Speaker 1: I moved to New Maple in early spring, right as
the snow banks along the curbs turned a slush and
the neighborhood kids started trading sleds for bikes. The place
was filled with people who waved from their porches and
jogged with dogs that didn't need leashes. Quiet, unbothered and polite,
I told myself I was ready for quiet. I'd taken
a job teaching art at the local high school, and
the rental, an aging two bedroom with creaky stairs and
yellow siding, was the best I could afford without roommates.
I told people I'd moved to focus on my work
to get out of the city. That part was true.
The part I didn't talk about was the slow disintegration
of a relationship I'd spent too many years in, and
how silence had started to feel safer than conversation. The
Avery's lived two doors down. I noticed them on my
first walk around the neighborhood. The house had blue shutters
and a deep green lawn already trimmed to perfection. Two
lips lined the path to their front porch in a
single even row. I saw missus Avery trimming them with
garden chairs one morning. Her white sun hat covering most
of her face. She didn't look up when I passed,
only nodded. It took a week before she spoke to me.
You're the one who moved into two on four, aren't you?
She asked? As I carried in groceries the old Duncan house.
She stood on the sidewalk with her hands clasped in
front of her, her voice soft but precise. A smile
stayed on her face the whole time we can talked.
She introduced herself as Marian, and when I gave her
my name, she repeated it twice. Then she invited me
over for lemonade. I said yes because it felt easier
than saying no. The inside of the home smeled faintly
of lemons and wood polish. It was spotless. The cleanliness
in there felt permanent. Every surface had been dusted, every
frame perfectly aligned. I noticed photographs, small ones lining the mantle,
larger ones on the wall near the stairs. A girl
with brown hair and a bright, wide smile. That's our daughter, Emily,
Marian said. When she caught me looking. She disappeared last year.
She placed the glass of lemonade in my and and
asked if I wanted a cookie. Mister Avery, whose name
looking back I realized I never learned, joined us a
few minutes later. He was taller than his wife, thin,
with a neatly pressed collared shirt and an easy practiced
way of folding into conversation. They were charming in the
way that old couples are. I stayed for over an hour.
When I left, Marian pressed the tupperware container of cookies
into my hands and told me to stop by any time.
I didn't plan on going back, but the next week
she appeared on my porch with a pie. Then came
the dinner invitation, then another. Over the next month, the
visits turned into tradition. They always served too much food
and insisted I take home the leftovers cards or watch
an odd movie on DVD. Sometimes I'd find myself helping
mister Avery move something into the garage or fix a
loose shutter. I didn't mind. It felt good to be
wanted somewhere. They had a way of making me feel
needed without ever saying it outright. Then the small comments began.
You have a laugh, Marian said one night as we
finished washing dishes. Emily's laugh used to carry through the
whole house. Another time, mister Avery handed me a book
from their shelf. She loved this one used to read
it out loud on the porch. I smiled, said thank you,
and took the book home. I told myself it was harmless,
a grieving family seeing pieces of their daughter and a
young woman nearby. It was a compliment, that's all. Then
after dinner one night, Marian handed me a folded sweater.
I found this while going through the linen closet. She said,
it used to be Emily's. I think it would look
just perfect on you. It was soft, cream colored with
slightly stretched sleeves. The scent of lavender clung to it.
I hesitated for half a second, but she was already
draping it over my arm. Her hands stayed there, resting
lightly on my wrist. You don't have to wear it now,
just keep it. It'd make me happy. I nodded and
thanked her, told myself i'd return it later. I never
wore it, just folded it into the back of my closet,
where it sat behind a box of winter scarves. Then
I had already stopped telling people how often I was
seeing the averies. I'm not sure why. Maybe I was
afraid of how it would sound, or maybe part of
me already knew something wasn't quite right. I just didn't
know how far it would go. It was a Sunday
evening when they asked. Dinner had been roast chicken, peas,
and soft bread rolls that Marian brushed with melted butter.
I'd brought over a cheap bottle of red wine and
we drank it in mismatched glasses while the sun dipped
behind the trees outside their living room window. They weren't
watching anything on TV. Marian had turned on an old
stereo that played instrumental jazz at a volume just low
enough to barely notice. She waited until I had finished eating,
then reached for my hand. Her fingers were cool, dry
but steady. Across the table. Mister Avery cleared his throat.
We wanted to ask you for a favor, she said.
I looked between them, unsure of what they meant. Tomorrow,
it is Emily's birthday, she continued, She would have turned seventeen.
Mister Avery nodded, his hands folded in front of him.
We started a tradition just last year, just a quiet evening,
a remembrance richeal I suppose you could call it. Marian
gave a small smile, then, the kind that didn't reach
the eyes. We thought, if you were willing, maybe you'd
help us with it this year. I didn't answer at first.
She kept holding my hand. It wouldn't be much. Just
sit in a place at the table, read a passage
from a journal, maybe wear one of her favorite dresses,
That's all. Mister Avery reached the cross and rested a
hand on his wife's shoulder. She began to cry, not loudly,
which made it even sadder. It would mean so much
to us, he said. People do strange things when they grieve.
I said yes. The next day they dressed me in
pale blue, the fabric thin and neatly pressed. It was
already laid out in Emily's room when I arrived, draped
over a bed like it had been waiting. I changed
in silence. The dress fit me perfectly. Downstairs, the table
was set for three, one plate of the head, one
at the left and one at the right. A single
white candle burned in the center. Marian stood by my chair,
smoothing the shoulders of the dress as I sat down.
On my plate was a folded piece of paper. I
read the words out loud. It was a passage from
Emily's journal, something about a favorite season, the way the
air smelled before rain. I read it twice at Marian's request.
After that, we held hands. Mister Avery began to hum,
a slow, droning melody. Marian joined in, barely above a whisper.
There were no words, only the sound of their voices
moving in and out of tune with each other. They
stopped humming and began eating. I followed their lead. The
food was thick and oddly sweet, some sort of casserole
I didn't recognize. The texture was soft, but not in
a pleasant way. My stomach tightened after a few bites.
Still to be polite, I cleaned the plate. Afterward, they
insisted I stay a little longer, just to talk. I
nodded along with their stories, most of which seemed pulled
for moments that no longer belonged to any one. Mister
Avery kept referring to things we'd all done together, times
I knew for certain I hadn't been there. He spoke
with such conviction that I stopped correcting him. Marian stood
and clasped her hands together. You've been such a light
for us. She said, we've been thinking maybe you'd be
easier for everyone if you stayed the night. She gestured
toward the stairs. We already made up a room for you.
I didn't respond. I stood, forcing a smile and told
them I had an early morning. I walked toward the door.
Neither of them followed. They only watched Marian, still smiling,
mister Avery with his head slightly tilted. I reached for
the doorknob. The world tilted sideways. The last thing I
remember is the taste of metal in my mouth and
the floor rushing up toward me. I woke to the
sound of birds song. For a moment, I I aught
I was home. Not my new place, but the apartment
i'd shared with my sister before the move, the one
with the crooked blinds and the peeling wallpaper. In the kitchen.
The morning light had that same watery yellow hue stretched
across the floor, like someone had poured it from a glass,
But the room smelled different. There was no scent of
old coffee or laundry detergent. Instead, the air was stale,
perfumed with something powdery and floral. I turned my head
and saw the wallpaper soft pink with tiny green leaves
printed in even rose. The book shelves sat beneath the window,
filled with worn paper backs and dusty trophies. There were
doors on a wooden rocking chair in the corner, a
small white desk, a full length mirror with a lay
shawl draped over the top. And on every wall photographs
and a child's drawing, dozens of them, framed and arranged
with obsessive precision. They were all of her, Emily. Her
face stared back at me from every angle. School portraits,
birthday parties, candid shots in the yard, her eyes always
locked with the camera, always smiling. I sat up. The
sheets tangled around my legs. I was still wearing the dress,
my skin itched beneath a fabric. I reached for my
phone out of habit. My pocket was empty. I checked
the night stand nothing, no phone, no charger, no keys.
My coat was draped over the desk chair, but the
pockets had been turned inside out. There was no clock
in the room. The silence crawled in behind the bird
song and pressed down on my shoulders. I opened the door.
Mister Avery stood on the other side, holding a tray
with toast and a glass of orange juice. He didn't flinch.
His face was smooth, his expression unreadable. Good morning, sweetheart,
he said, We thought you might be hungry. I stepped
back into the room, heart pounding, trying to keep my
breath steady. He followed, placing the tray in the desk
beside the glass lamp. I wanted to ask what happened.
I wanted to ask why I had woken up there,
why I couldn't remember falling asleep, why I was still
in Emily's clothes. But when I opened my mouth, nothing
came out. Mister Avery folded his hands in front of
him and gave a small nod. Your mother thought you
might need a little extra rest after everything last night.
You always get a little overwhelmed when things get emotional.
He looked at the wall at one of the pictures
we understand. I forced the words out, where's my phone?
What are you people doing? He didn't answer at first,
just looked at me with that steady, practiced gaze. You
know you're grounded, Emily. No phone until we talk about
what happened, until you're honest with us. My skin went cold.
He turned and walked to the door. Before stepping out,
he said, almost absently. We'll be downstairs when you're ready.
Just come sit with us when you're feeling more like yourself.
He closed the door softly behind him. I rushed to
grab it, grabbed a knob, twisted hard. It wasn't locked.
But I wasn't ready to leave yet, not without a
plan at least. I checked the window next. The latch
had been painted over. When I tried to slide the
pane open, it didn't move. I sat on the edge
of the bed and stared at the door for a
long time. There was no yelling, no threads, no locked
chains or screaming alarms, just that suffocating sense of stillness.
I could hear Marian's voice echoing through the walls. She
was humming a tune. She sounded happy. I was waited
out and scared, and frankly, I couldn't wait to report
them to the police. I'd spent a lot of time
with the Averys, so I knew what they did and
when they did it, and so I waited until the
mower started. It was an old push model, loud, uneven,
and it took a minute to warm up. From the window,
I watched mister Avery roll it across the back yard,
the blades chewing up patches of tall grass he had
let grow just long enough to look natural. His back
was turned, Marian wasn't in sight. I moved fast, quiet
at first, then reckless. I slipped out the room and
crept down the stairs barefoot. My shoes were gone, so
I wore Emily's flats from the closet. They pinched my toes,
but I didn't stop. The house was still. No clocks ticked,
no footsteps echoed, just the rising whir of the moa,
steady and sharp. At the front door, I reached for
the lock. It clicked open easily. The dead bolt hadn't
been set. For a second. I thought maybe this would
be easy, Maybe they'd let their guard down. I opened
the door and stepped out into the sunlight. The grass
felt cold through the thin soles of my shoes. I
didn't look back. I moved quickly past the porch, through
the side yard, past the rose bushes that edged the
averys striveway. I heard the moa stop, then his voice Emily.
I didn't answer. I broke into a run. I made
it half way across the lawn before he tackled me
from behind. My niece slammed into the ground. One shoe
flew off. His arms wrapped around my waist, and he
dragged me backward, his breath hot and uneven in my ear.
I screamed in hopes any one would hear me enough.
He snapped enough of this, I screamed again, roar and useless.
He pulled me through the doorway and up the stairs.
My hands clawed of the walls, trying to find something
to grab, anything that might catch. He threw open the
bedroom door and shoved me inside. I hid the floor hard,
my shoulder cracking against the leg of the bed. You
don't get to run away from us, he said. He
stood over me, chest heaving, face flush. I could smell
the sweat on him, mixed with something sour. He raised
his hand. The slap rang in my ears for a
long time after he left. When he shut the door again,
the light seemed to change. The sun had begun to set,
and the room filled with shadows that stretched toward the
corners like stains. I stood, legs shaking, and picked up
the night's tend He was heavier than I expected, painted
white with floral knobs, one drawer still filled with old
birthday cards and dried out pens. I dragged it to
the window, raised it above my head, and slammed it
against the glass. The first it only left a mark
that was nothing but cosmetic. The second didn't even do
that much. By the fourth strike, my arms burned. I
let the night stand fall to the floor and sank
beside it, chest rising and falling too fast, the glass
mocking me from above. I didn't hear anyone approach. The
door creaked open behind me, Emily, Marian said gently. I
turned to face her. She stepped into the room in
a pale blue sweater and slacks. Her hair was pin
needly behind her ears. She held a silver brush in
one hand and a smile never wavered. I thought we
could spend some time together, she said. Before I could speak,
I saw movement behind her. Mister Avery stood in the hallway.
He wasn't sweating any more, his face had gone still,
calm again. In his right hand and was a pistol.
He held it with both hands low against his stomach,
but aimed in my direction. I opened my mouth, but
Marian was already crossing the room. Why don't you come sit,
she asked. She sat on the bed and patted the
space beside her. Mister Avery gestured with his pistol, and
so I sat. Marian reached out and began to run
the brust through my hair. The bristles snagged a knot.
She hummed softly under her breath, something tuneless and repetitive.
You always loved this, she said, You used to sit
just like this when you were little. Remember. I felt
the first tear slip down my cheek before I could
stop it. I tried to hold back, but they came fast,
soaking into the collar of the dress. Marian kept brushing.
Her voice crooned, You're going to feel better soon. All
that confusion is going to melt away. We'll take care
of you like we always have. She kissed the top
of my forehead and kept brushing, even as my shoulders shook.
Days passed like this. Missus Avery came into my room
every night, accompanied by mister Avery. Always the same routine.
She came into the room every evening with mister Avery
right behind her, always carrying the same pistol tucked into
his arm or slipped into the waistband of his jeans.
He never raised it again, but he never put it
away either. It was there to keep the lines drawn
to make sure I didn't forget who I was supposed
to be. She would talk about memories I didn't have,
cry over milestones I'd never reached. Sometimes she'd sing to
me in a low breathy voice, humming half finished lullabies
and whispering that I'd always be her baby. I didn't
argue any more. I played along. I smiled when I
was supposed to. I held a hand when she offered it,
I responded to Emily. It was the only way to
stay safe. Until the night I reached my breaking point.
I'd been staring at the wall across from the bed,
where it hung. A frame I hadn't noticed before must
have been slipped in when I was in the bathroom.
A drawing done in pencil of a small white house
with a porch and two stick figures standing in the yard.
At the bottom the signature Emmy, aged seven. Something about
it opened the door in my chest I hadn't closed
fast enough. I stood and tore it from the wall,
Then the next photo, then another. I didn't stop. I
tore the bed sheet apart and kicked the rocking chair over.
I pulled open the drawers of the desk and dumped
them onto the floor. I had destroyed most of the room.
The mattress had been flipped, the curtains torn from the rod.
I had kicked open the closet doors and thrown every
hanger to the floor. My arms ached, my throat burned
from yelling, though no one had come to stop me.
Maybe they were letting me tire myself out, or maybe
they were waiting to see what I would do next.
I sank to the floor beside the bed frame, heart
still pounding, tears dried on my face. I didn't know what.
I was hoping to find, some crack in the walls,
some hidden clue that would explain what had happened here
before me. I didn't expect anything real that. When I
found the notes, they'd been tugged behind the desk, whiged
between the back panel and the wall. The corner of
the paper had just barely peeked out, visible only from
where I'd collapsed. It wasn't hidden in the way someone
might hide a secret. It was forgotten. I crawled toward it.
The notes were thick and worn, the pages soft from handling.
A floral cover faded around the edges with the name
Becka written across the front in blooming not the loopy,
curated signature I had seen of an old schoolwork. This
one had been written fast, probably while crying. The first
entry was dated fourteen months ago. I wanted to start
this off by saying that my name is Becca, not Emily.
Marian gave me this journal, told me to write down
whatever she told me to. When she left the room,
I ripped a couple of pages out. I needed to
get my real thoughts across somewhere they took me. I
don't know how to write that any other way. I
keep waiting to wake up, to hear my alarm and
crawl back into real life, but it's not coming. I
went to see my old piano teacher. That's how it started.
I'd posted about it on Facebook and Marian must have
seen it. She was there when I came out, smiling,
saying it had been too long, and mister showed up.
I thought it was weird, but I didn't panic, not
until I got into the car, not until the door's locked.
My hands trembled as I turned the page. They told
me my parents didn't want me any more, that the
world outside was dangerous and they were the only ones
who could protect me. I screamed. I cried so much
I couldn't see straight. They started keeping me in the
room for days at a time, said I needed to
calm down before I earned privileges. Entry after entry blurred
into each other. Weeks of isolation, meals slipped through the door,
the silence, the slow removal of her name. They started
calling me Emily. That's their daughter's name. She died when
I was little. I think I found a photo once
in a box in the closet. The girl in the
picture wasn't me, but they said it was. I told
him no, but they didn't listen. The more I argued,
the more time they kept me locked away. Mister Avery
hit me for the first time three weeks ago. He
apologized after said he didn't want to, but I provoked him.
Marian gave me ice and a dish towel and told
me to stop resisting. She said, the sooner I accepted
that I was home, the easier everything would be. Some
entries were scribbled and hard to read with a pen
pressed so deep it all the paper. Others were neat
and almost detached, like she had given up on being
heard and wanted to leave a record, one in particular,
caught in my throat. I miss who I was, my name,
my friends, my real mom. I think I'm forgetting what
a voice aunted like. I keep trying to say my
own name out loud when I'm alone, but it sounds vake.
Now they keep telling me I'm Emily. They tell me
I was never any one else. The final entries were short.
They said, we're going to the lake soon to start
over somewhere quiet. I think they're going to kill me.
If any one somehow finds this, please tell the truth.
I was Becca Harper. I was sixteen. They made everything up.
I clutched the notes to my chest and sat there
in the wreckage of the room they had once given her,
a shell of a bedroom, meant to raise some one
and replace her with a better version, a more obedient version.
They were doing it again. I was still staring at
the notes when I heard a knock at the front door.
I immediately perked up. In all my time spent here
as a prisoner, I hadn't heard someone knock on the
front door a single time. It was a hard knock,
not Marian's gentle tap, not mister Avery's soft call for dinner,
A firm practiced fist against wood. My door swung open.
It was Marian. Before she could even question me about
the state the room was in, she ushered me to
come to the front door, claiming we had visitors. Mister
Avery was already there, gunn tightly bound to his waist.
He was always ready now. He opened the door with
a smile. Two officers stood outside, one older, square George,
the other younger, sharper eyes. The older one spoke, first,
we're falling up on a missing person report. Young woman
mid twenties moved into two one four last month. You
know anything about that? Marian beamed, Oh my, we thought
we hadn't seen her in a while. Mister Avery turned
to me, Emily, you are quite well acquainted with her.
Come say helo. I walked to the doorway. Marian reached
for my hand and held it in both of hers.
Introduce yourself first, sweetie. My mouth opened, nothing came out.
The order officer tilted his head slightly, studded my face.
His eyes narrowed just enough to suggest he saw more
than he was letting on. I tried again. I'm she
was gone for a year. She just recently came back,
and mister Avery said quickly, it's been a hard week.
The officer didn't move. I'd like to speak with her alone,
if that's all right. There was a pause. Marian blinked.
Mister Avery didn't speak, but his smile faltered. Of course,
she said, she just needs some air. He led me
down the walkway. We stood at the end of the driveway.
I leaned in and whispered, barely able to push the
words out. It's it's me. They kidnapped me. He has
a gun. Please don't make a scene. I think you'll
kill us if you do. The officer didn't flinch. He
only nodded very slowly. Then he smiled. Thank you, Emily,
he said, loud enough for the others to hear. Everything
seems fine here. He walked back to the porch. The
door shut and they left. Marian and mister Avery seemed
to be satisfied. They must have assumed that I had
told them I was their daughter or something equally as sick.
Falling for their own delusions, I went back to the
room and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting
for what would come next. That night, I didn't sleep,
or rather couldn't. The raid came late into the night.
There were no red and blue lights flashing through the windows,
only doors being broken and voices shouting. A battering ram
cracked the front door in half. Footsteps thundered through the house.
I huddled in the corner of Emily's room with a
lamp still on, waiting for it to end. One officer
rushed straight to my room, helping me up and escorting
me outside. They dragged mister Avery out after he screamed
and fought wild eyes flashing onto the hallway light. She's mine,
he shouted. You don't understand, she's mine. Then Marian sobbing,
her sweater stained and her hands shaking. Emily, Emily, tell them,
tell them the truth. Don't let them take us from you,
Don't let them hurt your family. I didn't answer. I
watched as they were taken from the house, kicking and wailing.
She reached for me as she passed the bedroom door.
I took a step back in disgust. Later at the station,
I told the officers everything I told them about the
notes and everything I'd read, and with that, Becker's case
was reopened and a family finally got the closure they
so desperately needed. As for me, I never quite recovered.
People imagine that once the danger ends, you can breathe again,
that the worst part is over and done with. That's
not how it works. You leave the place, but it
doesn't leave you. I still shower with the door cracked open.
I still flinch when I hear that name. I still
dream in that room, the pink wallpaper, the press dress,
the soft brushing of a voice behind me telling me
I'll be better soon.