I Know You’re There. Somewhere.
We were hiking in dense woods when a sudden rainstorm blew up. We ran, looking for shelter, and came upon an old, abandoned house—a mansion, really, that must have once been beautiful.
“How lucky is that?” you said and bounded onto the porch. I nearly fell through the rotten boards, but you caught my elbow and pulled me toward the door.
“Look—the lock is broken,” you said. “Let’s go inside.”
But it was dark, lit only by intermittent flashes of lightning. Even though I was cold and wet from the downpour, I didn’t want to go in.
“No,” I said. “I’m scared.”
“It will be fine,” you said, pulling the door open and stepping in. A whoosh of wind rushed inside, lifting the gossamer sheets that covered pieces of large, hulking furniture. The place smelled musty with a faint whiff of animal odor—mice, perhaps?
You lifted a corner of one sheet. Underneath was an elaborately carved chest of dark wood. A grand piano lay beneath another, gleaming as if freshly polished. You tapped some of the ivories, producing a tinkly, off-key tune.
“Look at this lovely stuff,” you said. “Out here in the midst of the woods in a broken-down house.”
The wind picked up, pushing in through cracks, moaning. Another flash lit the room, followed by a boom so loud it rattled the tall windows. Dusty dark-green curtains hung in tatters from ceiling to floor. You pulled one back and peered out.
“Rain isn’t slowing at all,” you said, pointing to a curving staircase that led upward. “Let’s go check out the upstairs.”
I didn’t want to go, but I let you take my hand and lead me up the elaborately carved staircase into the dark. I should have refused. I didn’t, though, and I will regret that for eternity.
The walls of the stairwell were lined with huge oil portraits of stern-looking people. When we reached the top of the stairs, you said, “Look, there’s light coming from under that door.”
And there was, just a sliver.
“I’m scared,” I said, tugging on your hand. “Let’s go back down.”
“No. Let’s just see what this is.”
The wind made that moaning sound again, like a ghost howling in the night.
You reached for the door handle.
“No!” I shouted. “Let’s leave. Now.”
“But don’t you want to see what’s in there? I do.”
You yanked the door open, and the brightest light I’d ever seen in my life shot out, blinding me. I clasped my hands over my eyes, but that didn’t stop the searing pain. “So bright, so bright!” I turned away.
“Oh wow,” I heard you say from behind me. “Oh wow.”
“What is it?” I asked, trying to peer through my fingers to see what you saw, but the light was too bright.
“Oh wow. Oh wow. Oh wow.”
I stepped toward the door, and the light went out, as if someone had shut off a lamp. I couldn’t see a thing and fumbled in my pocket for my phone. I switched it on and shone the beam into the room.
It was empty, just walls, a ceiling, and a floor. No window.
And no you.
Later, the police would bring dogs and a search force, but no one ever found you. They took my statement, but I read in the paper that the police found “inconsistencies” in my story, like the furniture I claimed had been downstairs—there was no furniture, or so the police report said. And the porch that had been caving in—no porch either. I distinctly remember a porch and its rotten floorboards.
And then there was the storm. Weather records for that day showed no sign of precipitation, lightning, or wind.
My mother says I need to let this go. She says you were not there that night because you were already dead, as if anyone could believe such a story.
Against my will, she placed me into the hospital where I’m writing this, but I have to believe they’ll release me soon. I need to keep looking for you. I know you’re there, somewhere in that old house, under the floorboards, or one of the sheets that shroud the furniture.
Or maybe in the woods outside. You’re there, somewhere. I’m sure of it.
About the Author
Raima Larter is a former chemistry professor turned fiction writer who, for years, wrote stories and poetry in secret and tucked them away in drawers. Now based in Colorado, she has published four novels, a nonfiction book, and numerous short stories. She serves as Nonfiction Editor at Utopia Science Fiction. Read more at raimalarter.com.