teeth in the grass
chapter three
Caroline hates hospitals.
She hates the fluorescent lights, she hates the sounds of the machines constantly whirring and beeping, and she especially hates the way they smell—clean, but not clean in the way that a home may smell. There is no lemony scent of Pine-Sol, the soft and flowery scent of laundry detergent, or even the stinging smell of bleach. She thinks she'd prefer that.
Instead, it smells sterile. As though life, in all its beautiful, bountiful glory, came in, took one look around and walked straight back out. She wishes she could do the same.
All of it, the sights, the sounds, and especially the smells, throw her backwards in time, to another hospital, in another state, battling the twin emotions of overwhelming terror and crushing sadness as she waited for news of another patient; her mother at her side as she watched Steven break down, fighting back sobs that threatened to crash over her like white-tipped waves breaking over a sandbar—
"Penny for them?"
She blinks, the words bringing her back to the present, and looks up to see Klaus holding out a Styrofoam cup of what she's sure is disgusting hospital-grade coffee.
"Your thoughts," he clarifies as she takes the cup, and she hates the feel of the soft Styrofoam against her fingertips too.
Her thoughts, her thoughts, what are her thoughts—
"I hate hospitals," she says finally, unable to keep the edge out of her voice. She doesn't drink the coffee; instead, her nail picks at a loose ball of Styrofoam that has pilled at the rim of the cup.
He sits next to her and her eyes follow his knee as it treads dangerously close to her own. "They are quite uncomfortable," he comments lightly, and she feels a rush of gratitude when he doesn't push the issue, doesn't make her elaborate on why. Instead they sit in a quiet, companionable silence; Caroline watches as nurses in blue scrubs walk past them.
It isn't until a woman rushes over, her red hair in disarray, that their quiet stillness cracks.
"Fish?" the woman cries out, hovering in the doorway to Fisher's hospital room, and Caroline feels a shock of recognition go through her at the sound of the woman's voice.
"Sara?" she blurts out in mild disbelief, standing as the woman hurries over—Sara, who Caroline had admittedly not known all that well given the handful of years that separated them, but who had always been a mainstay on the periphery of her Avery friends. She blinks and her memory floods with images of Sara the cheerleader, Sara who always brought a cookie cake to every backyard bonfire, her grape Sonic slushie half-filled with vodka—Sara is Sara Leigh, Fisher's wife.
Sara—Sara Leigh, her mind corrects, turns to look over her and Caroline sees the recognition flare in her face. "Caroline Forbes?" She hurries over to the bench they had been sitting on, Klaus having now stood as well.
"What happened? The—the ER nurse said that he had a seizure, Fish has never had a seizure in his life—"
Caroline is at a loss in the face of a panicking wife, and to her relief, a nurse steps in with a gentle, "Mrs. Hamilton?"
Sara Leigh whirls around to face the nurse, a flurry of red hair and panic; and as they begin to speak in low tones, Caroline stands there, twining her hands tightly and feeling completely and utterly useless.
Warm fingers brush her elbow. "It doesn't seem that we're needed here any longer," Klaus says quietly, his chin dipping towards her. "If you'd like to leave."
Yes forms on her tongue, but before it can spring out into the space between them, she casts another concerned glance over to where Sara Leigh and the nurse are in deep conversation. Klaus follows her gaze.
"They have our phone numbers," he points out gently. "Should they need anything further from us."
She watches anxiously as Sara Leigh's fingers twist her wedding ring around her finger. The other woman's hands are shaking slightly and Caroline feels a pang of sympathy. She remembers all too clearly the acrid taste of fear on her tongue, waiting for a surgeon to give her the time of day, and being this close to another person's pain is enough to send her reeling.
"Yeah," she agrees finally, allowing him to pull her away. "Yeah, you're right."
It's in the elevator that she blurts out, "Do you think he'll be okay?" Almost instantly she wants to call the words back, because of course he doesn't know—he can't know, because he isn't Fisher's doctor, or a psychic.
But the look he gives her is thoughtful and considering. "I don't know," he says slowly. "But he arrived here quickly, and is quite young." The half-smile he shoots her way is comforting. "That can only help."
She nods distractedly, her arms crossed over her chest and her fingers tight around her own elbows. "I seriously hate hospitals," she repeats, unconsciously gripping herself closer. The elevator—the world's slowest, she's sure of it—ticks down until they finally, finally reach the ground level.
His hand lingers at the small of her back as they walk out.
—
They walk in companionable silence, side by side, towards his car in the dimly lit hospital parking garage. It's half-empty, the light reflecting off the muted color of the other cars in the lot, and as they approach his, Caroline can't help but notice that they're in lockstep. She quickly looks away before the observation can warm her any more than it already does.
"Back to the bar to pick up your car, then?" Klaus asks as he holds her door open for her. Instead of answering or sliding into the passenger seat, she leans back against the frame of the car and checks the time on her phone before returning to consider him.
"It's one am," she tells him, "and I could maybe eat. If you don't mind."
Something crosses his face, but before she can pin it down and analyze it, it's gone; she's not even sure she really saw it.
"I don't mind," he says, one corner of his mouth ticking up as he half-smiles at her. "But I think you'll be hard pressed to find a place open this late."
"This early," she corrects him as she sits in the passenger seat and pulls her legs in after her. "And I know a place."
Ten minutes later, as they settle into their booth, he says archly, "Not exactly what I had in mind when I said dinner."
When she glances over at him, there's an amused tilt to his mouth that makes something akin to attraction twist low in her stomach. She pushes it down, but can't keep the flirtatious lilt from her tone—she's only human, after all. "Yeah well. You gotta be more specific next time. Waffle House is fine dining, my friend."
The red glow of the traffic light hanging down over the nearby street reflects off the window next to their spot, bathing them both in its dim, fractured haze. It's under that light that he looks up and meets her eyes.
"Alright," he says, his voice low and silky enough to send shivers slipping down her spine. "I will be, then. Next time."
It lingers in the space between them, the implication of a future; that this is but the start of something.
Klaus inspects the menu with far more scrutiny than she'd bet anyone has ever given anything produced by a Waffle House. The plastic cover catches the fluorescent lights from overhead and crinkles as he turns it over.
"You've seriously never eaten at a Waffle House?" Caroline asks incredulously, watching as his eyes scan the words. "How long have you been here, again?"
"In Mississippi or the States?" he counters.
"The South."
He tilts his head and dimples. "A few years," he says, and she narrows her eyes at him.
"Cagey," she informs him tartly, leaning back in the booth and crossing her arms over her chest. "But okay. Fine. We can go with that—a couple of years. In the multiple years you have lived in this part of the country, you've seriously never once found yourself in a Waffle House?"
"Afraid not." He's not bothering to hide his smile now.
"Yeah well, clearly you never attended a fraternity formal where you had four too many Jell-O shots and had to sober up before being let back into your sorority house." She gestures to the menu in front of him. "As someone who has, I can honestly tell you that after midnight, nothing on God's green earth hits the spot the way Waffle House does."
That makes him laugh. "I cannot say that is an experience I'm familiar with," he agrees, and again she gets the distinct impression he could swallow her whole. She gets the feeling that he wants to.
She thinks she would let him.
—
The drive back to the bar flies by, thanks in no small part, Caroline is sure, to the fact that she is somewhat free of the anxiety that had been wrapped around like a vise. Fisher, she assures herself, is in the best place for him to be, getting the care he needs; and the reassuring thought helps.
Though she won't be getting the mental image of him on the floor, struggling to breathe, out of her mind anytime soon.
Klaus smoothly pulls his car next to hers and parks it before glancing in over at her as he hits the ignition button to turn the car off. "That," he says with a single arched eyebrow, "did not count as dinner."
She turns in her seat to shoot an over-indignant look his way. "Are you impugning the honor of the one AM Waffle House run?" she demands lightly. "Because I will have you know that not only was that dinner and breakfast, it was also an event in your culinary life."
"Noted," he says dryly; she watches as he turns his attention down towards his wristwatch. Caroline has lived in New York City long enough to recognize that it's expensive, the piece on his wrist—who are you, she wonders. Sharp clothes, pricey watches, and his general disposition all seem so entirely out of place in this dusty, dying town. And why are you here?
"Be that as may," he continues, interrupting her thoughts, "can I interest you in lunch, then? Later today?"
"Dinner, breakfast, and lunch? I dunno, man, may wanna pump the brakes there," she teases. "All in one day, too—whatever would the old Southern belles in my family tree think?"
The light question gives rise to something that she has secretly wondered over the last few days: what Mimi would have thought of him with his charm and his dimples and his well-cut suits. Mimi, who suffered no fools, would have liked him, she likes to think.
But instead of continuing to tease him, she reaches down to where his phone rests in one of the car's cup holders. She holds it out to him and one corner of his mouth ticks upwards, showing a dimple, as he unlocks it and hands it back to her.
Caroline resists the temptation to snoop, but only just—instead, she heads to the contacts and does what she's been contemplating since that first day in Avery.
She gives him her number.
"Lunch today may be a stretch," she warns him as she holds the phone back out to him. "Since I fully plan on crashing as soon as I get home and may not wake up until like, 2 pm." Right on cue, she has to bite back a yawn. "This is way, way past my bedtime."
Something hot zips through her veins at the association of Klaus and bedtime, but she pushes past it resolutely. Dates first, she reminds herself firmly. Her one-night stand days are long in her past, and there they will stay.
"Come by the bar then," he suggests, leaning back against the car window. "When you're ready to rejoin the world of the waking."
The words escape her before she can overthink it, before she can inspect and edit them to death.
"It's a date," she says.
He grins.
—
Hawthorne House is no longer dark when she arrives home, thanks to the timers she had plugged into a few key lamps; their warm glow beckons her inside, promising rest and the blessed cool air of an active air conditioning. Caroline takes the front porch steps two at a time and unlocks both doors quickly. The windchimes are silent but the cicadas and the crickets chirp noisily from the depths of the woods.
Finch's tail wags happily at the sight of her, and he darts past her out the door, bounding around the driveway as he sniffs. She watches him sleepily, the action of the day having well and truly caught up to her. Her limbs feel heavy, and her eyelids struggle to stay open under the weight of what feels like sandbags.
"Finch," she calls out around a yawn as he paces, unable to find the perfect spot, "just pop a squat and go. Seriously, I've met Upper East Side socialites that are less picky than you're being right now."
The look the dog sends her as he sniffs is so hilariously pained and long suffering that she snorts out loud. "Fine, but you know the longer you take, the longer you have to stay out here."
He finally, finally settles and she politely averts her eyes, until—
The sound of twigs snapping nearby breaks the warm, contented spell; Finch goes as still as a statue. Caroline freezes too, but she's certain the thundering sound of her heartbeat betrays her. Another twig snaps, closer now, and gravel crunches. She knows this driveway like the back of her hand, and she knows that the gravel extends beyond what she can see in the dim light; but she also knows that it doesn't extend that far out into the forest. Whatever, whoever this is, is close by.
Finch stares out into the blackness, every strand of fur standing on edge; it's that image that sparks goosebumps along the skin of her arms and sends a shiver snaking down her spine. The darkness is oppressively dense where the porch light fades, and she wants nothing more than to grab Finch and make a beeline for her bed.
"Finch," she tries to call out, but her voice is hoarse from use, and instead she croaks the word. Finch doesn't move, his entire body ramrod straight, and then he growls. His lip curls, showing his canines, and his growl grows louder. Another twig snaps, then another, and they sound closer, as though whatever it is is creeping up towards the house. His ears are pinned back flat against his skull.
A sudden, furious heat propels her forward; whoever this is is threatening her dog, the dog whose safety she was entrusted with, and she'll be damned if some hillbilly thinks to scare her off her own goddamn property. Caroline reaches into her back pocket and turns on her phone's flashlight, shining it right in the direction of the sounds.
"Get out of here!" she shouts, storming up to where Finch still hasn't moved. "Get out, before I call the cops!"
The tiny pinprick of light barely penetrates the all-encompassing darkness; she can barely see a foot in front of her. The reach of the soft yellow porch light stretches only just past the front steps and she is well into the driveway, the rocks crunching under her thin sandals. She doesn't move any further, and it feels like the entire world stops—the cicadas are quiet, the air is still, and forest itself seems to roar with silence.
Caroline holds her breath, waiting for something—more footsteps, at the very least—but next to her, Finch slowly relaxes, his tail rising and beginning to wag. There's a breeze now too, where the air had been previously stagnant, and as it brushes past her, she realizes that she's sweating.
She slowly lowers her phone, clicking her tongue. "Guess we scared 'em off, huh?" she says with a weak laugh. Finch looks up at her, his tongue peeking out before he licks her hand. "You done? Can we go to sleep now?"
He blinks up at her before bounding away, as though she is the reason they are currently facing off against thin air.
It's nearly 2 am when she finally, finally collapses into bed, Finch curling up at her feet.
—
Caroline dreams uncomfortable dreams.
She's standing on the front porch of Hawthorne House, and the windchimes are dancing as though the wind is gusting, but she feels nothing. She looks down and sees that her clothes are soaked through with water, her hair dripping wet with fat droplets falling to stain the wood of the porch.
When she looks up, she is no longer on the porch, but instead in the woods. The moss-covered tree trunks surround her on all sides, and the thick, leafy branches stretch out high, blocking most of the sunlight. A thick blanket of kudzu smothers the forest, and a dark smudge sits on a downed, rotting trunk. She tries to focus, but every time she tries to look over at the shadow, her eyes skirt away of their own volition.
She blinks, and is suddenly standing in the living room of Hawthorne House, a photo of Mimi in her hands—
A whine, then a cold, wet nose nudging her hand and her eyes fly open, her heart thundering in her chest.
With fumbling fingers, she grabs for her phone where it sits on the bedside table; at least this time, she woke up where she went to sleep. Small mercies, she thinks sardonically, wincing as the screen lights up, illuminating the darkness.
The clock on her phone screen reads 3:27 am, and Finch looks up at her, his chin in his paws and his tail wagging uncertainly.
Sleep is well and truly gone. Caroline slumps back into the covers, blowing wisps of escaped hair off of her forehead. "Damnit," she mumbles irritably.
There in the darkness, she weighs her options: try—and fail, she can already tell—to go back to sleep, or get up and abandon all pretense of the former.
In the end, she meets herself in the middle. She eases the comforter back to tiptoe through the quiet hallways, then down the stairs, automatically sidestepping the creaky step third from the bottom, an old habit leftover from childhood. Her destination is the kitchen, where there's an old electric kettle and a box of chamomile tea waiting for her.
The only sound breaking the stillness of Hawthorne House is that of her bare feet padding against the hardwood floor. It's dark, with the light of the moon hidden away by cloud cover, and Caroline hesitates only briefly before flipping the lights on as she makes her way through the halls.
"Reasonable," she assures herself out loud. "Because I'm alone. Not because I'm scared."
From upstairs, there's a loud noise, and she immediately proves herself a liar, whirling around as adrenaline spikes through her veins.
But it's only Finch, having jumped down from the bed and made his way to accompany her to the kitchen. His big brown eyes blink up at her and she exhales, one hand coming to lay against her heart.
"Don't do that," she scolds lightly, softening the reprimand with a generous scratch behind his floppy ears. His tail wags and she turns back to head towards the kitchen.
It's as she's filling the kettle that it strikes—the keen sense that she has been here before, that she has done this once already. Déjà vu, she thinks fuzzily. She'd written an article on it once, about how some experts suspected it was the brain simply skipping ahead of itself before memories were able to form; that it wasn't even really an unexplained phenomenon at all.
Her fingers tighten on the kettle and the sense that this has happened before closes in on her like walls pressing in—
Gasping, she wakes up in bed. Sunlight is pouring through the window and Finch is snoring away happily at her feet.
The hair on the back of her neck stands up.
It had felt so real—had she really been dreaming?
Slowly, she pulls the covers back and slides her feet out, but doesn't make a move to get out of bed. Her feet dangle and she braces herself on the edge of the bed, staring down at the patterns in the floor's wood grain.
"Finch," she says softly; the dog wakes immediately, his ears perking. "Am I losing it?"
He tilts his head at her, then jumps off the bed, his tail wagging.
When she reaches for her phone, her fingers are shaking.
—
The shower helps ease the tension in her muscle as Caroline ponders her next steps.
"Okay," she says to the tiled walls, "first—am I sleepwalking? I definitely did the other night, but I think that was the only time." Nodding to herself, she files that away—she'll worry about it if it happens again.
"Second—is this house haunted?" she continues, rinsing the conditioner out of her hair. Next to the sides of the tub, Finch's nose appears under the shower curtain, sniffing curiously, before vanishing. She hears him rustling, then watches in amusement as he clearly curls up next to the tub, his back appearing under the curtain. "This assumes," she tells the tiles, "that ghosts are real, which, frankly—I'm not convinced."
Caroline reaches down and shuts off the faucet before grasping for the towel hanging just outside the shower. "Everyone keeps telling me that they are, and that this house is like, Casper central," she says to Finch, who has moved and is now looking up at her happily, his tail wagging. "And I think it's messing with my head."
He has no answers for her, but she pats his head affectionately anyway. "You're a good little listener," she tells him. He licks her hand and she shakes her head, unable to fight her smile.
Once in her bedroom, she pulls on a sundress; from the way the condensation is already appearing on her windows, she can tell it's going to be an absolute steamer.
She grabs her towel off the floor and heads down the steps; the third from the bottom squeaks loudly as she makes her way down.
Finch trots next to her through the living room, waiting patiently as she tosses her towel into the laundry basket and heading with her into the kitchen.
"You're a little stage five clinger, you know that?" she says to him as she heads over to the stove—
—where the kettle sits, filled with water, a mug next to it and teabags haphazardly strewn.
As though someone had begun making tea.
As though she had been making herself a cup, at three in the morning.
Caroline inhales sharply and Finch whines, his nose nudging her hand.
"Okay," she whispers, unease snaking down her spine. She refuses to let it morph into real fear, holding the desire to spiral at bay, because really, she reasons logically, what has actually happened?
"I sleepwalked again," she says quietly to the silent kitchen.
And it wouldn't be as unsettling if it didn't come on the heels of her dreams, which had veered from weird into very firmly disturbing. Unbidden, the wisp of a memory of the dark smudge sitting patiently on the log whispers into her mind and despite the warmth of the early summer heat already seeping into the house, Caroline shivers.
—
It isn't until she climbs in the car, Finch jumping easily into the passenger seat—she refuses to leave him alone there, especially after the events of the previous night—that she breathes easier. Her lungs had been feeling tight in her chest, and when Finch looks over at her curiously, she just shakes her head as she starts the car, inhaling deeply. The mid-morning sunshine slips through the canopy of thick leaves where the magnolias stretch towards the sky, their branches intertwining in a leafy love story above. It's shady beneath their shadows, but hardly an escape from the encroaching heat.
"I'm not doing it, Finch," Caroline declares as she pulls the transmission into reverse. "I'm not living in a haunted house, because Morticia Addams I am not."
He blinks at her before settling his head in his paws, large brown eyes simply watching her as she turns the car around and heads down the driveway, her fingers clenched tight on the wheel.
"We're saging the house," she whispers to herself as the car approaches the end of the driveway. "We're saging the house, we're saging the house and it's gonna fix whatever the hell is going on—" Slowly, she lets her foot off the brake to ease on to the highway—
"Jesus Christ!" Caroline snarls, her palm slapping down onto the horn as that same fucking red truck speeds by, unperturbed. "Seriously?" She gives the horn a few more aggressive taps for good measure, until Finch lets out a tiny whine in protest. Instantly, she yanks her hand back and reaches over to scratch right behind his ears.
"Sorry," she says, leaning over slightly to bump his forehead with her own. "Sorry, I'm mad. And freaked, but now just mostly mad." He licks her palm and she settles back into the driver's seat, her brow furrowing.
"How," she wonders aloud, making no move to pull forward onto the highway, "have I nearly been t-boned by the same old ass truck two days in a row?" She looks over at Finch as though expecting him to offer an explanation. "Any ideas?"
Finch barks once before settling back down in the passenger seat; Caroline wrinkles her nose and pretends to consider. "An unlikely theory," she decides finally, her fingers tapping nervously along the steering wheel. "But thank you for your input."
The clock behind the steering wheel reads ten thirty-four am, and it hits her then like a thunderclap. "Oh my god," she exhales, relief flooding through her so forcefully that she nearly lets her foot off the brake. "Red pickup truck is going to work." A nervous, high pitched laugh escapes her. "Holy shit, Forbes, you have got to chill the hell out."
With a final look at Finch, she nods firmly before pulling out onto the highway and taking off towards the Bennett house.
It's Grams who answers, her eyebrows rising at the sight of her at the doorstep, frazzled and pale. "Honey," she says, one hand reaching out to rest on Caroline's shoulder. "What's the matter?"
"Sage it," Caroline says instead of answering, the blood pounding in her ears. "The house. I want you to sage it. Please. If the offer is still good."
—
"Bonnie had to run down to Jackson," Grams says as Caroline navigates the car down Hawthorne House's drive. "Her mama's down there, you know."
"Oh, no, I didn't know that," Caroline mumbles apprehensively as Hawthorne House looms into view. "Um, I didn't think she was—you know. Around."
Grams sighs as Caroline parks, her eyes still firmly fixed on the house. "She wasn't, until a few years ago." She reaches over and pats Caroline's hand. "Honey, you should relax a little." Grams' smile is kind and warm. "You're wound tighter than a corkscrew."
Caroline manages a hesitant smile. "I'm just—kind of freaked out."
Grams leans back against the seat. "Why don't you tell me about it," she suggests gently. "Before we go in. So I know what I'm looking for."
At the words, Caroline looks over pleadingly at Grams. "You'll think I've lost it," she protests weakly, her hands gripping at the steering wheel.
"Try me, sugar."
Her face is so open and so warm, that when her mouth opens to deflect, the entire story tumbles out. The strange dreams, the sleepwalking, the noises she's been convincing herself for days that she didn't really hear—once she starts talking, Caroline can't stop herself. Grams' face is too open, too concerned, and in it, she sees the memories of her great-grandmother reflected back at her. If there's anyone who can offer a helping and non-judgmental hand, it's Grams.
"Grams, what if it's all in my head?" She exhales shakily and lets her forehead drop to touch the steering wheel. "What if everyone telling me all these stories just made my brain go into, like, hyperdrive and I'm literally manifesting this?"
To her surprise, Grams chuckles. "Now, Caroline," she scolds lightly, "the brain is a powerful thing, to be sure. But you're a smart girl. Do you really believe that?"
She thinks back to Finch, growling at something in the dark, and the kettle sitting on the kitchen counter where she'd left it in her dream. "No," she whispers.
Grams nods once. "All right then." She claps her hands together once. "Let's tackle this thing together."
The only sound around them is the gravel crunching beneath their feet; even the surrounding forest is quiet.
"How does it work?" Caroline asks once they reach the front door. Grams glances over at her before beginning to root around in the satchel she had brought. "The sage?"
"Usually it's pretty simple, though this isn't exactly sage," Grams tells her as she pulls out a small bundle of what looks to Caroline's untrained eye to be twigs. "I learned the technique in California, but use rosemary I grew here at home in my garden." She winks at Caroline. "We'll need to leave the door open, and maybe open up a window so the smoke, and the negativity, can get out."
"The negativity?" Caroline repeats faintly, her hand tight around the doorknob.
Grams looks up from her bag. "Sure, honey. Isn't that part of what's bothering you?" Her hand reaches out to touch the side of the house and a shadow passes over her face. "Even if it's coming solely from within you, Caroline my girl, something here has spooked you, and this is step one in bringing it to the light." Her smile is soft and gentle, and in it, Caroline sees the echo of Mimi. "What's that they say about sunlight and disinfectant?"
"You think there's something wrong with the house?" Caroline asks, her voice barely above a whisper; you think there's something wrong with me, a tiny voice in her mind hums.
"You think there's something wrong with the house, sugar. That's the root of the problem, to my mind." Grams pulls her hand from the siding and takes Caroline's hand in her own. "The mind is a powerful thing, Caroline. Let this ease yours."
Caroline's heart sinks. "So you do think it's all in my head?"
"I didn't say that." Grams squeezes her hand. "Come on, honey, let's get the smoke cleansing stick lit, then we'll chat."
The saging—or the rosemarying, as her mind calls it—only takes a scant fifteen minutes. Grams hands her a second stick, and she whispers the mantra Grams had given her as she walks around the living room: I let go and release that which no longer serves me. In her heart, she adds, and stay out. She can't help but feel a little silly, waving her lit bundle of twigs at the silent walls, but the memory of her sleepwalking makes her gut tighten anxiously and quickly quells the feeling.
The scent of the smoke from the lit rosemary is aromatic and lingers long after the ritual is over. Inexplicably, the scent reminds her of home.
Afterwards, Grams sits on the long swing at the end of the porch while Caroline takes the nearby rocking chair. Finch spins in circles at Grams' feet before curling into a tight ball, tucking his nose under one paw.
"I remember when your grandpa made that chair," Grams comments lightly, her foot pushing the swing back gently, a glass of sweet tea in her hand. "Took him twelve tries to get it right, and on the last try, your Mimi told him she was tired of sacrificing good wood to his, and I quote, 'failed artistic endeavors' so he better hope he got right the thirteenth."
Caroline laughs appreciatively. "Sounds like Mimi," she says fondly, and the chair creaks against the porch as she rocks gently back. They sit in companionable silence, the only sound the gentle sway of the trees in the surrounding forest as their branches move in the soft breeze, until Caroline, chewing on the inside of her cheek, asks what has been at the forefront of her mind for hours.
"Did Mimi ever mention any, like...issues like this?"
Grams laughs lowly. "Well honey, that depends on what you mean by issues. If you mean, did your Mimi sleepwalk? No, not that I can recall her mentioning." She looks over at Caroline, who gets the distinct impression that she is entirely transparent to Grams. "But is that what you mean?"
She hesitates, and nearly doesn't ask. After all, if she doesn't ask, then she doesn't get an answer; and without an answer, she can continue on in blissful ignorance.
But she has to know, and in the back of her mind, she can hear Mimi's voice say, as it so often had over the handlebars of a bike or as she carefully poured ingredients into a boiling pot of stew: be brave, Caroline.
"No," she says finally. "Steven mentioned that my dad told him stories about the house, that things would happen without explanation. Like doors opening and shutting, footsteps in the hallway, things like that."
The look Grams gives her is hard to decipher. "Everything has an explanation, sugar."
Caroline leans forward eagerly. "That's what I thought," she tells Grams gratefully. "It's impossible. Ghosts aren't real." She expects Grams to smile, to agree, to maybe even join her in a light ribbing of Steven and his gullibility.
But Grams simply looks at her, her face carefully blank. "Caroline," she says slowly, as though searching for the perfect words, "nothing is impossible."
—
Grams has long left, and Caroline is curled up on the sofa, her MacBook resting precariously on one arm as she stares dejectedly at the blank Word document in front of her.
She's started typing and deleted the words more times than she can count, but she knows where her series needs to start: with Mimi, with Hawthorne House, with Avery, and with what they each have meant to her; but everything she writes feels too simple, too pedestrian to accurately reflect the depth and the breadth of their individual importance.
Sighing, she minimizes the Word document, tentatively saved as Avery Series Vol and pulls up one of the articles that Elena had sent her to redline; she's knee deep in tiny changes—breaking up a few long sentences here, crossing out extra flowery adjectives where only one will do because she knows Natalie hates it—when, a crick seizing deep in her neck, she looks up and wonders what Klaus is doing.
The clock on the mantle, ticking softly in the background, reads just after one pm, and Caroline bites her lip. It's still technically lunch time, she reasons as she shuts her laptop and slides it onto the coffee table.
Come by the bar, he'd said and with a whistle to Finch, she grabs her keys and does just that.
But of course the parking lot is empty. Caroline leans back, her head falling against the driver's seat as she sighs, disappointment acute and stinging. "Sorry, dude," she offers dejectedly to Finch. "Guess we took a road trip for nothing."
The dog whines, just a little, and she's putting the car in reverse when her phone rings.
It's a number she doesn't have saved, but she recognizes the area code as a local one, and when she answers, she half expects it to be a telemarketer warning her that her car warranty is almost up.
But it's not.
"Caroline," Klaus says pleasantly, and her heart trips over itself at the way his accent wraps around her name, "lunch?"
"Your timing," she tells him seriously, "could not be better."
Five minutes and a dropped pin later, she's parking in front of his house.
It's small, smaller than she'd expected for some reason—maybe, she rationalizes, it's the suits and the expensive watch, and the luxury car, but she had pictured him in a sprawling house instead of the small, very old one that she pulls up to. She wrinkles her nose—she's pretty sure the Rayburns used to live here, and she vaguely wonders what happened to them.
"Not exactly what I'd pictured," she says as she hops out of her car, Finch bounding after her, his nose twitching interestedly at all the new sights and smells that surround this unfamiliar scenery.
Klaus raises an eyebrow over his sunglasses, a glass of something amber in one hand as he leans against one of the porch columns. "And what exactly did you picture?" he asks, and something about his tone, the velvety smoothness of his voice, makes it feel less like a question and more like a caress.
Caroline shrugs as she walks to the porch with him and waits near the front window as he opens the door for her. "Something newer," she says honestly, looking over at the peeling paint of the shutters. "More...modern."
He snorts. "Modern? In this town?" The door creaks as it opens, as though to emphasize the point, and she follows him inside, eager for this, her first glimpse into Klaus the man.
She's a bit disappointed. The house was clearly furnished when he moved in, and the furniture looks much like what currently sits in Hawthorne House. The walls are mostly barren, save for a few old, faded paintings that look suspiciously like Thomas Kinkade. There is nothing to reveal any new information about Klaus. "Are you renting from the Rayburns? Where did they go?"
"James Rayburn decided he wanted to move closer to his daughter on the coast," Klaus tells her as he pulls spices out of a cabinet and lines them up on his counter. "I suppose she's the one who listed it for rent on Craigslist, which is where I found it." There's the slight clatter of pans jostling as he rustles in another cabinet.
"Renting on Craigslist is always a crapshoot," she says wryly. "Can I help?"
He sends her a mock-stern look over one shoulder and motions to one of the high chair backed stools that line a small island that was clearly a late addition to the kitchen. "No. Sit." He motions towards the fridge. "There's drinks in there, if you'd like."
She snags a Lazy Magnolia beer and pops it, watching with only slightly concealed interest as he moves around his kitchen. "So," she says conversationally as she sips; he slings a dish towel over one shoulder and pulls chicken out of the old avocado-colored fridge. "You haven't told me just how you ended up in Avery."
Klaus glances over at her before turning back to his stove. "My father died," he says, "and left behind a behemoth estate."
Caroline straightens in her seat. "I'm so sorry," she offers softly as Finch comes to lay at her feet, sighing heavily.
"Don't be. He was a terror."
"Still," she says quietly, leaning forward to rest her chin on her palm, "you only get one dad."
"Mercifully, in his case," Klaus says archly. "But once everything was settled with the solicitors and the will, I found myself with quite the itch to leave England for something entirely…different."
"So you picked here, of all places?" Caroline snorts. "I guess you got different."
That earns her a grin over his shoulder before he drops the chicken into the pan; it begins to sizzle and her mouth waters. "Don't laugh," he warns, "but I threw a dart at a map."
She can't help herself; she can't fight the snort. "Seriously? And it landed in Avery?"
"No. It landed in the middle of the Caribbean."
"You definitely should have gone there."
He laughs lowly before adding something that smells incredible to the chicken currently searing. "I have before," he says with just a touch of self-deprecation, "and the appeal has long faded. But I happened to be reading Faulkner at the time, and armed with quite the desire to get away from anything familiar, a small town in the middle of nowhere seemed like just the escape."
Leaving the chicken to sear noisily on the pan, Klaus turns back to her, his hands resting on either end of the tiny island as he leans forward. There's something about his presence—commanding, and, if he weren't so charming, a little oppressive—that makes her want to seriously consider abandoning all scruples and throw herself at him.
"Well," Caroline comments lightly, "you picked the right place to escape to. According to Mimi—my great-grandmother—Avery was a big bootleg moonshining operation back in the 20s. No one ever got busted for it, and like half the cellars in town still have like, hundred-year-old jars on the shelves." She smiles at him when he turns back to face her, the mouth-watering scent of the chicken permeating the air. "Think the MBI, or whatever they had back then, just washed their hands of the whole thing. It's the perfect place to disappear."
When he turns, there is a tiny piece of chicken balanced on a spoon in his hand that he holds out for her. Their fingers brush as she accepts. "Thoughts?"
"Salt," she instructs, "and a little more pepper."
Thirty minutes and a second beer later, the chicken is plated and sitting in a deep red sauce next to a few sprigs of asparagus. It's fantastic and she tells him so between bites.
"Where did you learn to cook?"
He hums nonchalantly. "Picked up a few things over the years."
"Uh huh. All I've picked up over the years is how to get a cab at three am in Manhattan."
"A skillset I'm sure you've utilized."
"Hey," she defends good-naturedly, "a girl's gotta do what she's gotta do, especially at three am."
Klaus leans forward on his elbows and sends one of those dimpling half-smiles her way. "I commend you for it."
She can't help but grin back as she spears the last of her chicken, using it to mop up the sauce. It's a bit fruity, and Caroline can't quite pinpoint the flavor—cranberry, she thinks, or possibly pomegranate.
His plate is empty as well and she stands, holding her hand out expectantly. "You cooked," she says firmly when he makes no move to hand over his plate. "It's only fair."
He leans back in his seat. "The place did come with a dishwasher," he points out dryly.
"How very modern," she says archly. "Fine, then let me load it."
The dishwasher is the same avocado green as the fridge and clearly on its last legs; Caroline is pretty sure it's an original leftover from when the house was built. The modern plates barely fit in the bottom rack; and when she straightens back up, Klaus has moved to squat down at Finch's level, scratching under the dog's chin. Finch's eyes are closed and his tail thumps a happy staccato against the floor.
When he stands back up, Finch bounds away, having apparently lost interest now that there is no more chance of crumbs falling to the floor. He curls up in a sunbeam near a window and sends them one sidelong glance before shutting his eyes. It's then that Klaus leans against the island across from her, a tiny divide separating them. "And what are you doing in Avery, Caroline?"
"My great-grandmother died," she says automatically, and she knows she told him this already, but something in his eyes stops her. He's not the type to forget, and she bites her lip before shaking her head.
"I think," she says slowly, "I might be at a crossroads."
"Tricky things," he comments knowingly, a glint in his eye.
"No kidding." She sighs. "I've been in New York a few years now, and it's—I mean, don't get me wrong. I've loved it there. It's never boring, and there's always something to do, or someone new to meet, or something new to see. And my best friend is there, but—" One of her shoulders lifts and falls in a shrug. "I can't even really explain what's bothering me, just that it's like—like I'm waiting for my life to happen to me instead of just, you know, living it. You know what I mean?"
His hand comes up and pushes an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "I certainly do," he says quietly, before he closes the slim remaining distance between them and kisses her.
She knew, somehow, that he'd be good at this. His lips are insistent but soft, and he uses the teeth behind them to pull gently at her lower lip, his tongue easing into her mouth as his hands come to rest at her waist. The weight of his hips against hers presses her against the counter, and she kisses him back, her mouth opening and letting him in. He makes a low noise in the back of his throat that, when she hears it over the low thrum of blood rushing in her ears, she recognizes it as triumph.
Something pulses in her belly, and Caroline has just enough presence of mind to recognize it for what it is: desire.
His fingertips are warm against the skin of her thighs, and she realizes from very far away that his hands have traveled down her legs and are now twining themselves into the hemline of her bright sundress. Caroline can't help the tiny inhale of breath that catches in her throat, and immediately his fingers are in her hair, backing away from the unspoken line and returning to safer waters.
She stretches, just a bit, to press herself further against him, all thoughts of why this might be a bad idea vanishing in the haze of his mouth on hers. His stubble scrapes against her cheek, and there's just enough bite to it that she sighs into his mouth. The world briefly whirls, and she finds herself sitting on the island she had just cleaned off, her legs parted and him standing between them, his body leaning just slightly over hers. Slowly, carefully, his hands move back to the hem of her dress, but he pulls away in tandem, backing off just enough to meet her opening eyes.
There's a question in his, and she bites her lip, grasping blindly for all the reasons why she shouldn't. But they hover out of reach, and all she can focus on is the way he is watching her, his eyes dark with the slightest gleam of something she can't quite place but makes her heart pound all the same.
And instead of stopping him, she leans forward and kisses him again, her arms twining around his neck, pulling him towards her.
His hands slide up her legs, his fingertips warm, until they reach her upper thighs; her dress is ruched at her hips and her blood warms as he traces the outline of her underwear. They aren't cute—she hadn't even glanced at her options when dressing that morning, a fact for which she curses herself, though Klaus doesn't seem to have even noticed. It certainly doesn't give him pause, his fingers wrapping around the band and tugging slowly, enough to give her ample opportunity to swat his hands away.
But she doesn't.
Klaus kisses her fiercely as her panties slip past her knees, and then his knuckle brushes at her center, parting her slightly and making her breath hitch. She can't even muster a blush when she realizes that she's wet enough for his finger to slide in with little resistance; and his thumb sweeps lightly at her clit, making her knee jump and her teeth graze his bottom lip.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs against her mouth, "open for me."
At the words, her legs fall further apart. "Klaus," she breathes, her hands gripping his forearms. She feels him smirk.
"There's a good girl," he praises softly, kissing her again as his thumb increases its pressure just enough that she can't stifle her moan. The finger inside of her is joined by a second, and her hips move of their own accord, keeping the pace that he sets.
"Klaus," she says again, and then the fingers inside of her curl and she is lost. He kisses her through it, sliding his fingers out of her only once she relaxes, her face flushed and her limbs weak. He slides her panties back up her legs, and helps her off the island, having the good grace to only smirk a little when her knees wobble.
He walks her to her car, Finch following faithfully, and she thinks for a half-second, her heart sinking, that he won't acknowledge what just happened.
But then he backs her into the car door and kisses her soundly, his body pressing against hers, his hands wandering down to her hips before he puts his lips to the shell of her ear and whispers, "Next time, dinner."
—
Hawthorne House is quiet when she unlocks it, the timed lights bright and welcoming even as the summer sky outside remains a light lavender with sun only just beginning to set. Caroline watches Finch closely as he trots around the driveway, waiting for him to sniff at the spot where whoever had been taunting them the night before. The more she thinks about it, the more convinced she becomes that it was some disgruntled citizen of Avery, irritated maybe that she, still mostly an outsider, had taken up residence here.
But Finch gives no indication that he smells anything beyond the magnolia blossoms, and Caroline rests her head against one of the porch columns, inhaling deeply. If she concentrates, she can almost fool herself into believing that she is ten years old again, and that Mimi is waiting indoors with lemonade and ice cream.
It's only when Finch nudges her leg with his cold, wet nose that Caroline snaps herself out of her wistful reverie. "I think," she says seriously to him as she opens the door, "tonight calls for an early bedtime, and some writing."
She washes her face in the upstairs bathroom and when she meets her eyes in the large oval mirror, she can't help but blush, remembering how Klaus's body had felt pressed against hers and—her face flames—his fingers inside of her. Her heart trips over itself as she smears toothpaste on her toothbrush and wonders just what exactly she's getting herself into.
Once she curls into bed, Finch whines a little at her feet, his nose nudging into her blanketed leg before he gets up, spins, and resettles down by her hip, his snout resting on her thigh.
His weight is comforting, and Caroline is immensely grateful that Steven parted with him for the summer. She reaches down to give him a scratch behind the ears and he rewards her with a side eyed glance that rivals those she's seen thrown her way when she and Elena splurge on brunch on the Upper East Side—unimpressed
"I'm keeping you," she informs Finch, who seems delightfully unimpressed.
Caroline scoots her hips down further into the bedding and opens her Mac, determined to put Klaus out of her mind and focus on writing. There is a mug of steaming hot tea next to her and the only light in the room comes from the warm yellow of the lamp on her nightstand and the small sliver of moonlight that has slipped through the small part in the curtains to splash down on the hardwood floor. She feels—cozy, almost peaceful, and she lets herself wonder if the saging worked.
Or maybe, she thinks with just a hint of self-satisfaction, it was the orgasm.
With Lo-fi beats playing softly through the laptop's speakers, Caroline writes. She writes about Mimi, about returning to a place that isn't quite home but somehow feels close to it, about how the humidity is wrecking her hair, and about how, like in many small rural towns, the rest of America seemed to pick itself up after the Recession and left Avery behind. She writes, and writes, and writes until the small digital clock she had bought only days ago reads 12:57 am.
Finch is snoring, small little hums that escape his nostrils, and Caroline looks over the top of her computer down at him with a fond smile. Tomorrow she needs to look up her lease's terms on pets, she thinks, suddenly drowsy now that the words that had been spinning on a carousel in her mind for days have poured themselves onto the page. If Steven will let her—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Caroline sits straight up, her laptop falling to one side. The movement jostles Finch awake. His ears stand up, and he looks suddenly tense, which does not help ease her anxiety.
For a moment, there's nothing, and her heart rate starts to slowly drop. She exhales heavily and meets Finch's accusatory gaze. "I dunno, man," she tells him, reaching over to close her laptop and placing it carefully on the nightstand. "I just live here."
The noises don't repeat, and she reaches over to turn the lamp off before snuggling down into the bed with Finch. He sends her another side eyed look and she frowns at him. "You know I feed you, right?"
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Finch stands now, the bed creaking in protest under his weight, his ears at high alert and his tail tucked down between his hind legs. It's his stance that makes Caroline reach for her phone and grip it tightly to her chest as though warding something off.
"It's okay," she tries to soothe him, but he isn't fooled. Her voice is too shaky and when she reaches out to stroke his back, her fingers tremble.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"It's a woodchuck," she says firmly, forcing her hands still. And it could be, technically. It could totally, definitely be a very smart, very rhythmic woodchuck. "It's just a stupid bird."
The look Finch throws her tells her that he is not buying what she's selling, the comforting tone of her voice at odds with her own racing heartbeat.
Tap. Tap. Thud.
Caroline sits straight up, the blood roaring in her ears. "Fuck this," she says lowly to Finch, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and clutching her phone tightly in her hand. "Fuck this, Finch." She takes tiny baby steps over to the window and slowly peels the curtain back.
The moon is bright in the sky, drowning out the light of the stars. She had turned the porchlight off before going to bed, but it's not necessary with the moonlight shining directly onto the yard and the driveway. Everything is calm and still, but that doesn't bring her any comfort.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
She lets the curtain fall back into place as a cold sweat breaks out down her spine. It doesn't sound like it's coming from out there; it sounds, to her great dismay, like whatever is making the noise is inside Hawthorne House.
"Pissed off raccoon," she whispers, and even though everything is silent once again, Finch's ears twitch and his lip peels back just enough to show the beginnings of teeth. "It has to be something like a rabid raccoon or something, right?"
Finch looks over at her and gives a tiny whine, his eyes wide; and, just like the night before, anger penetrates her fear. "I won't let anything happen to you," she tells him firmly, abandoning the whisper. She brandishes her phone out in front of her like a weapon.
"Come on," she instructs and Finch hops off the bed at the words, following her as she stomps down the dark hallway, intent on being as noisy as possible. She can be loud too, she thinks as she grasps the doorknob to the bedroom adjacent to hers with a vengeance.
The bedroom that backs up to the one she had claimed as her own has soft, Wedgewood blue walls, with delicate white patterns painted so that they border the white crown molding. The patterns had always reminded her of lace, and they do still, but Caroline doesn't pause to admire it. She throws the door open, half-expecting to find either an intruder or a large woodland creature; and when the room proves her empty, the flame inside of her falters.
Thud.
She jumps, and then growls in frustration. "It's supposed to be in here," she snaps to no one, "that's how sound freaking works!"
Spinning on her heel, she storms back down the hallway, following the thuds as they seem to travel with her: down the steps, through the living room, thud, thud, thud following her, haunting her steps, until she reaches the kitchen and freezes.
Caroline locks eyes with it, with—
—a child, but not quite a child, its skin a sickly grey and its hair wet; water drips off it, pooling around its body on the tile floor—
And she screams.
—
tbc
A/N: Burning sage is very important culturally to Native peoples' in the Americas, and should only be done with upmost sensitivity and respect. FF will not let me link to the articles I used for reference while writing this chapter, but feel free to message me for them if you'd like further reading.
As always, I am on Twitter (sunnydaisy6) and Tumblr (little-miss-sunny-daisy)!