All the glass in the windows rattled as Polly slammed me into the sunroom wall. She had a tight grip on my throat, pinning me in place.

"Not this shit again!" she snarled in my face. "You think I'm stupid enough to fall for this twice? I know you're not my sister."

"Polly—" I gasped, pulling at the fingers that were wrapped around my neck."No, listen to me—"

"Stop, stop!" Tory cried, jumping into the fray. He got into Polly's face. "You have to stop! Whoever is in there with her, that's still Rachel you're strangling!"

Polly's grip loosened just a little, just enough to give me some air, but she kept her hand in place, still unwilling to let me get away.

"Who are you, really?" she hissed, staring so intently into my eyes that I thought she was trying to see beyond them. "Who are you?"

Now would be a good time to step in, I screamed inwards.

Lillian didn't respond.

"Who are you?" Polly shouted, shaking me.

Do something! I shouted inside my head. Say something!

I felt a flare of anger somewhere inside. Anger that was not my own.

And then another voice moved through my lips.

"She's right, Polly," said Lillian, out of my mouth. "It's me."

Tory staggered back from us, his eyes wide with shock.

But Lillian's effort didn't help. Polly's eyes flared bright and she tightened her grip again, pressing me into the door jam so hard the wooden frame cut into my back.

"It's Rachel! Rachel!" Tory cried again. But his voice was starting to sound far away like it was down a tunnel. He appeared to be disappearing down a tunnel, too; the edges of my vision began to darken. And Polly and Tory seemed to be shrinking away...

Tory's cries were barely audible now. "Polly, let go—she's going to pass out!"

"Matchstick! Stop this!"

My vision went from darkness to bursting with light. I heard a strange thump and air rushed into my lungs. I coughed and rolled over, realizing as I did so that I was laying on the floor—the thump had been me, falling. Polly had let me go.

I propped myself up on my hands. I wasn't sure I could stand—my vision was still spotted with brightness and my head felt far too light. I looked up instead. Polly and Tory were standing over me. Though they both wore matching looks of horror, Tory was standing between Polly and me, his arms braced in front of her like he was ready to fight her off.

But Polly didn't look like she wanted to fight anyone. She clamped her hand to her mouth and the ice in her eyes began to melt.

"W-What did you say?" she sputtered from behind her hands. "What did you call me?"

What had I said? The lack of oxygen had made my recollection of these last few moments a little spotty—

"Matchstick, please listen..."

What? I raised my fingers to my lips. The words come through my mouth without me even realizing it.

Polly was trembling now. The tears in her eyes had escaped and were now spilling down her cheeks. "No. No, it can't be," she mumbled. She started to shake her head. "No, no, no!"

"Polly," came more of Lillian's voice. "Believe us. It's really me."

Polly began to shake her head violently, and then, without another word, she turned and fled from the room.

Go after her! Lillian demanded, her voice ringing in my head like a migraine.

"I was going to!" I snapped aloud.

Tory jumped.

I shot him an apologetic look as I pulled myself up, holding the counter for stability. "Sorry, that wasn't meant for you..."

He offered me his hand to help. "What is going on?"

"Tory, I wish I had time to explain," I said, refusing his offer, keeping my grip on the counter. I pushed myself alongside it. "But I don't. Not now. I need to find Polly."

"Let me help! Is there anything I can do?"

"No. Not right now..." I said, shaking my head.

"What about L—"

I raised my hand to cut him off. Thankfully, Tory finally took the cue.

"Look, I'll tell you everything soon enough," I said wearily, "I just think Polly needs to hear it first."

Tory's shoulders sagged. He hated not being of use. Under all that needy, eager energy, he was just someone who wanted to help. I was starting to see what Luc saw in him...

Luc...

It felt like something pierced right through my chest. Hearing his name invoked painful visions of him bloodied and unmoving... I sagged against the counter.

Tory was at my side. "Are you okay?"

"Just a little dizzy," I said, righting myself. My vision swam a little but I closed my eyes and pretended. I forced my still-wobbly legs to move. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," I said, pushing past him. It took everything I had to walk out of the kitchen without showing the strain. If I hadn't, he never would've left me alone...

As soon as I was out of sight of the kitchen I grabbed onto the nearest wall and leaned into it. The day was starting to catch up with me. I had been seduced, exorcised, kidnapped, tortured, and strangled.

And the day wasn't even over.

But there was one last thing I had to do.

Then maybe I could sleep.

Fuck, I needed sleep.

Instead, I pushed myself to move forward.

When I reached the foyer, I had to stop for a moment to catch my breath. I peered around the grand hallway that held so many memories. The gold writing Luc had added still decorated every surface. It was an eerie reminder of everything that loomed just outside of this house... But there was no evidence of Polly, or where she had gone.

Do you know where she went? I asked inward.

No, Lillian replied. Polly has always been a little hard to pin down.

I had no idea what she meant by that and I didn't bother asking. I just took the 'no'.

Without Lillian's help, I searched for Polly the old fashioned way—by looking in every hall, every room. Tired and rattled, my progress was not quick.

I searched everywhere, only avoiding the hallway under the stairs. Lillian didn't say anything, but I could feel her relief when I skipped it. That place held no good memories for either of us. And I doubted Polly would find comfort down there, either.

I continued along.

By the time I had checked through the formal sitting room, the closets, the parlour, the dining room and then finally made my way to the den, my bravado was beginning to fade. When I found the den empty, my shoulders sagged.

Polly must've ran upstairs, I thought. Ugh. Stairs. My legs cramped just thinking about it. My body was very much over all of this.

I staggered into the den and collapsed into the nearest chair. It was one of a set of emerald-green armchairs that sat in the corner, around the antique trunk that had been repurposed as a coffee table. I leaned back, the chair creaking beneath me, staring up at the elaborate tin-tiled ceiling. These chairs were old and usually, I found them kind of lumpy, but at this moment they felt like clouds. I wanted to sink into them and disappear into sleep.

Get up! Lillian hissed in my head like a circling mosquito. You have to find Polly!

"Shut up!" I snapped back. "I know I need to find her, I'm just about to collapse..."

There's no time!

"Hey, if you want to do the honours, why don't you take my 'meat suit' for a spin again and do the job yourself?"

Without warning, I lurched up in the chair, but that was it. Control of my body quickly returned.

"What the hell was that?" I asked.

That was me trying, Lillian muttered. She sounded out of breath even though she was, you know, dead. But it seems I'm tired, too.

"Told you," I sighed. "Don't worry. I'll find her, I just need a little rest."

Fine.

I leaned back into the chair. Only this time I didn't close my eyes—I knew I would pass out if I did, and I really did need to find Polly. Instead, my wandering eyes settled on a striking oil painting that sat over the fireplace.

I knew it well, though I preferred not to look at it. In fact, I usually pretended it didn't even exist. If I had to come into the den, I ignored it completely. It just creeped me out.

To an outsider, there was nothing in that painting they would find unsettling. It was a simple portrait of a family—mother, father, and two children, both daughters. The expert hand of the artist made each of them seem like they had been plucked from life. Looking at it now, I wondered if the artist had something like Ethan's talent...

The daughter in the centre was tall and willow thin, with a burst of tight red curls obscuring her steely glare. It was instantly recognizable as Polly, at what looked like twelve... though her height may have made her look older. She stood between her parents, who each had a hand on one of her shoulders.

And, in the front, sitting in a delicate little chair and almost glowing under a spotlight, sat her little sister—Lillian. The rose-gold of her curls of her hair gave her an almost halo effect. Her blue eyes stared out, unafraid, at the viewer—almost a challenge.

Which is exactly why I had avoided the painting.

The artist's expert had rendered Lillian so perfectly that I could almost feel her stare—and it felt like she was watching me.

Now, that fear seemed almost funny.

Something else occurred to me.

"What's with 'Matchstick'?" I asked aloud.

Huh? Lillian sounded like I had woken her out of a daze.

"When you called Polly that name—Matchstick—she got all weird... Why?"

Ah, yes. I had hoped it might dislodge something in her, Lillian explained. It was an old nickname of hers. Our father came up with it. Back when she hit her adolescent growth spurt, she shot up more than six inches in as many months. Tall and skinny, with her red hair and hot temper... He called her Matchstick. Then Matchstick became Match, then Matchie... Of course, she grew out of it, but I thought it might help convince her... She trailed off.

"A nickname, huh?" I said, taking a look at the painting again. It looked like it had been painted around that time. With her willowy-figure and flaming hair... "I can see it. It's kind of cute." I closed my eyes again, sinking back...

"I always hated it."

My eyes snapped open. Polly.

I turned, but she was nowhere to be seen. For a moment, I wondered if I had imagined her voice...

Wait a second, Lillian said with a sudden spark of inspiration. I know where she is...

Lillian pulled my body out of the chair and clumsily led me to the grand desk that sat in the nook of the bay window. She leaned me across it so I could see over the far edge.

When we were kids, whenever she wanted to go and sulk, she'd go and hide behind Dad's desk.

And there—sitting on the floor, hidden from view—was Polly. She was curled into a ball, her knees tucked up against her chest, her back against the drawers.

She looked up sheepishly. "It really is you, Lilly, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Lillian replied, through me. I felt the tremble in her voice. "It is."

🔮

What do you think the first thing Polly's going to ask her sister?
I'd have like a million questions if I got to talk to someone who was dead!

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