Page 3 of Petrify

“Good. I told one of the girls to bring up a tray for you. I wasn’t sure if you’ve had dinner.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

Once we are near the end of the wing, she tries the knob of one of the doors. Unlocked. “And this is where you’ll be staying.” She allows me the honor of pushing it open to reveal what’s inside—a bedroom at least three times the size of the closet I grew up in.

I almost drop the handle of my suitcase.

Ms. Byrne steps inside, drawing the curtains closed while she speaks over her shoulder. “As you know from your paperwork, you may keep your cell phone, but it is to be left in your room at all times, silenced. Breaking this rule could lead to termination of your contract.”

“I understand.” My voice is small. I’m frozen in the doorway?—

Surely this is notmyroom.

She turns back around, dozens of feet between us, and I make sure that she reads only cool indifference on my face.

Idobelong here.

I deserve the king-sized, four poster bed. I deserve the attached en suite. I deserve the silk sheets, the cashmere, the solid wood furniture, thejob.

The past decade of my life I’ve been stuck in less than one thousand square feet with my aunt, who was never bothered enough to keep track of me day to day. Which is still more attention than I could’ve asked for from my mother.

I deserve to be here.

They wouldn’t have hired me otherwise. They wouldn’t have sought me out.

“Oh, another important thing.” She folds her hands together. “Quiet hours begin at nine in the evening until breakfast. Mrs. Beauchene insists on the dark hours remaining quiet. So please do your best to keep this in mind.”

The smile she gives me then doesn’t meet her eyes.

“Do you have any questions for me?”

“No, I?—”

It’s then that a young brunette woman raps on the door, letting herself in with a tray of steaming food. She doesn’t greet me, doesn’t even look at me, before setting the tray at the writing desk and scurrying away.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Ms. Byrne says. “Goodnight, Miss Doyle.”

“Goodnight.”

And then she’s gone.

But I’m not alone. It doesn’t feel like it, anyway. A presence remains in the room. My paranoia made tangible, in a new house, a new room, surrounded by opulence I have no business touching.

I don’t know how I’m going to sleep tonight.

The ceilings are at least ten feet tall, the exterior wall paneled, while the inner walls are papered with a midnight blue filigree. Though a few lamps are lit, they cast such a soft golden glow that shadows swarm to the corners of the room. Another large painting, of a lush garden with a crowd of ancient Roman deities. A full-length mirror hangs next to the bathroom door, reflecting the face of a girl with no expression at all.

Only after I set my bags down and near the tray with my dinner do I hear it; the silence is being chased away by a faint sound.

Slow and haunting.

Music—from a piano. The tune is not one I recognize, lilting from side to side in an unsteady dance.

Someone in the family practicing after their dinner?

It’s only when I go to lock my bedroom door that I realize thereis no lockinside.

Of course not. I almost laugh at the unease settling onto my shoulders. An old house, with eerie music echoing through the halls, dozens of rooms collecting dust, and at least one with no lock.