Myla Roams Around

III

III : GUESTS

I opened the door, my hands trembling. I can still picture her freshly in my memory, and I swear. I badly want to run away again as far as I can, but I feel sorry for the young child. I held the knob fearfully, firmly, taking a deep breath once again, gazing at the emptiness of the reception.

"I... I will help you, okay? Let's make a deal, all right?" I closed the door behind me slowly as I moved my eyes around. "I'll solve it and find whoever it is, but promise me... Just promise me one thing. Don't show yourself, make doorbell noises, and... don't break my stuff." I didn't let my guard down. "I understand what you're going through, but you must wait for me to get the hang of it." There's no reply. "Okay?"

14th of September, Year 1979

Myla Stuart. She went missing six years ago in this countryside, at exactly May 14, 1973. Haven't found up until now. Last seen at 3:00 PM, planting on the yard.

I collected newspaper cut-outs in two days to see things. It all says the same thing, but I'm pretty certain that I'll discover something if I dig deeper. The resources are limited, but I'm staying in the said house, so I guess it's enough. I would check the rooms, the basement, and the attic to find breadcrumbs, but I can hardly find any.

For the past two days, the doorbell ringing was never heard, nor the sound of breaking porcelain wares, and I haven't seen her. I guess she listened, and it's a very good thing to know.

17th of September, Year 1979

It was peaceful until today. However, I was awakened at 5 AM due to the doorbell again. I was annoyed at first, thinking she was really impatient. I opened my door, and to my surprise, a pen and rock was placed on the doormat. There's a small piece of paper under the stone, and I'm surprised to read what it says.

"Don't open the door for any visitors that'll come today."

At 2 o'clock after my lunch, I heard someone knocking on the door. I remember Myla's note, but still opened the door when I heard Lance's voice. He's my friend, why, and it isn't a bad thing to keep him company. Doctor Treck is with him—the psychiatrist—and I suppose they came because I called Lance the other day.

"Let's go back to New York after you get therapy," Lance stated while drinking the orange juice I prepared for them.

"No, I'm fine." I patted his auburn hair. "I'm currently working on something."

I took a newspaper cut-out with all capitalized letters "MISSING" on it. There is a picture of Myla. It dated six year ago, so I'll bet they won't be interested. I placed it on the table.

"She appeared in this house, right in front of me, a few days ago. I want to work on the investigation."

"Why bother?" Doctor Treck furrowed his eyebrows underneath his big eyewear. "She's probably dead."

"Her ghost—I mean she, she wants justice. I want justice to be served. So I'll help her." I sat on the table. Lance and Dr. Treck looked at me in disbelief.

"Tom, maybe you're imagining things up? It's normal for individuals to feel that way whenever they feel homesick after moving into a new house." Lance scratched his forehead. Dr. Treck nodded while humming.

"No, I'm certain." I gazed at the two. "Neither of you would believe me, guys?"

They just stared at me like a lecture podium. I sighed, taking back the cut-out. Of course, Lance is a doctor and Dr. Treck is a psychiatrist—plus they're older than me—so why would they believe my statements? I bet they would only take it like some silly illogical hoax a PTSD-diagnosed patient would make. I just sighed my disappointments. It's all on me.

"Get your therapy, and stay if you'd like. Just page me if something happens again," Lance spoke decidedly. I gave him a beam, nodding.