The Psychic Next Door

Chapter 13: Relic

Just like my apartment, Polly's house looked innocuous. It hadn't changed at all after the attack. It hadn't become sinister or evil. The red door blazed in the darkness, lit by an overhanging light, as we pulled into the drive. It was still just as quaint and innocent as before, but this time it sent a shiver down my spine.

The door had been left unlocked after we fled, but it didn't look like anyone had gone inside; this neighbourhood seemed like the kind where everyone just minded their own business. Or maybe it was some inkling in the forgotten primitive parts of the neighbours' minds that warned them to stay away, warned them that evil had touched down here.

The inside was exactly as we left it: the splinters of the dining room chairs scattered across the entrance hall, the table itself laying split in two, angled and still balancing precariously on the remains of the seats. The only evidence of a human presence was the unsettling trail of blood—our blood—that traced a path out of the house; larger pools had collected in the spot where we had lingered as we faced off against the Beast.

We stood side by side in the wake of evil and admired the chaos that had been left behind. It was like a museum, this foreign and unfamiliar room, frozen in time. My stomach clenched as it really hit me that I had actually been here when it had all gone down, or even that only a couple of weeks had passed. It seemed like a far off distant memory, a past life, or a dream.

Looking over my shoulder, I glanced at Polly, who hobbled in behind me. Her expression was cautious, but there was no trace of fear. She was good under pressure, and I could guess why. After dealing with her sister's degenerating mental health—or what she thought was her sister's degenerating mental health—she must've gotten good at just dealing with anything that was thrown at her.

I wished I had that skill. I had gotten much braver, but I still quaked in the face of all this.

"Where was her room?" I asked, finally speaking, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"Which one?" Polly asked quietly. Her voice sounded hollow and distant as she took the scene in.

I furrowed my brow in confusion.

"She had two," she clarified. "You were staying in one of them."

Two rooms? I thought back to the room I had spent two nights in, and it suddenly made sense. The room that had been equipped like a hospital, with the bars on the window and the furniture bolted to the floor. It was where she had kept her hysterical sister.

I shivered when a thought snuck into my mind; had she died in that room?

"Well, whichever room has her personal effects," I said, pushing the grim image from my mind.

Polly nodded towards the stairs, knowing that was the obvious choice. She staggered towards them, her cast making rhythmic thuds as she walked. I ran forward and took her arm to help; being here seemed to weaken her fiery resolve.

Off the upper floor's landing was a wide and sweeping hall. Several doors were placed evenly along the walls with pictures and paintings hanging in between. Though my gaze was once again drawn to the paintings of Polly and her sister, there was no time to stare. Polly had already focused on a particular door and was heading towards it—the one on the very end of the left-wing.

Its door creaked as Polly threw it open. I stiffened, expecting something out of a horror movie, but the room itself was just as unassuming as the house's exterior. It showed no signs that it had been scarred by a dark presence. The bed was made and everything remained in a natural place. It almost seemed like it was waiting for her, like we could expect Polly's sister to return home at any moment. There was something eerie about the perfect way that Polly had kept her sister's room; it had become a shrine.