I had to get my things upstairs and get them put away before night fell and the darkness would mean I couldn’t see anything in front of me. I dreaded going up there, but the longer I put it off, the more I would build it up in my mind, and the last thing I needed right now was to make this thing bigger than it already was.
I stood up before I could change my mind and pushed my cell phone into my pocket. I figured I might as well have it with me just in case. Besides, when night fell, it would serve as a flashlight, so I could get around without breaking a bone.
I moved to the bottom of the stairs where I had dumped my bag earlier. I picked it up and began to slowly climb. As each step took me closer to the top, I felt the dread in the pit of my stomach grow a little bit denser. It was a bizarre feeling, one I couldn’t really put my finger on. I supposed it was just being back here after so long. Surely the strange mix of familiar and alien would be enough to leave anyone feeling a little disconcerted.
I tried my best to shake off the feeling as I reached the top of the stairs and looked both ways. The left-hand side of the upper floor had always been out of bounds for me. For everyone except my father, really, and I guess my mom when she was alive. I suddenly felt a streak of rebellion, and instead of turning right into the familiar, I went left and made my way into my father’s private quarters.
There were two doors leading off the hallway. I pushed open the first one, my stomach swirling with excitement and dread in equal measures. I held my breath as the door swung inward. I let it out in a sigh that was half disappointment, half relief. I wasn’t sure what I had expected to find behind that door, but it was definitely something a bit less mundane than a bathroom.
It was a large bathroom, and the fixtures and fittings seemed to be high-end, something I expected from my father, but it wasn’t what I was looking for. That had to be behind the other door.
I closed the door, then walked to the other one and put my hand on the knob. For a moment, I was frozen to the spot. I was so conditioned from my childhood and my father telling me that this room was out of bounds that even now that he was dead and buried, I still believed it.
I told myself I was being silly—this whole house was mine now—and I pushed open the bedroom door. A giant four-poster bed sat in the center of the room, still made up with dark purple silk sheets and pillowcases and a white duvet cover. The furniture was all matching oak, and I knew it was real wood, not just particleboard with a bit of sticky-back plastic on it. A chandelier-style light hung above the bed, and a plush red carpet adorned the floor. In short, the room looked fit for a king, which was apt as, in some ways, my father had believed himself to be a king, at least of our household.
As his heir, that likely made me king of the house now. But I didn’t want that. I didn’t want any of it. I just wanted to be me.
I walked into the room and put my bag down on the bed. No sooner had the bag left my hand than I spun around, sure there was someone behind me. There wasn’t, of course. There was no one in the house but me, but I could still feel my father’s presence. That was what it was. That was why I felt like I was being watched. Even now with my father not just gone, but actually dead, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to take his room.
Even after hearing the story of my father’s death from several people, I still felt almost as though it were all just a delusion, a part of my illness. I kept picturing my father walking through the door. If he caught me in his room, I wouldn’t live to see tomorrow, and despite knowing that I was being paranoid, I decided against taking the master bedroom.
I felt better as I picked my bag back up off the bed and left the room, closing the door behind me. I walked past the top of the stairs, then went down the other side of the hallway. The doors of the guest rooms stood open, and I peered into them. They were out of use: their furniture covered with plastic sheets, all the beds stripped bare.
Finally, I came to the end of the hallway, the last three doors. The door opposite me was the bathroom I had shared with Janet. The room on the left-hand side had been my bedroom, and the one opposite it on the right had been Janet’s. I instinctively moved toward my old room, but at the last minute, I turned away, and instead, I opened the door to Janet’s room.
Her room had also always been forbidden territory to me when we were growing up, although she seemed to think that my room was fair game and just marched in whenever she felt like it. I went into her room now, feeling brave and rebellious and really quite good about the whole thing.
I could instantly see why Janet had been so protective of her space as a child. Her room was two or three times the size of mine. She wouldn’t have been afraid that I would take it from her—she wouldn’t have allowed it, and my father would have taken her side like always—but she probably didn’t want to hear me moaning about it not being fair that her room was so much bigger and grander than mine.
I debated taking the room for myself. What would Janet be able to do about it when she got here? Nothing, that was what. The whole house was mine now. But even as I thought about it, I knew I wouldn’t take the room. I didn’t have the energy to put up with Janet complaining about it. And besides, it wasn’t like I needed a huge bedroom. I was only going to be sleeping in there, not hosting a party.
I backed out of Janet’s room and closed the door, and then I crossed the hallway to my room. I had genuinely believed that this room would be the least problematic, but it seemed I had been wrong. For starters, there was a lock on the outside of the door, one my father had had no qualms about using when I was a child and he decided I needed punishing for some imagined wrongdoing. Even though I was alone in the house, the thought of someone coming along and locking me in the room did nothing for my nerves.
I decided to go in and sort my things out and then go find a screwdriver to remove the lock. I could worry about repairing the damage done to the paint tomorrow. For now, I just wanted to get settled.
I pushed the door open and stepped in. Instantly, a shiver passed through me. I felt a deep-rooted sense of dread in my stomach, the cause of which I couldn’t put my finger on, but I knew it had to do with this room, and no doubt it also had a lot to do with my father and his treatment of me.
I forced myself to remain in the room long enough to unpack my bag. It wasn’t like I had a lot of choice about where to keep my things, and of the three rooms that I wouldn’t have to mess around taking dust covers off everything in, this one was the lesser of the evils. It didn’t take me long to unpack the few bits of clothes I had, and then I moved through to the bathroom to sort out my meager toiletries. That was something else I would have to sort out—new clothes, shoes, toiletries. Everything, really. But that was another job for tomorrow. For now, all I had to do was work out which of the rooms I was going to sleep in.
I felt my head swim and my vision swoop in and out for a second. My breathing sped up, and my heart slammed in my chest. The start of a panic attack. I knew by that feeling that I wouldn’t be sleeping in any of those rooms, not unless I wanted to have a full-blown panic attack again.
The decision made for me, I left my bedroom and headed back for the stairs. As I did so, my breathing began to return to normal, and my heart rate slowed. My vision stopped swimming in and out, and my head stopped spinning. As far as my anxiety was concerned, I had made the right decision to walk away from the bedrooms. I wasn’t sure my pride would agree, but in that moment, I really didn’t care.
I descended the stairs and wandered into the living room. I shrugged as I looked at the couch. I hadn’t left myself with a ton of options, so I walked over to it and lay down. This was my bed, at least for tonight.
I thought it would take me a long time to fall asleep—experience had taught me that much about myself—but on this occasion, I fell asleep almost as soon as I lay down.
***
I walk through the house, trying to get away from the shadow, but it follows my every move. It’s not my shadow. My shadow cowers from it in fear. It’s bigger than my shadow—taller, wider. It’s my father’s shadow. He is following me around the house, letting me lead the way until he is ready to pounce on me and teach me a lesson.
I duck into the bathroom and close the door, but where the lock should be, there is just an empty space. Even as I tell myself not to leave the room, I reach out, open the door, and leave.
The shadow still follows me. It seems that the laws of physics don’t apply to the shadow, because it was in the bathroom with me without my father being in there. Despite knowing that, I am more certain than ever that the shadow is my father’s shadow. I can hear him breathing. I can smell his scent—a woodsy aftershave he always wears, and a slight hint of sweat; the latter is only present when he is about to beat me, the smell of his excitement.
I take a chance and start to run. I make it to the top of the stairs, down each one. The shadow stays with me, never getting any closer or farther away. I reach the bottom of the stairs and keep running. I make it into the living room, and I see that the shadow hasn’t followed me in here.
I have done it. I am free of my father. Free of the beatings and the abuse. I sit down on the couch, and a laugh bubbles up in my throat. I try to keep it in, but I can’t. It bursts out of me, a sound so pure, so full of joy. I keep laughing, and it feels good. In that moment, I am truly happy.
But it doesn’t last long. I hear loud, pounding footsteps. My father’s footsteps. They are on the stairs once more, but this time, they are not coming for me. They are heading up instead of down. I feel a pang of guilt stab at me like a needle worrying my skin. Has he gone after Janet? Is he going to hurt her because I escaped him?
No, he won’t hurt Janet. Janet never bears his bruises, never gets yelled at by him. Janet is his favorite by far, but I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing for her. My father has his balance all wrong. He doesn’t love me enough, but he loves Janet too much.
I screw my eyes tightly closed, not wanting to hear her bedroom door opening, not wanting to hear her quiet whimpers and pleas for him to stop. I put my fingers into my ears, but I realize I can still hear him. And he’s not with Janet. He’s behind me again.
I open my eyes and wail in despair as I realize I am back at the start. I start to run, the shadow looming over me …
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