Only one way out he could think of.
Go through her.
He lowered his shoulder like he was back playing football, and charged.
He was unprepared for the icy despair he felt as he passed through her. He staggered with it, dropping to his knees near the top of the stairs, wobbling there, using every bit of his balance not to tumble headfirst down them. The pain took over every cell of him, dark and hopeless, pulling up every terrible memory he’d ever had.
He looked down to see Erielle paused on the stairs, twisted to look up at him. He drew in a deep breath and pushed to his feet, hurtling down the stairs and catching Erielle’s hand on the way, pulling her with him.
When they reached the door, he couldn’t open it. The knob felt slimy beneath his hand, the door felt like it was feet thick instead of a couple of inches. He twisted and tugged and pulled, kicked and pushed, but it wouldn’t budge. He pivoted his head to look up the stairs, and gave an involuntary shout when he saw the ghost on the landing, moving toward them, one hand outstretched.
This time, Erielle grabbed his hand and pulled. They ran for the back door, wrenched it open and stumbled down the narrow steps of the back stoop. Their momentum—and fear—carried them forward before they stopped in the middle of the moonlit yard.
He struggled to find his breath as he looked over at her. She was so pale, and focused on the house. “Is that what you see every night?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never seen her before.”
“Her,” he repeated, and bent over, bracing his hands on his knees, shaking all over, nauseated and woozy. “The mayor’s wife.”
She nodded. “I think so.”
He wanted to drop to the ground, just hold on to the earth that seemed to be tilting all over the place like the floor in a fun house. But he needed to be strong for Erielle. She was terrified too. He gathered his wits, pushing aside the fear and anguish tumbling together inside him, and straightened.
“I wonder why you’ve never seen her before.”
She rubbed her hands down her bare legs beneath the shorts of her pajamas. “I don’t know. Maybe she is the one I see, but she’s never made that noise. She’s always just said my name. But this one felt different somehow. This one felt malevolent. The other nights, that one didn’t feel like she wished me harm.” She turned to look at him. “You ran through her. Are you okay? Your hand felt like a block of ice when you grabbed me.”
He tried to take inventory to see if he was indeed okay. He couldn’t be sure. “I think so.” He forced himself to take a step toward the driveway, and his truck. “We’re not going back in there tonight.”
She gave a rough laugh. “I don’t think you’ll fit in my car.”
“We’ll go to my place, then.” They should have done that to begin with. But he’d never expected an encounter like this. Okay, he hadn’t really expected an encounter at all.
“Your place? On the bayou.” She gave a visible shudder.
“Well, it’s that or sleep in your car.” He looked from her to the house. “Which would you prefer? Because I’m not going back in that house until the sun comes up.”
Erielle’s head buzzed on the drive to the bayou. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a full breath—maybe not since before she hit the stairs—and now dizziness swamped her senses. She rubbed her hand up and down her thigh, trying to soothe the trembling. When that didn’t do the trick, she reached across the truck’s console.
Samson folded her hand in his, his palm a little clammy. She didn’t care. She just needed a tether before she floated away like the ghost. Honestly, she didn’t know how Sam was able to drive. She was shaking so hard, and was so scared, she wouldn’t be able to find her way home.
The truck rolled to a halt in front of the cabin, illuminated with one lonely porch light against the dark bayou. Neither of them made an immediate effort to get out of the truck. They were safe in here. Safe. Safe. Safe.
Finally Samson let out a breath and pushed his door open, giving her the courage to do the same. Erielle slid out of the truck, cautious about where she placed her bare feet. She kept her spare sneakers just inside the door, but she’d had no intention of going back inside, not even for them.
The bayou was alive with noise. She took a moment to try to distinguish each sound as she looked up at the cabin. Bullfrogs, owls, the occasional splash of something leaving the water, or entering it. And the dampness infused the air with the scent of earth and decay.
No ghostly sounds, though.
He circled the truck and took her hand again, to guide her inside.
She hesitated in the front door for a minute, taking in the scene before her. Samson’s cabin looked simple and raw from the outside, but once inside she realized it wasn’t the hunting shack she remembered from childhood. The air smelled faintly of fresh lumber and sawdust, proof he’d been working on it. A couch big enough to swallow her whole sat beneath the low ceiling, and an equally massive table stood nearby, both obvious hand-me-downs. Everything about the room was sturdy, functional…like him.
“Did you do this work?” she asked as he nudged her inside so he could close the door.
He nodded, locking the door behind him. She wondered if he often did that. His expression was drawn, his skin pale, exhaustion etched in his features. Honestly, she wouldn’t have allowed him to stay over if she’d thought they’d face that threat. She never would have put anyone through that.
He didn’t seem any more willing to release her than she was to let go of him. He guided her to the enormous couch, drawing her down and wrapping his arms around her. She melted into his side, resting her cheek against his chest, against the soft knit of his t-shirt, and listened to the pounding of his heart that matched her own.
