Layla

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 finds 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.”