I’m not sure I’ve heard a sadder tune.
I look around. A dresser, books on a tall shelf, a reading area, a desk, two doors leading off into other rooms, and at the center a wrought-iron window almost as large as mine but not quite in front of which stands the low dresser where the Victrola sits.
The light I saw is coming from the lamp beside it. A Tiffany lamp. I’ve never liked those. For some reason, they always give me the creeps.
I walk toward the dresser to see that one of the drawers is slightly ajar. I know I shouldn’t, but I pull it open. Immediately, I sneeze at the cloud of dust I release.
It’s a small sneeze, but here, in this room with its eerie Victrola playing the strange tune, in this ghost room, it sounds loud and almost echoes off the walls.
When the dust settles again, the music stops.
The record takes two more revolutions, but the arm lifts automatically, and I realize it’s not an old Victrola but a newer one made to look old.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end then, and my breath catches in my throat because there’s a shift in the air.
I don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
I don’t lift my gaze from the Victrola because I think if I do, I’ll see something in the reflection of the wrought-iron glass.
And whoever is here, it’s not Damian.
I know his scent now. I know how my body reacts when he’s near me, and this isn’t it. It’s not him.
Someone takes an audible breath behind me.
A ghost?
No.
Ghosts don’t breathe.
They don’t feel warm like a body feels warm when it’s at your back, close enough to touch but not.
I’m trembling, my hands moving to my arms to warm myself. Protect myself. I turn my head slightly, still not daring to raise my lashes, to look up. Terrified to.
He makes a sound then. A low mmmm from deep inside his chest.
I whimper at the rumble too close to my ear.
“Are you lost, little girl?” comes the deep voice too much like Damian’s but not his. Not him.
And when I lift my gaze and face him, my mouth opens on a scream that catches in my throat as I stare up at him. At this man whose face is half hidden by shadow who’s wearing the coat the man outside had worn. The man I’d mistaken for Damian.
Black eyes meet mine, and one corner of his mouth lifts into a wicked grin. That scream finally comes. It rips through me, and I feel his hand graze my arm as I run just barely making it past him.
I scream and run blind, tripping to look back at him.
At this monster.
He stands there and that grin grows wider. I run and just as I turn to look ahead of me, I crash into something hard and immobile. I bounce off, stumbling, falling back before arms close around me.
Damian.
Relief.
I bury my face in his chest and can’t get close enough because I can’t get far enough from the monster with the face that looks like Damian’s but not. With the voice that sounds like his but isn’t.
And I think about what Damian told me about the other monster in this house.
I thought he meant his father, but maybe there’s more than one.
Because a monster stands behind me.
I look up at Damian’s face. I want to ask him why he’s not running. Why we’re not racing away.
But what I see isn’t fear.
It’s recognition.
I open my mouth to speak, to tell him we need to move, but I watch his eyes narrow, see them darken. See his lips stretch into a cold smile.
I hear the man behind me breathe.
“Damian,” he says.
Damian’s grip tightens, hurting me. His chest rises as he takes a breath in and an eternity passes before he speaks, his words shocking me.
“Welcome home, Brother.”
***