Whatever emergency composure I thought I had dissolved the second I came face-to-face with the ghost that tried to drown me. This is too much. It’s too fucking much!
“Come,” she says, gently guiding me to my chair.
“I see you’ve met Theodore,” she says, rolling her eyes. “He built this house, you know.”
“He asked me for help. Why?”
“He wants to be released. He wants to leave, to move on, to rest,” she says, “or, at the very least, to be able to roam about the house like he used to before you came around.”
“Wait. What?”
“The ghosts are bound to me, Annie. It’s a very long story involving several failed attempts against my life and several successful curses. They’re a part of my history, part of me. I can never forget, and they can never rest. I wouldn’t want them to after what they did to me.”
I’m exhausted. I don’t have any fight left.
“Whatever you’re going to do to me, just do it,” I say. “Just get it over with, please.”
For the first time since I’ve known her, she seems genuinely shocked.
“Annie?”
“You can grind my bones for tonics or whatever.”
“Ah,” she says, and sips her tea. “Seems I’m still the subject of town gossip. I always think that maybe things are different now, that maybe this will be the generation to grant me some compassion and understanding. But it’s never different. Their fear, it gets passed down. I should have known.”
She drops a sugar cube into her tea and stirs.
“Is it true? Have you hurt people?”
“I have only ever defended myself. I’m otherwise perfectly pleasant. You know this,” she says. “Those headstones, those graves in the woods, those were my sisters, my friends. They were burned at the stake. Hanged by their necks. Drowned. I couldn’t save them, and I have to live with that. All I can do, all any of us can do, really, is embrace our power. Not restrain it for the benefit of those trying to do us harm. I’ve protected myself when necessary. I’ve saved myself. And, yes, on occasion I’ve taken some revenge. I think it not unreasonable, considering the circumstances.”
She gives a small nonchalant shrug. “Does that answer your question?”
“You’ve kept things from me. You haven’t been totally honest.”
“Forgive me for not being forthcoming with my trauma,” she says, her voice reaching a morbid pitch. “Forgive me for thinking that I might spare you from hearing all the gruesome details.”
She takes a breath, another slow sip of tea.
“Sophie,” I say, “enough of this! Enough!”
Both teacups shoot off of the table and smash against the wall.
There’s a beat. Then Sophie starts to clap. Slow applause.
“Don’t you enjoy it, darling?” she asks. “Isn’t it fun?”
“I don’t want this,” I say. My voice shakes. I can’t tell if I’m crying because I’m angry or crying because I’m scared or if this is my default reaction to everything. Tears. “I don’t want any of this. I didn’t ask for this. I’m in a creepy mansion in the middle of the fucking forest! There are ghosts in the basement! There’s a giant spider right there!”
I point to Ralph, who remains in front of the door, eating what appears to be a raw bird.
“Well, you upset him,” she says.
“This isn’t natural!” I yell. “This isn’t cool!”
“Annie.”
“And you poisoned me, didn’t you? You poisoned me with that mushroom tea!”
“That wasn’t poison,” she says. “It was intended to awaken your mind. Perhaps it was a little strong. I should have warned you. Honest mistake.”
“No. An honest mistake is accidentally picking up someone else’s drink at Starbucks. Drugging someone isn’t an honest mistake. It’s crazy!”
“Please, pet.”
“I’m not your pet!”
This particular outburst surprises both of us. I was completely unaware this term of endearment bothered me until this moment. Suddenly, I realize how patronizing it is. How it implies ownership and reinforces an unfair power dynamic. This resentment must have been simmering in my subconscious for months.
Sophie’s face registers shock and, unless I’m mistaken, glee.
“I’m an adult. I’m my own person. I can make my own decisions. Even if they’re bad decisions, Sophie. They’re mine to make. Not yours.”