Four Walls (Book One) ✔️

Chapter Six

"Why it always my tombstone you stumble upon?" the voice asks.

"I'm not a necromancer," I inform the spirit—Clover, presumably—with a shake of my head.

"Oh, dear. I'm in her body?"

"I... I guess so."

"What on earth is this girl doing?" Clover inquires. "She's lucky it was only me she awoke. Others might not have been so kind."

I steady my trembling hands and say, "She just wanted to talk to you. I don't... I don't think she was trying to do this."

She sighs. "Whatever. I'm leaving now. When your friend's soul returns to her body, tell her to be careful."

"Are you... are you Clover?" I ask, afraid of the answer.

She casts a wicked smile. "No, and thank god. I knew Clover when she was alive. She was a wretched, husband-steeling bitch. Why do you think I killed her?"

With that, Ada's eyes return to their normal color, and mine fill with tears.

She looks at me inquisitively. She's waiting for answers, for an explanation, but I don't have one.

How do I tell her that she's in too deep? That I'm so unbelievably frightened for her?

"Layla, why are you crying?" she asks.

I wipe my face. "It wasn't... it wasn't Clover that you summoned, Ada."

Her face falls. "Oh."

"It was... someone else," I go on. "I think it was the person who murdered her."

Now she looks like she is going to cry. "God, I wish I could remember. I just want to talk to them, you know?"

"I know," I assure her. "Come on, let's head back. You should get some rest."

She doesn't move. "Layla, you're the smartest person I know by a long shot. Do you think I'm crazy?"

"No," I say. "Ada, you're not crazy, okay? We just need to figure out what's going on. It's obvious you have a gift. This, whatever it is, is real."

"A gift." She rolls her dark eyes. "Layla, this isn't a gift. If anything, it's a curse."

"Damian says the same thing," I mumble.

"His ability is cool. It's useful. Mine's just plain dangerous."

"His can be dangerous, too."

"Does he accidentally let murderous spirits inhabit his body?"

I shake my head. "No, I guess he doesn't."

"Exactly." She lets out a defeated sigh. "Alright, let's go home."

I hook my arm through hers as we walk back to her house. I don't know what time it is, but the way the sky has lightened from pitch black to dull gray tells me sunrise is close. It must be after five.

At least it isn't the "devil's hour" anymore.

We sneak in through the back door and tiptoe up the stairs. These purple-painted walls and band posters and occult books have begun to feel more like home than the house I grew up in—the house where Hank drinks cheap beer and exhales cigarette smoke and lays his hands on anyone who ticks him off.

As we're about to crawl into Ada's twin-sized bed and squeeze in a few more hours of sleep, a silhouette appears in the open doorway. Instinctively, I sit up, ready to run if I need to. Hank has barged into my room in the middle of the night before. He's the reason I installed a lock on my door.