Layla
: Chapter 9

I put one security camera in the kitchen and one on a bookshelf in the Grand Room. The cameras are connected to an app on my phone, so anytime there’s movement, I get a notification.

That was two days ago, and so far the only times it has gone off are when Layla or I walk into view of the cameras.

I came here to focus on Layla, but to say I’ve been distracted would be an understatement. I’m always looking over my shoulder, waiting for something to happen. So much so I disguise my late nights as work, but all I’ve been doing is sitting in the Grand Room, browsing websites about supernatural shit. I stayed up so late last night I ended up falling asleep on the couch.

I just woke up. It’s still dark out now. I’d guess it’s probably around five in the morning. I’m still on the couch, but I haven’t moved since I opened my eyes.

I’m trying to think about what position I was in when I fell asleep, what I was holding, the fact that I wasn’t covered up. Because I don’t remember the blanket I’m clutching. I remember it being on the back of the couch, but I don’t remember using it to cover up with.

When I fell asleep on this couch last night—this blanket was folded and draped over the back of it.

I know Layla more than likely came downstairs and covered me with it, but I still mentally retrace my steps before opening the app.

Layla doesn’t know about the security cameras. I’m not trying to hide anything from her, but I did set them up while she was asleep. I just figured if she saw one and mentioned it, I’d tell her they were here when we showed up so she wouldn’t grow concerned.

But watching the videos recorded by the app is an invasion of her privacy. I just don’t want to tell her I have access to the footage because I don’t want her to worry unnecessarily. I also don’t want her to feel like I’m spying on her.

But in a way, I am. I set the cameras up as a way to catch her in the act. Because who else am I going to catch? A ghost that I don’t believe in?

An intruder that can somehow bypass dead bolts?

I move for the first time since opening my eyes a few minutes ago. I sit up slowly on the couch and reach for my phone. I open the app and notice my fingers are trembling as I skip the video back to the moment I fell asleep. Why would my hands be shaking if I think it’s just Layla?

I fell asleep around two in the morning, so I set the video to play around that time. I remain seated on the couch, half-covered with the blanket, and I watch the footage closely, fast-forwarding every few minutes.

At three twenty in the morning, a shadow appears in the doorway to the Grand Room.

Layla isn’t anywhere in the frame, but I can tell it’s her shadow.

A few seconds later, she walks slowly into the Grand Room. She stares down at me as I’m sleeping. Then she covers me with the blanket.

It was Layla.

I’m an idiot. I’m getting inside my own head. Now I’m forcing myself to assume things are happening without some explanation behind them.

I move my finger to stop the video, but my finger hovers over the screen because something Layla does on the video catches my attention.

After she covered me up, her eyes moved straight to the security camera in the Grand Room.

I watch the video with a lump in my throat. Layla peers at the camera for a good fifteen seconds before moving toward it. She walks across the room with a curious expression on her face and then stops right in front of the camera. She doesn’t pick it up. She doesn’t even touch it. She just stares into it as if she wants me to see her.

A moment later, she turns and walks out of the room, leaving me asleep on the couch.

The whole interaction between Layla and the camera is so bizarre; I rewind it and watch it again. But this time, I keep watching the video long after Layla has left the room. There are a couple of times I roll over on the

couch, but other than those two movements, nothing else happens in the room.

Until it does.

At approximately 4:29 in the morning, the camera view changes abruptly, and then the video goes black.

I pause the video and look at the security camera perched on one of the bookshelves. It’s pointed toward the wall now.

I immediately stand up and walk over to the camera. I adjust it so that it’s pointing at the Grand Room again.

There’s no way this camera could have turned on its own.

I watch the video no less than fifteen times in an attempt to figure out how the camera could just turn itself, but it can’t. And there was no one in the Grand Room at that point other than me.

I begin pacing the room.

I can’t explain that.

No one can explain that.

And if I were to show it to someone, I’d be accused of faking the video.

Maybe because the video is a fake? Is that possible? Maybe the camera was made to move on its own?

I walk over to the camera again. I pick it up and inspect it for a second time, as if I’m going to replace something in the camera that could explain how it could move itself.

What if the app company has a hacker? I could see that happening.

Some guy sitting at his computer, manipulating camera angles and positions to scare people.

It’s the more plausible explanation, but I still replace myself at the kitchen table on my laptop ten minutes later, researching ghosts and haunted houses.

I create an account using a fake name in a paranormal chat room. I read through the posts in the forum until the sun has fully risen outside.

I roll my eyes at every single one of the stories I read. People who claim to have seen a shadow, or heard a noise, or had a light flicker. All things that can easily be explained.

This shit can’t be explained.

How does a camera move by itself? How does a stove-top burner turn off by itself? How does a rag move from the stove to the sink? How does a

laptop type messages to itself and move from one room to another?

I can feel the certainty in my beliefs being chipped away at as I make my own post in the forum. I title it “Skeptic.”

Then I write:

I don’t believe in ghosts. Not even a little. But things have happened that even my skeptic self can’t explain. Appliances turn off by themselves.

Objects move themselves. My laptop slammed shut on my hands. My initial thought is that my girlfriend is pranking me, but the timelines and her placement in the house don’t add up with the things that have happened. I’m not sure what I’m expecting you guys to say. I guess I just want another skeptic to explain these things away for me. But how many things have to happen before they can no longer be explained?

When I hit post, I feel like a damn idiot.

I shut my laptop and stare at it.

I’m losing my mind.

Not because weird things are happening—but because I’ve allowed myself to believe they can’t be explained. There’s an explanation for everything. I just have to figure it out.

“You’re up early.”

My whole body jerks at the sound of Layla’s voice. I didn’t even hear her coming down the stairs. She leans in and kisses me before walking to the coffeepot. I made a fresh pot, but that was two hours ago—back when I used to be an idiot and chose to spend an entire morning online reading ghost stories.

I’m no longer that same idiot. I’ve matured in the last two minutes.

I’ve come to my senses.

“What are your plans today?” Layla asks. She’s looking down at her cell phone, sipping from a coffee cup.

“I don’t know. Figured I’d work on some music. You?”

She shrugs. “I’m thinking about having a pool day.” She sets her phone and the coffee on the counter and walks over to me. She slips between me and the table, so I push my chair back a little so she can straddle me. She’s wearing a fitted T-shirt that doesn’t even cover her stomach, and a pair of pink panties.

Anytime Layla is wearing something this revealing, it’s the first thing I notice. And then once I do notice, she usually ends up no longer wearing whatever it is she was wearing because we end up naked in the bed, or in the shower, or on the couch.

Yet . . . I didn’t notice her this time until she sat on my lap.

I slide my hands to her ass and bury my face in her neck. This is further proof that my focus has been skewed since the day we arrived here.

“Didn’t you say the pool was heated?”

“Yep.”

“You should take a break and have a pool day with me,” she says.

A pool day actually sounds good. Being outside sounds good.

Spending time in the water with Layla might feel reminiscent of the first time we were in that pool together, and that sounds really good.

I slide my hands up her back and smile at her. “Bathing suit pool day or naked pool day?”

“That’s a stupid question.” She smiles, and it’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen on her face in a long time. I love it so much I kiss that smile.

I also replace that smile misleading. Why hasn’t she asked me about the camera?

Maybe she assumes it belongs to the owner of the house.

I’ll just let her keep assuming that.

Layla found an oversize float with cup holders and a Bluetooth speaker, so we’re on it together in the middle of the pool. She’s on her stomach attempting a tan, even though it’s in the low sixties right now. She might even be asleep. I’m lying on my back, shamefully and secretly interacting in the paranormal forum.

It’s late afternoon now and even though I decided I’m no longer the same person I was this morning when I stupidly posted to that forum, I’m still reading the comments like I can’t devour them fast enough.

How long have you lived in the house?

Dude, get the heck out of there.

Has anyone ever been murdered in the home?

I answer a few of them with one reply:

We don’t live in this house. It’s for sale, but we’re only here for a short-term rental. I was thinking about buying it but now I’m not so sure. And I don’t know the history of the home. How could I replace that out?

I hit post, just as Layla groans. “You’ve been on your phone for two hours,” she says. She grabs my phone out of my hands, and I try to snatch it back from her, because the paranormal forum is still pulled up, but she doesn’t look at the screen. She just stretches out her arm and sets it on the concrete next to the pool to keep me away from it.

I feel bad. She’s right. I haven’t put my phone away once today.

Layla rolls over onto her back. The float bobs up and down from the movement. Her eyes are closed, and she’s relaxed as she lazily drapes her arms over her head. I stare at her for a moment—my eyes following the length of her. She looks insanely sexy right now.

“Have you ever had sex on a pool float?” I ask her.

She doesn’t open her eyes. She just grins and shakes her head. “No.

But I’m definitely up for the challenge.”

The lack of food coupled with the alcohol led to us failing at trying to fuck on the pool float. We fell off it three times. We didn’t give up, though. We just moved to one of the nearby lounge chairs to finish.

The wind picked up as the sun was beginning to set, and no matter how warm the water was, the air was getting too cold to remain outside.

We’ve been inside for several hours now, relaxing on the bed. She’s been watching movies, and I’ve been on my laptop attempting to browse the forums, but it’s difficult trying to keep the screen out of her line of sight with as much as she moves around.

I finally decide to take my browsing downstairs. I reach over and turn off my lamp.

“You going to sleep too?” Layla asks, her voice muffled by the pillow she’s snuggling.

“I’m gonna work on a song for a little while.” I lean over and kiss her.

“Text me if the piano is too loud.”

She nods, her eyes closed. “Can you turn off the TV?”

I turn it off and head downstairs.

Today was nice. Layla seemed relaxed. Content. There was a moment right after we finished having sex when I almost told her about how I’m considering buying the property. I was kissing her neck, thinking about how nice the day was. How nice all the future days could be. I wanted to ask her opinion on buying the house, but I couldn’t get the words out.

Buying a house is a huge commitment.

Buying a house with a girl I’ve known less than a year is an even bigger commitment.

Today was damn near perfect. But there’s still an uncertainty that lingers, not only with the strange things that have happened in the house, but with whether Layla would even want to make a decision that huge.

I chose not to say anything. Not yet, anyway.

When I get to the Grand Room, I sit at the piano, but I’m really not in the mood to work on my music tonight. I set my laptop on top of the piano with the intention of checking my email, but I don’t. I go straight back into the forum I posted in this morning and start reading the replies in my thread.

Why is the place for sale? You should ask the previous owners why they left.

That comment piques my curiosity. This place wasn’t for sale when we were here the first time. And I remember Layla saying something about how Aspen had to book a year in advance in order to secure the venue. If they were booking out that far in advance, they couldn’t have been hurting

for business. Why would they shut it down and put it up for sale so suddenly?

I continue scrolling through the comments until I come across someone with the username UncoverInc. I click on his profile, and the description makes me laugh. Ghosts are people too.

Wow. They really take this shit seriously.

I scroll back to his comment and read it.

Have you tried talking to your ghost yet?

That one comment started a thread of other comments.

I can’t even read them. I can’t take any of them seriously when they’re claiming to have had conversations with ghosts.

I close my laptop, feeling sympathy for all the people who spend so much time in that chat room.

Even if ghosts existed, how the hell would I communicate with one?

As much as I’m trying to put my own intellect above all the people in that forum, I still catch myself looking around the Grand Room. I look behind me, in front of me.

I make sure Layla isn’t anywhere near me when I whisper, “Is someone here?”

Nothing happens.

No one responds.

That’s because ghosts don’t fucking exist, Leeds.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. I’m now on the same playing field as the crazies in the forum.

I stand up and stretch my arms over my head. I look around the room, waiting another few seconds, as if someone is actually going to respond to that question.

I finally shake my head at how absurd my thoughts have been the last few days. I walk toward the door and grip the handle, and then an unexpected sound forces me to pause in my tracks.

One of the piano keys just played.

It was so loud I recognized exactly which key it was that made the noise. Middle C.

I close my eyes.

That did not just happen.

I slowly turn around, eyes still shut, not sure what I’m expecting to replace when I open them. Maybe my laptop fell onto the piano keys? My pulse is pounding so violently—I can feel it in my neck.

I open one eye . . . then the other.

There’s no one at the piano. No one in the room but me.

I immediately pull my phone out of my pocket, open the app for the security cameras, and watch the playback of the last thirty seconds.

The app shows me standing up from the piano. Stretching. I keep my eyes on the footage of the piano. As soon as I reach out for the door handle, middle C on the piano is pressed by nothing.

The key just . . . played itself.

There was nothing there. Absolutely nothing.

There is no way that can be explained.

My first instinct is to run, but my second instinct—the part of me that replaces this fascinating—wins out.

“Do that again,” I say, walking closer to the piano.

A few seconds pass, and then the same key plays itself again.

I take a quick step back.

My knees feel like they’re about to give out. “Fuck.” I bend over, staring at the piano. I take in a slow breath.

I want to ask another question. I want to ask a million questions. But the reality of this moment is too heavy for me to accept. This is where I draw the line, apparently, because I’m walking toward the door. Rushing.

Running. Halfway up the stairs, I pause and press my back against the wall.

I think back to every ghost story I’ve ever laughed at. Every fairy tale I’ve never believed in.

Could I really be wrong?

Incredulity begins to simmer inside of me, or maybe it’s fear. How can I have been wrong my whole life? I’ve always been able to explain everything. These last few days have been the only time in my life I haven’t been able to explain something away.

I can either continue to run from that, or I can confront it. Figure it out. Put my mind at ease.

I think about the idiots in scary movies that never run when they should, but I empathize with them now. The need to disprove the thing that’s scary is greater than the need to run from the potential harm it might bring.

I’m not convinced this is something I should be scared of. I’m convinced it’s something I should investigate.

When I’m back in the room, I close myself inside. I realize most sane people would be in the rental car right now, getting the hell away from this place. I’m still not sure that won’t be me in a few minutes.

“Who are you?” I ask, staring at the piano, my back pressed to the door in case I need a quick escape.

I wait for an answer but realize a question like that can’t be answered with the stroke of a piano key.

I hesitate before finally walking to the piano. I look behind it. Beneath it. Inside of it. There are no wires . . . no setups that would allow someone to be doing this.

“Press a different key.”

The D key is played this time, almost immediately.

I cover my mouth with my hand and mutter “Holy shit” against my palm. I have to be dreaming. That’s the only explanation.

“Press the A key.”

The A key makes a sound.

I don’t know what’s happening, but I completely suppress the skeptic in me and just go with my instinct this time. “I have questions,” I say.

“Press middle C for yes. D for no. A if you don’t know the answer.”

Middle C presses lightly, which means yes. My voice comes out a little shaky when I ask, “Are you dangerous?”

I don’t know why I ask that. Any dangerous entity would surely deny they’re dangerous.

The D key is pressed for no.

“Are you a ghost?”

I don’t know.

“Are you dead?”

I don’t know.

“Do you know me?”

No.

I start pacing the room. My legs feel like they’re floating because I no longer have feeling in them. My skin is tingling with excitement. Or fear.

They feel the same to me sometimes.

“I’m having a conversation with a piano,” I mutter. “What the fuck is happening?”

I have to be dreaming. I’m asleep right now. Either that, or someone is punking me. I’m probably on some prank show. Hell, Layla probably signed us up for a prank show to get me more notoriety.

Maybe someone outside the room is getting a kick out of this. I should ask questions no one would know the answer to unless they were here with me. I look up at the security camera. Maybe that’s it? Someone from the security company thinks this is a funny prank? I take the cover off one of the throw pillows on the couch. I toss it at the camera and cover it up.

I hold up five fingers.

“Am I holding up three fingers?”

No.

“One?”

No.

“Five?”

Yes.

I drop my arm. “Am I going crazy?” I whisper to myself.

I don’t know.

“That question wasn’t for you.” I sit on the couch and rub my hands down my face. “Are you alone?”

Yes.

I wait for a while before asking another question. I’m trying to soak up everything that’s happened in the last half hour, but I’m still trying to throw explanations at myself.

No keys are pressed while I sit in silence. My adrenaline has never been this high. I want to wake up Layla and show her what’s happening, but I’m reacting to this like I found a stray dog and not some entirely different

. . . realm. Layla said that once. That she thinks there are different realms.

Fuck. Maybe she was right.

It makes me want to tell her about this even more, but I’m worried it’ll freak her out. She might want to leave. We’ll have to pack our things and get in the car, and then I’ll never get answers to all the thousands of questions that have formed in the last few minutes. Like what is this thing?

Who is this thing?

“Can you show yourself to me?”

No.

“Because you don’t want to?”

No.

“Because you don’t know how to?”

Yes.

I run my hands through my hair and then grip the back of my neck as I walk over to one of the bookshelves that line the walls. I need more proof that this isn’t a prank. It’s not that easy to suspend an entire lifetime of beliefs in one day.

“Pull a book off one of these shelves,” I say. A hacked security camera won’t be able to pull that off.

I stare patiently at the bookshelf in front of me.

Ten very quiet and still seconds go by; then the book I’m focused on slides out of the bookshelf and falls to the floor with a thud. I look at the book in complete disbelief.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out of it.

I pace the room for a few minutes. I think about everything that’s happened up to this point, and I think maybe I’m numb. In disbelief.

“Do you have a name?”

Yes.

“What is it?”

Nothing happens. No keys are pressed. I realize the question can’t be answered using one of the piano keys. I’ve started working out a way words can be spelled out using piano keys when I hear a noise. I look over at my laptop, which is sitting on top of the piano. It’s opening.

My Word document pulls up.

Letters are being typed into the Word document.

W . . . i . . . l . . . l . . . o . . . w . . .

I take a quick step away from the laptop.

I’m extremely uneasy now.

Before, with the piano, I felt like I still had a small sliver of a chance at explaining it away. A faulty piano key. A mouse in the strings.

Something.

But after the book, and now this—this is a full-on conversation with

. . . nothing. No one is here but me, so that only leaves one explanation.

Ghosts are real.

And this one’s name is Willow.

I stare at the computer for so long the screen goes dark. Then my laptop shuts, all by itself, no wires attached, no explanation—this is insane, good fucking night.

I leave the room.

When I get up to the bedroom, I open the drawer where Layla keeps all her medicine. She has three prescriptions. One is for her anxiety, one is to help her sleep, one is a pain medication.

I take one of each.