Page 34 of Cackle

“If you say so.” I finish the bottle. It puts a fuzz on everything.

We go back to the kitchen and Sophie prepares a platter of cheese and bread and different spreads. She gets another bottle of wine. It’s night now, and the house is so dark I can barely see.

Being a little drunk probably isn’t helping.

Sophie helps me down a narrow, winding staircase to a room that’s all red velvet drapes and big chairs. There’s an elevated stage flanked by gold Corinthian columns. There’s a projector screen that Sophie has to pull down.

“What would you like to watch?” she asks me.

“Whatever you want,” I say.

She puts on Gaslight starring Ingrid Bergman. She opens the wine and this time she’s remembered glasses. She pours me one, and by the time I finish it, I can barely keep my eyes open.

The next thing I know, Sophie is pushing my hair out of my face and whispering, “Let’s get you to bed.”

The house is a maze, especially at night. We go up the main staircase and make a series of turns, and then we’re in a frilly bedroom. There’s a large canopy bed. The curtains and bedding both have busy floral patterns.

“The bathroom is through there,” Sophie says, pointing to a door next to a large armoire. Sophie opens the armoire and takes out a fresh set of sheets. “I’ll change these for you.”

“I can do it,” I say.

“Nonsense,” she says. “Why don’t you wash up? There should be a spare nightdress in the dresser.”

I turn to find a double dresser. I open the top drawer, and there is a single article of clothing folded inside it. A long, formless white cotton dress.

I take it into the bathroom to change. I’m so tired, so tipsy, I feel like I’m being pulled down, like there are invisible creatures hanging off of me, wrapped around my legs like difficult toddlers. I start to undress. It’s freezing in the bathroom. It’s a windowless room. It’s not small, but it feels small compared to the rest of the house. There’s a claw-foot tub, an old-fashioned toilet with a chain and a pedestal sink. There’s a vanity in the corner with a pretty round mirror, the frame accented with delicate silver butterflies.

I stumble over to peek at my reflection.

I look incredible. Maybe it’s the lighting in here, flatteringly dim. My skin looks smooth, glowing, my eyes bright. I linger so long it’s shameful, just standing around admiring my reflection. I’m so focused on me, on my face, on how my hair isn’t greasy at the roots like it usually is, on how my lips have natural color, that I almost don’t notice it.

The other face.

It floats over my shoulder, an orb of pale skin. Two eyes. A nose. A mouth. It’s small, far behind me. I gasp, the sound surprising me as I spin around to look.

There’s no one there.

I turned too quickly, and an intense dizziness destabilizes me. I collapse onto the vanity stool. I take measured breaths until the room stops spinning.

Clearly, I didn’t see what I thought I saw. It wouldn’t even be possible for someone to be standing behind me; the space wouldn’t allow it.

I wobble over to the sink with all the grace of a baby giraffe taking its first steps. I lean down and drink some water straight from the tap.

This is embarrassing. I had too much to drink. What will Sophie think?

I change into the nightshirt, or whatever it is. It makes me look like a Pilgrim. I fold my clothes and set them on the vanity, avoiding the mirror.

When I open the door, I find Sophie smoothing the covers.

“Ready for you, darling,” she says. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No,” I say. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll take you to breakfast. Have you been to the diner yet? Tom makes the fluffiest pancakes.”

“Haven’t been yet,” I say. I want her to leave so I can collapse into bed, but I also don’t want to be alone. This room is too formal. There’s something unsettling about it.

“Good night, Annie. Sweet dreams,” she says. “If you need anything else, help yourself. Just don’t go into the east wing. That wing is forbidden.”