Layla
: Chapter 10

“You guys have any plans for your anniversary?” I ask. I’m trying to keep up with the conversation—pretend I’m mentally involved in this dinner. But my mind hasn’t been on dinner at all.

“Just practicing our baby making on our road trip,” Chad says, grinning in Aspen’s direction.

“We are not. I’m still on birth control,” Aspen says.

“That’s why I said practicing,” Chad says. He looks at me. “We took a detour to Hutchinson on our way here today. Ever been to the Salt Mine Museum?”

I take a long swig of my beer and then say, “No.”

“We had sex in the mine,” Chad says, shooting Aspen a grin.

I look at Layla. She’s cringing.

Aspen groans and says, “Please stop talking about our sex life.”

“Yes,” Layla says. “Please.”

I want to beg him to stop, too, but I’m honestly barely even in this conversation. Chad was tolerable when they got here a few hours ago, but that was before eight beers.

“I can’t wait until the honeymoon phase is over,” Aspen mutters.

“You’re wearing me out.”

Chad laughs and picks up her hand, kissing the back of it. Aspen seems to melt a little with that action.

Layla is still holding her fork, cringing at Chad.

“How’s the stay been so far?” Aspen asks. “It’s kind of weird seeing this place so empty.”

“It’s been good,” Layla says, seeming relieved by the change of subject. “Having the pool to ourselves is my favorite part, even though I’ll probably start blistering if I don’t stay inside.”

“It’s crazy the place is for sale now,” Aspen says. “How cool would that be to own a bed and breakfast?”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” Layla says.

I sink a little at that reply, wondering if Layla really feels that way now. She cuts a tiny bite of her pizza. It’s a homemade pizza—Aspen cooked it. Layla used to make it, but she hasn’t cooked since her surgery.

The crust is thick, and the toppings are an inch high, so it’s hard to eat with your hands. Chad is the only one at the table not eating it with a fork.

“I’d hate to live here,” Chad says. “Do you know how far away the liquor store is? Far. And we’re out of beer.”

Aspen grips the bottle of wine sitting in the center of the table and slides it over to him. “There’s a few of these left,” she suggests.

“I’d rather you not drink all my wine,” Layla says. “There’s a liquor cabinet above the sink.”

Chad perks up at that comment. I wish she wouldn’t have said that.

Chad reached his limit about three beers ago, but he stands up and heads straight for the liquor anyway.

Aspen pours herself more wine.

I’m staring at Layla, because she just stiffened in her seat. Sometimes when that happens, it’s because of the anxiety.

I stay focused on her, watching her every movement, hoping she’s not experiencing the onset of a panic attack—but something about how she’s holding herself now is concerning me.

She sets down her fork and picks up her slice of pizza with her hands.

She takes a huge bite of it. Then another. She holds the pizza with her right hand while she picks up her wineglass and sips from it.

“This is so good,” she says, her voice on the edge of a moan, like she hasn’t eaten in days. It catches everyone’s attention. She shoves the rest of the pizza in her mouth.

Aspen looks at her like Layla was looking at Chad earlier—with a little bit of disgust. Layla lifts out of her chair and reaches toward the pan of pizza, picking up another slice with her hands.

She plops back down in her seat and stuffs as much of the pizza in her mouth as she can. She’s doing that thing again—eating like her life depends on it. Aspen just continues to stare at her in horror as she shovels half the slice of pizza in her mouth.

“Gross,” Aspen says. “Use your fork.”

Layla pauses and looks at Aspen; then she gives her attention to me.

Her eyes are suddenly apologetic. Embarrassed. She takes another quick, huge bite and then downs her entire glass of wine in one go.

As soon as Layla sets down the glass, she hesitates. Then her hand goes to her forehead and she groans, squeezing her eyes shut. “Oh, God.

My head hurts.” She massages her forehead and then lowers her hand, opens her eyes, and . . . screams.

The unexpected noise makes all of us jump in our chairs.

Her scream makes Aspen scream. “What is it?” Aspen says, pushing back from the table. “Is it a spider?” She crawls up into her chair. “Where is it?”

Layla is shaking her head but doesn’t say anything. She’s staring at her empty plate of food. She stands up and backs away from the table—a look of sheer terror on her face.

“Get her some water,” I say to Aspen as I stand up. I walk over to Layla, and her back is flat against the wall now, her body trembling. She breathes in and then out very slowly, but still hasn’t taken her eyes off the table.

I place a gentle hand on her cheek and pull her gaze to mine. “Layla, are you okay?”

She nods, but her hands are shaking as she grasps for the glass of water Aspen brings her. She downs it all and then almost drops the glass as she hands it back.

“I don’t feel well,” she says, turning to exit the kitchen.

I follow her up the stairs, and as soon as she gets to our room, she goes straight to the dresser and fumbles with her bottle of pills. Her hands are unsteady, and she spills some of the pills when she gets the lid open.

I bend down and pick them up, then take the bottle from her and put the stray pills back inside. She’s crawling into the bed when I close the dresser drawer.

I sit down next to her, and she’s curled into a fetal position in the center of the mattress. I pull the covers over her, running my hand soothingly through her hair. “What happened down there?”

She shakes her head, dismissing my question. “Nothing. I just don’t feel good.”

“You think you ate too fast?” I suggest.

She rolls over and pulls the covers up to her chin. “I didn’t eat,” she says. Her words come out clipped—full of anger and confusion. I want to ask her what she means by that, but part of me already knows.

She’s having blackouts. Silent seizures, maybe? She’s had one before

—in the hospital. But it was just the one, so they decided not to put her on medication for it. I should call her neurologist tomorrow.

I turn off the lamp beside the bed and then kiss her. “I’ll come check on you soon.”

She nods and then pulls the covers over her head.

She’s been sleeping a lot. More than usual. Coupled with the blackouts and the strange behavior—I really do think she needs to see a neurologist.

But I’m also afraid it has nothing to do with her head injury.

I sit by her side for a few minutes, hesitant to go back downstairs. Part of me doesn’t want to leave her alone, but I need to go clean up the kitchen.

The wheels are turning in my mind as I make my way downstairs.

Aspen is in the process of loading the dishwasher when I rejoin them.

Chad has face-planted on the table, a glass of some kind of liquor in his hand. He isn’t fully passed out because he’s muttering something unintelligible.

“She okay?” Aspen asks.

I don’t even try to cover for Layla because I’m confused and full of questions. “I don’t know. She says her head hurts.”

“I’m sure she’ll have migraines the rest of her life,” Aspen says. “Side effect of getting shot in the head, unfortunately.”

Aspen would know. She is a nurse, after all. I’m sure she’s seen a lot worse recoveries than what Layla is going through.

Aspen puts the last plate in the dishwasher. “I need to get Chad upstairs. Can you help me?”

I shake Chad until he opens his eyes, and then I pull on his arm and say, “Let’s go to bed, buddy.”

He groans. “I don’t want to go to bed with you, Leeds.” He tries to push me away from him, but I wrap his arm over my shoulders.

“I’m taking you to your wife’s bed.”

He stops pushing me away at that comment. He lifts his head and looks around the room until he replaces Aspen on the other side of him. “Am I too drunk to fuck?”

Aspen nods. “Yeah, babe. Way too drunk. Maybe tomorrow.”

He drops his head like he’s disappointed in himself, but we get him out of the chair and to a standing position. He mopes the entire time we help him up to his room. Once we’ve got him tucked into the bed, Aspen walks me to the bedroom door. “We’ll probably be on the road before you wake up. If I don’t see Layla, tell her we had fun.”

“It wasn’t that fun,” I say with a laugh.

Aspen shrugs. “Yeah, I’m trying to be nice. Maybe we can stop back by before you guys leave. It’s not too far from Wichita.”

I tell her good night and leave the room, then check on Layla. I don’t know if she’s asleep yet, but she still has the covers pulled over her head. I leave the door to our bedroom open because I want to be able to hear her if she calls for me. I go downstairs to the Grand Room and take my phone out, then take a seat on the couch.

I watch the video from dinner three times on my security app. Every time, I notice small things that make the entire event seem weirder and weirder. There was a change in her posture. A difference in the way she went from being invested in the conversation to completely ignoring everyone around her. The way she held her head before she screamed. The whole thing was strange.

But what is normal anymore?

It could be a blackout. It could be silent seizures. But those two minutes were so uncharacteristic of her as of late. Just like when she freaked out after eating the pasta.

I can’t stop thinking about the three words she said as I was tucking her in.

“I didn’t eat.”

I grab my laptop and go to the kitchen. I open the same Word document that has the words I’m sorry I scared you in it and the name Willow.

I completely suspend my disbelief for a few seconds and type out a question.

Was that you?

I push the laptop a few inches away from me and watch it intently.

Almost immediately, letters appear on the screen.

Yes.

I feel those three letters like punches in my gut, my back, my jaw.

I think I’ve finally accepted that this house came with a spirit of some kind, but believing that spirit can take over Layla’s body is an entirely new thing to process.

This is real. It’s fucking real, and I can’t deny it anymore.

I start thinking back on the days we’ve been here. That first night—

when Layla was staring at herself in the dark. The dinner where Layla ate more carbs in two minutes than she’s eaten in six months. Her behavior at dinner tonight.

None of those moments were Layla.

How many other moments weren’t Layla?

My heart begins to pound harder. Not necessarily faster—just harder and louder, making me aware of its beat in more than just my chest. I feel like I should be scared, like my heart rate should be out of control, but I’m not scared. If anything, I’m angry. Whatever this is—whoever this is—I don’t like that they’ve used Layla like they have.

But I’m also angry at myself, because I need to see it again. I need to know that this isn’t Layla going crazy. I need to know that this isn’t me going crazy.

I need answers to every single question I never knew I had.

I want you to do it again, I type. I want to be able to have a real conversation with you.

I close the laptop, not giving whoever I’m speaking to a chance to refuse my request. But I also don’t move. If this is really happening—I want them to prove their existence in some other way. I want to see the change in Layla with my own two eyes while I know exactly what’s happening.

I don’t go upstairs. I want whoever this is to come to me, so I remain seated in the kitchen for several minutes. My heart just beats harder and harder as I wait.

I don’t hear a door open, but I do hear footsteps as they begin to descend the stairs. It’s a slow descent, with each step cracking beneath the weight of whoever is approaching the kitchen.

I don’t look behind me as whoever it is enters the room. My gaze remains transfixed on the table in front of me.

I smell Layla’s perfume before I see her, so I know it isn’t Aspen or Chad. Chills crawl up my spine and spread out over my shoulders and arms

as she walks around me. I still don’t look at her. It’s the first time I’ve felt truly afraid since this began because I don’t know what to expect.

Is it Layla? Did she come downstairs with strangely impeccable timing?

Or is Layla asleep somewhere in there?

I finally make eye contact with her when she pulls out the chair to sit down. It’s Layla.

But it isn’t.

There’s something different about her—as if she’s staring back at me like she’s just as unfamiliar with me as I am with her. She looks scared. Or maybe it’s curiosity rather than fear.

She pulls a leg up and places a bare foot on the chair, wrapping her arms around her knee. She lays her head on her knee and just stares at me.

“Layla?” My voice is a whisper, but not because I’m trying to be quiet. I just don’t have much of a voice right now because there’s more trepidation caught in my throat than air.

She shakes her head.

“Willow?”

She nods.

I lean forward over the table and blow out a deep breath, massaging my forehead with my hand. What the fuck?

“You aren’t going to run?” she asks. Her voice is Layla’s voice, but it comes out different. Her voice sounds full of amusement, unlike Layla’s voice.

“Should I?”

“No.”

This is so strange. How can I be looking at Layla while seeing someone else entirely stare back at me?

I’ve officially lost my mind. Isn’t the average age of onset for schizophrenia in males the early twenties? Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m just schizophrenic. I’d believe that before I’d believe I’m witnessing a spirit possess a body. “Am I going crazy?”

She shrugs. “You’ve asked that before. I still don’t know the answer.”

She looks over her shoulder at the refrigerator. “Can I have some juice?”

Juice?

She wants juice?

I nod and start to scoot back in my chair, but she holds up a hand. “I can get it.” She walks over to the cabinet and grabs a glass. She opens the refrigerator and pulls out the bottle of orange juice. I just watch her, kind of captivated by the whole thing. She carries herself differently than Layla.

There’s almost a whimsical way to how she moves, as if there isn’t an ounce of anxiety holding her back.

She leans against the kitchen counter and downs the juice. She sighs, pressing the glass against her cheek for a moment when she’s finished with it. Her eyes are closed as if she’s savoring the way the juice tastes on her tongue. “This is so good.” She washes the glass and then puts it back in the cabinet.

“Do you do that a lot?”

“Do what?” She sits back down at the table, pulling her leg up again.

“Steal your groceries?”

I nod.

“No. I need a body to do that. I don’t like using Layla’s body unless I have to. It’s a little weird.”

“A little?”

“My normal and your normal aren’t the same.”

“What’s your normal?”

She looks up at the ceiling in thought. “Nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“My normal is nothing. I just . . . exist. But I don’t exist. I don’t know

—it’s hard to explain.”

“Are you a ghost?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long have you been here?”

“I don’t know. Time is weird. It’s like it doesn’t count for me.” She traces an old scratch on the table with her finger. “I once stared at a clock on the wall in the living room for eight calendar days, just to see how long I could stare at the wall.”

“You don’t sleep?”

“Nope. Don’t sleep, but I’m always tired. Don’t eat, but I’m always hungry. I can’t drink, but I’m always thirsty. I’m starting to think maybe this is hell because there is nothing worse than being eternally hungry.”

This is surreal. She’s in Layla’s body right now, but she is so different from the Layla I’ve been with all day. “Are there others here like you?”

She shakes her head. “Not in this house. I’m alone.”

“Can you leave?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m too scared to try.”

“What are you scared of?”

She lifts a shoulder. “Other things like myself, maybe?”

I raise an eyebrow. “A ghost afraid of other ghosts?”

“It’s not that far fetched,” she says. “Humans are afraid of other humans.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

Again, she lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But it could just be that I’m inside Layla’s body right now, so I feel some of her feelings. You make her feel comfortable.”

That’s good to know. “How did you feel when we showed up here?”

She lowers her leg and leans back in her seat. “Nervous. I didn’t want you here. It’s why I closed your laptop when you were emailing the Realtor about buying this house.”

“So that was you?”

“I don’t normally do things like that. I try to keep our worlds separate.”

“You aren’t right now.”

“That’s because you asked me to do this—to talk to you through Layla. I don’t want to do this.”

“But you have. Twice, already. Maybe three times. Right?”

She blows out a frustrated breath. “Yes, but that’s only because it’s torture sometimes. I can’t help it.” She stands up and begins rummaging through the cabinets. She replaces a bag of potato chips and then comes back to the table, but she sits on the table this time, placing her feet in her chair.

She pops a chip into her mouth. “I didn’t know I could do it at first,” she says. “Not until the night you guys showed up. There have been other people here before, but I’ve never tried to get inside of them. I didn’t even know I could. But I was so hungry.” She eats another chip. “You have no idea what it’s like to know what hunger feels like . . . and thirst . . . but not be able to eat or drink. And it’s been so long since this place has been open.

I missed the smell of food, and pasta must be my favorite thing because when I was watching Layla pick at it, all I wanted to do was taste it. It just sort of happened. I didn’t mean for it to.”

“How many times have you done that?”

“Just a few times,” she says, wiping crumbs from her fingers onto Layla’s shirt. “Twice at dinner. Once while you were sleeping on the couch.

And once when I was looking at her in the bedroom mirror upstairs. I try to be inconspicuous, but you notice every time.”

“You aren’t inconspicuous. It’s an obvious change when you’re inside of her.”

“I’m a bad actor, what can I say?”

“What do you look like when you aren’t inside Layla?”

She laughs. It’s Layla’s laugh, though, which causes my heart to constrict a little. It’s weird—someone else laughing Layla’s laugh. It’s been so long since I’ve heard it.

“I don’t look like anything. I don’t exist in a physical form. I can’t see anything when I look in the mirror. It’s not like the ghosts in the movies with the flowy white gowns. I’m just . . . nothing. I’m thoughts. Feelings.

But they’re not really attached to anything tangible. It’s weird, I guess, but it’s all I know.”

I’m trying to think of more questions to ask, but it’s hard when I’m full of this much adrenaline. I feel like we’ve cracked some code by communicating this way. Or maybe we’ve broken some unspoken rule.

I want to get excited about the idea of it all, but twenty-five years of disbelief is hard to just let go of.

“Layla . . . if this is some kind of prank . . .”

She shakes her head. “It isn’t. I’m not Layla. I’m Willow.”

The idea that Layla would go to these lengths to lie to me for no reason is somehow more unbelievable than Layla being possessed by a ghost. All I can do is believe this girl—or at least pretend to believe her—

while I try to get more answers. “How old are you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know that I have an age, if that makes sense. Like I said earlier, time isn’t really a thing for me.”

“So you don’t feel like there’s an end to your life?”

“I just don’t think about it. Not like humans do. When there’s literally nothing I can do or look forward to . . . not even meals or naps. Or the bigger things, like aging and death . . . what importance is time?”

She eats several more potato chips in silence. Then she grabs a soda from the fridge and sits back down in the chair while she drinks it. Every time she takes a sip or a bite of food, it’s like she appreciates it with the

feelings of a million taste buds. It makes me feel like I’ve taken everything I’ve ever tasted for granted.

“Does it feel different being in her body?”

She nods immediately. “Yes. It’s really confusing. There are memories that don’t belong to me. Feelings that aren’t mine. But that’s the thing—

when I’m not inside of her—I feel very little, and I have no memories at all.

So I kind of like being inside of her, even though it feels wrong, like I’m not supposed to do this.”

“You have her memories?”

She nods. “Yes, but I’m trying not to be intrusive.”

“Can you remember things that happened between me and Layla?”

She looks down at her can of soda. I see her cheeks flush a little with embarrassment, and it makes me wonder what memories caused that feeling in her.

“You met her here.”

I nod to let her know that memory is right.

She smiles. “She loves you.”

“You can feel that?”

“Yes. She loves you a lot. But she’s also worried.”

“About what?”

“That you don’t love her as much as she loves you.”

I can feel my face fall a little at that confession. I don’t want Layla to feel that way. I don’t want her to feel loved less than she is, or full of anxiety, or scared.

“Will she remember this conversation? You taking over her?”

She shakes her head. “No. She didn’t remember the times I ate her food. She just thinks she’s having memory issues.” Her eyes narrow.

“Something bad happened to her. It affected her. A lot.”

“Yeah. It did.”

A door opens upstairs and steals my attention. We both look at the entryway to the kitchen. Shit. I forgot Aspen and Chad were still here. “Can you leave her body? That’s probably her sister.”

Willow shakes her head. There’s a new look of unease about her. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Layla will freak out if I leave her body right now. She’ll be in the kitchen when she wakes up and will have no memory of getting down here.”

Aspen appears in the doorway. “Thought I heard you two.” She walks over to Layla— to Willow—and grabs the bag of chips from her. Aspen takes a seat next to Willow. “Chad pissed the bed. I changed the sheets, but I’m pretty sure the mattress will need to be cleaned now.” She looks at Willow. “Your fault for showing him where the liquor was.”

Willow looks at me wide eyed, like she’s scared to say anything to Aspen.

I push my chair back. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow. No big deal.” I look at Willow. “You ready for bed, Layla?”

She nods and starts to stand up, but Aspen grabs her hand and pouts.

“No, stay. I never get to see you anymore, and I can’t sleep.”

Willow looks at me and then Aspen and then back to me. She reluctantly sits back down. I don’t want to leave her down here alone, so I sit back down with her. Aspen looks relieved to have the company, but Willow looks afraid to speak—as if Aspen will immediately know that she isn’t Layla right now.

“Did y’all finish off the pizza?” Aspen asks.

“No, it’s still in the fridge.”

She walks to the refrigerator to grab the pizza, and Willow leans her elbows onto the table, gripping her forehead. She mouths, What do I do?

I honestly don’t know. And it’s weird that she’s asking me how to handle this, like I have any experience at all with these things. I try to sidetrack Willow with the only thing I know about her. She likes food.

“Want some pizza?”

She pauses for a beat, and then nods with the slightest grin. “I do, actually. Two more pieces. And another soda.”

The entire next few minutes are surreal. I make Willow a plate, and then Aspen sits down next to her. Aspen has been talking nonstop while Willow mostly just eats. I keep Aspen talking, making up almost half of the conversation so Willow doesn’t have to speak much. She’s a little more relaxed than when Aspen first came down here. She’s focusing mostly on the food in front of her.

That lasts until Aspen says, “Did you tell Leeds what happened while I was cooking the pizza?”

I look at Willow, and her eyes grow wide.

“Oh my God,” Aspen says. She starts to laugh while waving her hand from Layla to me. “Tell him, Layla. It was so funny.”

I can see the fear in Willow’s eyes—like we’re about to be caught. I know Willow said she has access to Layla’s memories, but I’m not sure how accurate they are. And if Willow wasn’t in the kitchen while they were cooking pizza, she wouldn’t have that memory.

“She already told me,” I say. I have no idea what Aspen is talking about, but I don’t want to put Willow on the spot. I stand up. “We really need to get some sleep.”

Willow nods and pushes back from the table. “Yeah, I’m exhausted.

And still have that damn headache.” She leans down and hugs Aspen.

“Good night. Thanks for coming.”

Aspen throws a hand up in the air. “Seriously? I’ve seen you twice since I got married.”

I’m pulling Willow by the arm as we back out of the kitchen. “Why don’t you guys stay longer tomorrow?”

Aspen rolls her eyes. “We can’t. We’re supposed to be in Colorado by tomorrow night, and Chad will make me drive most of it until his hangover wears off.” She waves toward the stairs. “You two go to bed. I’ll clean up my mess.”

Willow doesn’t waste any time. She says good night again and rushes up the stairs. I follow her, but when we’re in the bedroom and I close the door, I have to lean against the door and exhale several times to settle my nerves.

The entire last fifteen minutes with Aspen had me on edge more than the fact that there’s a ghost using my girlfriend’s body.

“That was intense,” she says, pacing the room. “I have to be more careful.”

“They leave in the morning, and then it’s just me and Layla again. You don’t have to worry about anyone else.”

She pauses. “You’re . . . staying?”

I nod. “Yes. We don’t leave until next Wednesday.”

“You aren’t mad at me?”

“For what?”

She waves a hand down the length of her body. “For this. For using Layla.”

Should I be? I don’t know.

I kind of feel sorry for Willow—not mad at her. This goes beyond anything I can even begin to wrap my head around, so my reactions

probably aren’t at all adequate for what’s actually happening here.

“I’m not mad. I’d actually like to talk to you again if it doesn’t affect Layla. I don’t want her to replace out about you yet. I’m not sure she’ll understand it.”

“Do you understand it?”

I shake my head. “Hell no. I feel like I’m going to wake up tomorrow and laugh at how insane this dream was.”

Willow looks at the bed, and then back at me. “I can’t slip out of her without her being asleep first. I don’t want her to get scared.”

I nod. “It’s fine. I’ll sit in the chair until you’re asleep.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. But I do want to talk to you again. Maybe tomorrow night?”

She nods but doesn’t say anything else. She just crawls into the bed, pulls the covers over herself, and closes her eyes.

I watch her for half an hour. And then, slowly, Layla’s body relaxes.

I saw nothing that would prove Willow is no longer inside her, but I can tell she isn’t. She just changed, ever so slightly, and now Layla looks peacefully asleep. She looks like the same Layla I tucked into this same bed earlier tonight.

I look around the room, knowing Willow can probably still see me.

Still hear me. I whisper, “Good night,” and then I crawl into bed with Layla.

I spend the next hour running question after question over in my mind, wondering if Layla will remember any of what happened.

And what does this mean for Willow? What happens when Layla and I leave next week? She’ll just be completely alone again?

I fall asleep feeling more sympathy course through me than fear or guilt.