Warning: Objects in Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear

The Haunted House of Alexander, Virginia

It's local legend that 1586 Whisper Drive is haunted. Everyone who was born here knows it, and everyone who moves here from somewhere else learns it within days. That's just the way it is in this town--1586 Whisper Drive is a haunted house, and that isn't to be questioned.

       Of course, once one Alice Maria Fallon went and questioned that, nothing was ever the same again.

       Because I am That Girl. The skeptic. That girl who can't possibly believe that the house diagonal from hers is inhabiting ghosts. That Girl who defends That House. That girl.

       Besides, it's local legend that the only person who ever caught a glimpse of the ghost of the old Rhodes place lived in 1583 Whisper Drive. My house.

        So, really, I am the only one who should know what goes on in that house. And I have been defending the house since birth, it seems, so why should anyone go and question what I say?

         It's simple: the legend is much more beautiful than the reality. Therefore, no one ever listens to me.

         But this is what I tell myself, every night, lying awake in my bed, up against my window, looking out at the ill-illuminated street and the shadows of 1586 Whisper Drive.

          It's local legend that 1586 Whisper Drive is haunted.

          It's local legend that Alice Maria Fallon was the only person to ever question that.

          But now, and only now, in the miniature hours of the morning, when the world tricks you into believing the mysteries of night are still happening, in the dimension that is the measly three hours in between midnight and four o'clock, only now is the time that Alice Maria Fallon could ever believe that 1586 Whisper Drive is haunted.

           I turn over onto my side, staring straight at the mansion. My room is long and rectangular except for the far wall, which juts out, making the room not a quadrilateral but a hexagon. My bed is pushed up against the jutting-out walls, and windows span that area, so I have a full view of the entire street at night. And, as long as my lights aren't on, no one can hope to see me in these tiny hours of morning.

           I've never been able to sleep on my other side, since I'm always afraid that if I turn my back on the estate, it'll come to life and haunt me. I always sleep facing it or facing the ceiling, but I never, ever let it out of my sight.

           And, yes, at this awful hour, it's very easy to believe that 1586 Whisper Drive is haunted.

           And why is it so easy to believe? The same reason it's easy to believe any old house is that way--it's old. Not even the long-time residents of Alexander, Virginia know the story of the old Rhodes place, and because of that, there's still an aura of mystery shrouding the place. That, and the fact that it's a decaying piece of old money with open windows for winds to move lace curtains and untouched areas that no one dares to look into.

            The fact is, 1586 Whisper Drive is a mystery even I, after long, stretching hours staring at it, staring into it, feeling the pull, and letting the sight become familiar despite its state, have yet to uncover.

             I let a deep breath come out through my nose and finally, finally close my heavy-lidded eyes, listlessly succumbing to the heavy-weight pull of dreamless sleeping and sleepless dreaming.

            Alice.

            My eyes peel open, painting the scene of my room and the old house lying across from where I'm lying. My face is calm and devoid of any emotion, and I hardly believe I could force it to change its expression anyway. I'm too far gone, too far gone . . .

             Alice, please . . .

             The words barely flutter against my subconscious, barely brush against the back of my skull like a butterfly kiss, and the voice is soft and lulling, soft and illustrious, illuminated, and deep, but not deep in tone, just . . . deep in me.

              Alice, listen to me . . . You must listen . . .

              I'm listening, I tell it, blinking heavily. Something has a hold of my insides, something warm. My eyelids flutter closed; I just can't help it.

              Alice . . . The voice is amused, like one would be amused while watching a little puppy run around in circles. No, you're not. You're dreaming. I need you to wake up now, please. Wake up now, and look at me.

              But I am awake! I shout inside my head, indignantly. I can feel it, like I can feel the scratchy sheets underneath me and the exhaustion dripping from my eyelashes and the cold air splashing against my feet.

              Open your eyes, Alice. Open your eyes and you shall see.

               So I do.

               And then I scream.

A little more than twenty minutes later, I'll be sitting with my parents at the kitchen table, holding with all my might onto a coffee mug filled with warm chocolate milk, trying not to cave in or shake. And they'll be asking me what they saw.

            And I'll tell them. I'll tell them about 1586 Whisper Drive, and about how I've always felt the connection to it, and about how I pulled my bed up against the window just to . . . just to see it, and about how I always defended the house, like it was my duty, like it was my honor, and how I never once let anyone escape my grasp without knowing that the house I was undoubtedly obsessed with was not haunted.

             And then I'll tell them about the shadow. The one . . . the one I could feel watching me, like I watched it, the one that must have been watching me this entire time.

             Later still, I'll remember this night. I'll remember this night forever.

             This was the night that changed everything.