Layla

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?