I stopped a little way up the street. The house looked almost the same as it had twenty-five years ago. My gaze moved to one of the upstairs windows, the one that had been her bedroom, and I pictured her single bed with its plain covers, the desk with a small television on it, the acoustic guitar on a stand in one corner. The walls had been filled with shelves. They stretched all the way from the ceiling to the floor—clearly homemade—and always looked too flimsy to support the sheer number of books loaded onto them. It was only the foundations of more books below that had prevented the whole edifice from collapsing.
God, I could still see it all so clearly.
I remembered the first time I’d come here, and how it had been a surprise to see Jenny out of school uniform. When she opened the door, she was dressed in jeans, a faded Iron Maiden T-shirt that looked a couple of sizes too big for her, and an open, black-and-white-checked flannel.
The two of us had gone upstairs.
I’m sorry about the mess, she told me.
There had been no need for her to apologize. The contrast with my own bedroom had struck me immediately, and I’d felt ashamed thinking of the bare floorboards and plain mattress, the piles of clothes and books, the damp walls. Even the idea of having my own wardrobe or bookcase was alien to me, never mind a television.
You should see my room, I’d said.
That got me a raised eyebrow.
That’s very forward of you.
I smiled at the memory now. It had made me blush back then, but at the same time, the squirming sensation in my stomach had been nice. And both feelings had returned shortly afterward, when Jenny had finished bagging up the books she wanted to take to her beloved secondhand shop.
We should head downstairs, she said. We don’t want my mom getting suspicious, do we?
A little way down the street now, the front door opened.
I felt an urge to hide, but there was nowhere to go. Maybe it wouldn’t be Jenny emerging from the house—but then it was, of course. I watched as she stepped out onto the path, called something back into the house, then made her way to the street, hitching a bag over her shoulder. Not a plastic bag full of books this time, but something much more grown-up: designer and expensive. She was going to turn and see me at any moment, standing in the middle of the sidewalk like an idiot.
You’re not a teenager anymore.
No. And so instead of hesitating any longer, I started walking. She turned her head and did a double-take as she saw me. Then she smiled.
“Hey, stranger.”
“I’m like a bad penny,” I said. “Keep turning up.”
“That’s harsh; you’re worth more than that. What brings you to these parts at this time?”
“My feet. I’m not stalking you, honestly. I was just walking.”
“Yeah, yeah. I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t.” She gestured back at the house. “Hey, you want to come in for a bit? See my mom?”
I couldn’t really imagine doing that right now.
“Thanks. But I might not be the best company. And I really was just out walking.”
“Sounds serious.” She patted her bag. “I was just heading out to get some breakfast first thing. Do some reading. Make some notes. Walk with me?”
“Sure.”
I fell into step beside her. As we walked, I remembered how the two of us had done this so often that summer: meandering through the streets side by side, talking shit and sharing our aspirations for the future.
As the weeks had passed, it had felt like our lives were becoming slowly intertwined, and there had been a gentle tension between the two of us: a shared knowledge that something was building. A lot of time had passed since then, of course, and everything had changed, but the ease that came from age and experience right now was just as pleasant in its own way.
“Why did we lose touch?” Jenny said.
“I don’t know.”
I put my hands in my pockets, thinking back on the times she’d come to see me at college, and then the handful of occasions we’d seen each other afterward, and all I knew was that it had become increasingly awkward. Jenny had been my first love, and when you’re young you cling to that long past the point when you know it should be over. You know you need to let each other go, but it’s so sad and difficult, and so you don’t until you have to. Until the hurt of keeping someone outweighs the hurt of losing them.
“I don’t know,” I said again. “It was a long time ago. All I know is that it’s good to see you again now.”
“It is, isn’t it?” She smiled at me. “So: Any developments?”
I faltered slightly.
“I don’t want to talk about that right now.”
“Yeah, I can tell. All the more reason for you to, I reckon.”
And so, after a moment’s hesitation, I did. I told her about the knocks on the door and the figure I’d seen in the woods. The fact that Billy was dead.
“Well,” she said of the latter, “I’m glad about that.”
“I thought you would be. I know I should be too.”
“Yeah, but you were always more sensitive.” She frowned. “So what do you think is happening?”
“I don’t know. But do you remember the dolls Charlie made?”
“I remember you telling me about them.”
“Someone put one through my mother’s mail slot yesterday.”
“What?”
Jenny came to a stop beside me, looking horrified.
“Why would anyone do that?” she said.
That was one of the questions that was bothering me. So far, the attention I’d received had been threatening but not harmful. Perhaps that meant whoever was behind it just wanted to frighten me away, for some reason. But the behavior also seemed to be escalating—building toward something—and I couldn’t shake the sensation that I was in danger here.
But there was a question that scared me more. Who?
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You need to go to the police,” Jenny told me.
I looked at her.
“I don’t,” I said. “I can always just leave.”
And as I said it, I realized I meant it—that the thought had arrived along with the doll yesterday, even if I hadn’t admitted it to myself until now. I could leave. No law compelled me to stay here in Gritten. If I would be letting my mother down by doing so, I had lived with worse guilt over the years, and hadn’t she told me herself that I shouldn’t be here?
There was no need for me to stay.
Jenny smiled sadly.
“I don’t think you’re going to do that this time, Paul.”
And then she reached out and touched my arm.
It was the first physical contact we’d had in over twenty years. The sensation sent a jolt through me, and when she left her hand there I felt warmth spreading through my skin.
I don’t think you’re going to do that this time.
“I owe it to my mother, right?” I said.
“No, you owe it to yourself. And you know what? I think a part of you wants to. After all, you didn’t have to come back here at all, did you? You didn’t have to stay in the house or look in the attic. But you did.”
“Yes.”
“Because deep down, you know you need to.”