Phantom
: Chapter 7

May 2, 1944

“Mama, is Daddy okay?” Sera’s sweet voice draws my attention away from the faucet and the hot water cascading over my hands as I scrub at a dish that’s been clean for the last five minutes.

Is he okay?

Am I?

Our poor daughter has known nothing but stability for her entire life. Seeing her parents slowly crumble must be confusing to her.

We’re failing her.

John is slowly descending deeper into the pits of his addiction to alcohol. His addiction to gambling has already taken hold of him, and now the draw of poker chips is no less alluring than a beautiful woman’s crooked finger.

All the while, Sera lives blissfully on, convinced that she comes home to a happy family every day. Or, at least, she used to. She used to not have a worry in the world.

It breaks my heart knowing that may no longer be the case.

“Yes, baby, of course he is,” I lie, finally setting the dish on the towel beside the sink. My hands are bright pink, and there’s a lingering sting as I shut off the water and unplug the stopper, an obnoxious sound arising as the dirty water drains.

“He smells like whiskey when he comes home now.”

I close my eyes, so very disappointed that she knows that.

“I know. He’s been indulging a bit lately, hasn’t he?” I say, staring at the sudsy water slowly swirling down the drain, feeling like it’s a perfect representation of my life. Since when did it become comparable to dirty water filtering out of a sink?

“I hope he doesn’t for my birthday party,” she mutters.

I frown, feeling utterly helpless. Her fourteenth birthday is this Friday, but we’re having a party Saturday. During the day, a few of her girlfriends and other classmates will meet at an arcade for cake and a few games. With the sugar rations, we won’t be able to provide many sweets, but all the moms are hoping to scrounge up enough to satisfy the little heathens.

Later that night, we’ll celebrate—just the three of us.

And I don’t know that John will leave the booze alone. He’ll have hell to pay if he doesn’t, but lately, my wrath isn’t enough to stop him.

I would hope not disappointing his daughter would be convincing enough, but I can’t be certain about that anymore, either.

“Sweetheart, I will do everything in my power to make sure your daddy behaves,” I assure.

I hate making false promises, so I don’t dare swear to her that he will. But I’ll certainly protect her however I can.

“Do you think it’s because he doesn’t love me anymore?”

The moment the last word leaves her mouth, my heart instantly cracks into pieces.

“Oh, baby, of course not!” I assure, turning to face her. She’s sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, drawing random doodles in her notebook. I rush over to her and pull her into my embrace while placing a kiss on top of her head. “Your daddy loves you so much, as do I. Never think otherwise.”

She nods, the movement shaky. She doesn’t cry, but I can feel from the slight tremble rattling her bones that she’s emotional. I can’t imagine how long she’s been thinking her father’s drinking is her fault, and that only forms more fissures in my fragile heart. She doesn’t deserve to feel like that. Ever.

“How about when Daddy comes home, I talk to him, and we plan a date night for the three of us? Maybe a drive-in. Or we could go out for ice cream?” I suggest, already feeling a pinch of worry.

We still have no money, and the last thing I should suggest is to spend more. But I’ll scrounge up every last penny if it puts a smile on her sweet face. I’ll figure it out. I always do.

“I’d love that,” she whispers.

I pepper a few more kisses over the top of her head and release her. She’s at that age where my hugs have time limits now. Before I return to the sink, I catch sight of a few of her drawings.

My heart drops when I notice she drew a figure of a man wearing a long trench coat and a fedora.

“Honey, who is that man you drew?” I ask lightly, pointing at the sketch. I quickly cross my arms, tucking my trembling hands beneath my armpits.

She shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Children and their cryptic, unhelpful answers when you need them most . . .

“Have you seen him before?”

She shrugs again. “There’s been a couple times I thought I saw him outside our window, but when I looked again, he wasn’t there.”

Whatever is left of my heart is now scattered into a million different pieces—none of them where they belong.

I clear my throat. “You tell me if you see him again, yeah?”

“I guess, but he’s not real, Mama,” she insists, rolling her eyes.

Oh, how I wish that were true.

May 3, 1944

Parsons Manor is haunted—has been since the moment I moved in. Those poor souls that lost their lives here are angry. They always have been.

Some days, I worry that I’ll end up here with them.

Because despite how vengeful the spirits are, I love this house. So much so, I feel it’s become a part of me. When I’m angry, the temperature in the house drops as cold as the ice that clings to my words.

“You were supposed to help with his problem.”

Frank stands beside me while I rock in my chair, staring out the bay window, my gaze locked onto his reflection in the glass. Or rather, what’s behind him.

There’s someone standing behind him—something.

It appears to be around seven feet tall, and while its form is entirely black, its sharp claws and red eyes are clear.

Whoever he was when he was alive is no longer who he is now.

It’s no longer human.

Nor does it want Frank in this house.

The sight should bother me, but I’ve long grown used to the phantoms in this manor.

Must be why I’m so reckless with the one who continues to materialize before me long enough to whisper his finger across my flesh before disappearing again.

I look away from the sinister being and refocus on Frank’s reflection.

I don’t bother to tell him he’s not alone.

Frank sighs. “Gigi, I’ve been trying. You know how stubborn he can be.”

I do know that.

“I also know that we’ve barely scraped by these last couple of months. John recouped some of what he lost, just enough to pay a few bills. But we’re still on the brink of losing everything, Frank. And his drinking . . .”

Frank takes a menacing step toward me, though his ire is reserved for his best friend. “Has he hurt you?”

I scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

However, the nervous energy spilling from my pores is potent enough to taste. My fingers flutter over my white-and-blue-floral dress, twisting the thin cotton material until wrinkles form. I spent an hour ironing clothes this morning, including this dress.

I force myself to stop abusing the fabric and settle for staring out the window again.

The monster is no longer in the reflection, and I let out a sigh of relief at that. Sometimes they like to scratch and push, and I’d hate to explain to Frank that an invisible entity is responsible.

It may make John’s drinking habit appear reasonable.

“Gigi,” he says with a sigh. “I told you . . . If you need help, I’m here for you. Whatever you need, anything at all, just tell me. Even if it’s comfort, I can help with that, too.”

I shake my head, speechless and uncomfortable. John may as well have stuck his fist down my throat to grab hold of my heart and crush it. I can’t speak around it, can’t stop him from shattering the muscle that I always thought was his to take care of.

I’m just . . . so tired.

Tears well in my eyes, distorting Frank’s reflection until my vision is as blurry as a window during a thunderstorm.

All the turbulent emotions inside me rise until they’re bubbling out, and before I know it, the dam releases.

“He came home so drunk last night, he didn’t even recognize me,” I choke out past a sob.

I sense Frank’s charging toward me, so I hold up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. The last thing I need is comfort.

At least . . . not from him.

“He had spit-up on his shirt, and when I was unbuttoning it to help him remove it, he laughed and asked me to promise not to tell his wife.” A tear spills down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away. “He wanted . . .” I shake my head, unable to finish. Unable to tell his best friend that he pinned me to the bed and fucked me, fully convinced I was a random floozy.

When he was finished, I slapped him sober.

I’ve never been the type of woman to let a man treat me so awfully, and I certainly won’t start for my husband.

He had no idea what he had done when he awoke this morning. Not until I told him, at least. He apologized profusely, claiming that his actions were not his own and that he deserved to be slapped for it.

Like he had every day for the last sixteen years, he tried to place a soft goodbye kiss on my lips, but for the first time, I turned my cheek to him.

Wherever my forgiveness is, it’s not with him.

“Anyway,” I continue, sniffling and wiping away a few more stray tears. “I don’t expect you to fix his mistakes. I just want my husband back. I want my daughter’s father back. If you can make that happen, that’s the only thing I want from you.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop, and for a moment, I’m convinced the monster has returned.

I face Frank, only to find him glaring at the floor, his knuckles bleached white from how tightly he curls his fingers into his palms. After a few beats, he turns his fiery stare up to mine.

Frowning, I open my mouth, prepared to ask him what’s wrong, but he bites out his response first. “As you wish, Gigi.”

Then he’s turning and storming away, the front door slamming shut behind him moments later. I startle, a hand drifting over my racing heart.

What has gotten into all these men?

I can’t keep up any longer, and I’m beginning to favor the ghosts that haunt these halls.

At least they are predictable.

May 3, 1944

I don’t know if I’ve ever been so hurt.

My mother has called me many names in my life. Spit many insults at me. Degraded me in ways that have stuck with me for decades.

None of that compares to what John did to me last night.

In our years together, our lovemaking has always been gentle. Soft. The two of us hidden under the covers, nearly silent, as to not wake our daughter down the hall.

Last night, he ravaged me.

And it hurt.

Had he been in his right mind, had he even known who I was, I might have loved it. The aggressiveness, the untamed wildness to it, and the loud grunts coming from his throat that I don’t think I have ever heard before.

Except he didn’t know who I was. He didn’t take care of me, and ensure I was ready for him. He didn’t care about my well-being. He didn’t care that, in his mind, I was another woman.

It hurt.

It still hurts.