The House Above the Sea

18.

For the first time in a long time, Kit sleeps through the night.

Whether it's the air mattress cushioning his body or the leftover fresh air in his lungs or the replay of the moment he'd realized Neo had just saved his life, Kit wakes with an automatic sense of pleasant, unshakeable ease. He's still stuck here; he still can't speak a lick. But for once, it doesn't feel like the world is over.

Kit sits up in a euphoric daze, blinking his still sleep-heavy eyes. It's hope, he thinks. It's the first taste of hope he's had since Elsie last walked out that door four years ago.

And yet, he hovers just at this proverbial precipice, an ounce of fear still lingering in his mind: a rope tied around his ankle that will only let him go so far before it pulls taut. Kit believes Neo. Believes that he cares, that he'll do whatever it takes to break the curse. What worries him is how far the ghost, Whitaker, will go to keep that from happening.

Kit shakes his head, forcing the thought from his brain. He went outside last night. Outside. Whitaker didn't matter to him then, and he won't matter, not ever again.

Kit ambles into the kitchen, where a fine shaft of butterscotch-colored sunlight turns the dust motes in the air to glittering gold flakes. He crouches before the cupboard by the sink, a whiff of old paint hitting him in the face as it squeaks open. It's a meager food stash, gathered from old snacks Elsie used to bring him on his birthday, a few likely expired canned items left behind in the pantry, and whatever edible leftovers reckless teenagers tossed in the front yard.

Every so often, Whitaker will bring him something slightly more appealing—fast food, most of the time—but not because he cares. Just because he would have to find someone else to curse if Kit were to die. That and the fact the county never shut off the running water in the house are the only reasons Kit hasn't entirely withered away.

Kit's stabbing at a can of pineapple rings with a rusted butterknife when he hears the front door creak open. A rush of excitement fills him—he's back—before he hears the deep timber of an adult male voice.

"So this is the place," says the man, and Kit swallows his fear, taking the canned pineapple and his butterknife with him as he slips behind the nearest corner. "I believe it was built in 1964. Last owner was a Mr. Sebastian E. Whitaker, in 1983."

To Kit's surprise, another voice, this one with just a hint of a Southern accent, chimes in: "And it's just been sitting here ever since?"

"Yes sir."

"Well, I'll be damned. Shame they left this place to the bank; it's got good bones, if you know what I mean."

"The hell are you talking about?" says the first man, and as they round the corner into the living room Kit finally catches a glimpse of them. They're both businessmen, it seems, two stocky, middle-aged men in dark suits and ties. "No one wants to live in as creepy a place as this, Morgan."

The Southern man, Morgan, kicks at Kit's air mattress with his toe. "Looks like the squatters do."

Kit presses a hand against his mouth, trying to quiet his breath even as his mind races at the speed of light. Who are these men? And more importantly, what are they doing here?

"Jesus," exhales the other man. "So have you made up your mind?"

Morgan rocks back on his heels, his gaze sweeping the house once more from ceiling to floor. Then he clicks his tongue. "It's the perfect location, no doubt about it."

"When are you thinking, then?"

"August," answers Morgan, and the pair turns and heads for the exit once again. Though their voices fade the further and further they get from the kitchen, their words still send a jolt of panic through Kit's body: "If we do the demolition then, it'll give us time to have the tower up by next spring. Sound good?"