Home Improvement: Undead Edition

Squatters’ Rights ROCHELLE KRICH

In the beginning she heard them inside the bedroom wall.

The sounds originated above Eve’s head and had kept her awake for countless hours every night since she and Joe had moved into the house three weeks ago.

Scratch, scratch, scratch . . .

Mice, Eve had thought the first night, but she hadn’t found droppings in the bedroom or anywhere else in the house, where speckled beige tarps had formed hills over their furniture and the stacks upon stacks of boxes filled with their belongings.

Joe hadn’t heard a thing.

“It’s all in your head, babe,” he told her, his sympathy thinned the third time she woke him—at two in the morning, so she couldn’t blame him. “The house was just fumigated, right? Even if something was in the walls, it isn’t there now.”

Unless it was a ghost.

The thought was ridiculous, and Eve was pretty sure believing in ghosts didn’t fit with Judaism, although hadn’t King Saul asked a witch to summon the spirit of the prophet Samuel?

Eve wouldn’t have thought about ghosts at all if the broker hadn’t told them the previous owner had killed her husband and herself, in the house.

“By law I have to inform you,” the broker had said, his shrug and rolling of eyes inviting Eve and Joe to share his opinion of said law. He was a tall, wiry man with silver hair and a restless habit of bouncing from foot to foot that made Eve think of a Slinky. “It’s morbid, I’ll give you that, but a lucky break for you guys. This place is selling way below what it’s worth. I’m sure you’ve seen the comps, so you know.”

Bad mazel, both sets of parents had said. Eve and Joe had dismissed their forebodings, swayed by the potential in the three-bedroom, two-bath fixer-upper on Bellaire Avenue in Valley Village, and by the price. They had the down payment, most of it money Eve had inherited from her grandmother, but even with two incomes—Joe was a nursing home administrator, and Eve taught kindergarten at a private Jewish school—it was unlikely that they could afford another house in the foreseeable future, if ever, unless they were willing to leave Los Angeles, which they weren’t. Their jobs were here, their friends, family. Eve’s parents lived in Beverlywood, a thirty-minute drive from Valley Village. Joe’s parents lived in San Francisco, where housing was even more out of reach.

To save rent, Eve and Joe planned to renovate the house after they took occupancy. It had made sense to have the hardwood floors refinished while the house was empty, and they painted the master bedroom themselves the Sunday before they moved in.

That first evening, while Joe and his cousin Marty were returning the U-Haul in the city, Eve stood inside the bedroom. It looked just as she had imagined—beautiful, serene, a haven where she and Joe could retreat during the many months the house would be undergoing work. She would have placed the full-size beds on the wider east wall, but two closet doors made that impossible. So the beds were on the south wall. Eve had chosen the bed near the windows that looked out on the yard even though it was farther from the closets and connecting bathroom.

The bathroom was their first project. The chipped porcelain finish on the tub and sink was ringed with rusty Rorschachs, and a leaking shower pan had caused dry rot in the floor joists and mud sill. Earlier that day Eve had yanked off half a panel of blistered, peeling wallpaper but stopped when she saw ominous Technicolor patches of mold and an accompanying cloud of dust.

Eve made numerous trips hauling armfuls of clothing to the bedroom closets, dresser, and armoire, the furniture’s matte espresso stain rich against the Benjamin Moore Kennebunkport Green, which looked gray in the fading light. She considered moving some of the dry and canned goods into the kitchen, but she didn’t have the energy to line the pantry and cabinet shelves. She took a box of Raisin Bran for Joe and instant oatmeal packets for herself. She gave up looking for the coffeemaker. She’d ask Joe to do it.

Even with the windows open, the house was warm. Eve felt sticky and grimy. Project number two, she decided: air-conditioning. After a quick shower in the guest bathroom (she made a mental note to tell the plumber about the weak water pressure), she put on coral capri pants and a white tank top and unearthed a tablecloth and two place settings, including goblets for the wine chilling in the fridge next to a bottle of Fresca and lunch leftovers from a nearby kosher pizza shop. Humming Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s “Our House,” she arranged everything on the small drop-leaf faux butcher block table in the dark ocher breakfast nook, which would look cheery and cozy when it was painted, maybe a buttery yellow.

Joe surprised her with sunflowers.

“You are so, so sweet,” Eve said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his lips and nuzzle his cheeks, a little rough and darkened by two days’ growth of beard and smudges of dirt, but she didn’t care.

“You smell great,” he said, his strong hands on her hips. “You look great, too.” His smile was intimate, inviting. “You showered, huh? Guess I’ll do the same.”

Before Joe, Eve had felt self-conscious about her body, which fluctuated between a size ten and twelve, huge by L.A. standards. Joe made her feel beautiful, sexy. He loved her curves, he told her, and wide hips were great for having babies.

“How was the shower, by the way?” he asked.

She told him about the water pressure. “It’s fine for now.”

While Joe showered, she found a vase, a wedding gift from her best friend Gina, who had posted Eve’s profile on J-Date. Eve had sworn off J-Date and other Jewish online dating sites after thirty-plus dates ranging from painfully boring to disastrous. She had initially declined to answer Joe’s post, but she didn’t want him to think she was rude, and (she hadn’t admitted this to Gina) she was taken by his humor and his photo, even though photos usually lied. She and Joe, as it turned out, had much in common. They were twenty-nine years old, both only children committed to modern Orthodoxy, family, and sushi. They enjoyed hiking, word games, and Curb Your Enthusiasm. From their phone calls she discerned that he was smart and funny and self-deprecating. He had been married briefly at twenty-two—“We were both too young,” he’d told Eve—and was ready for a serious relationship. Two weeks after their first post they met in the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on Larchmont. She caught her breath when she saw him coming toward her, six foot three and good-looking with wavy thick dark brown hair and okay, a small paunch, but his smile! His smile made her palms sweat and her stomach muscles curl. Pilates for the heart, she thought.

The sunflowers brightened the ocher walls. Over dinner, salmon fillets and tomato-and-basil angel hair pasta that Joe had picked up from the Fish Grill on Ventura, Joe uncorked the Asti. They toasted Gina and their good fortune in having found each other and the house. They drank a second glass of wine. They joked about the house’s many defects and, after a third glass that made them giddy, about its macabre history. Joe said, “Promise you won’t kill me, babe?” and Eve said, “Not tonight, I have a headache,” and they groaned with laughter until tears streamed from their eyes. When the meal was over and the bottle empty, they were suddenly mellow. They held hands across the table. Joe fingered her wedding band and said, “I can’t imagine life without you,” and Eve was so happy she almost cried.

Later, when Joe was asleep, she stood in front of the window, the newly varnished dark walnut floors cool and smooth under her feet. The moon was kinder than daylight to the yard, a field of shaggy yellowed grass and weeds and bald patches of parched earth. She envisioned a dark velvety green lawn, tall trees hiding the cinder block wall, perennial shrubs and annuals—petunias, lobelia, pansies in the fall. Maybe a hammock where she could stretch her legs and brush her fingers against the blades of sweet-smelling grass while she read a book and, God willing, one day soon, would stroke the downy hair of a baby in the jasmine-perfumed air.

The noises started as soon as she slipped back into bed.

JOE HAD TO prepare for a health department inspection at work, so he was long gone when the contractor, Ken Brasso, arrived at seven thirty in the morning with two Latino workers, Fernando and William. Eve would have offered coffee and had a cup herself—God knew she needed caffeine after having had almost no sleep—but Joe had forgotten to dig up the coffeemaker and the fresh-ground dark roast she’d bought last Friday at Whole Foods, was that too much to ask? She apologized about the coffee, finishing with a little laugh that left her feeling awkward. She did have the Fresca, which all three men politely declined.

Eve had been anxious about the floors and was gratified to see Fernando and William working with care as they laid tarps in the hall and master bedroom. After covering the beds, dresser, and armoire, they taped thick plastic over the frame of the door connecting the bedroom and bath, leaving one flap open.

“There’s gonna be dust when you’re smashing tile,” Ken had told Eve. “But my guys will clean everything up.”

Ken, short and compact and in his late forties, had come highly recommended by her parents’ friends, the Bergers, for whom he had recently done a kitchen remodel. The Bergers had left Ken and his crew alone in their house for months and trusted them without reservation. Eve could, too. She would have liked to watch the demolition, but the drive to the school on West Pico would take at least twenty-five minutes. She did hear the first thunks as she was leaving and felt a rush of excitement as she pictured hammers attacking the godawful wallpaper and cracked tiles.

At work she made Memorial Day projects with the fourteen children in her class. She loved her kids, each one adorable and inquisitive. She loved sharing stories about them with Joe, who was a great listener and would be a great father. Once or twice her mind slipped to the house on Bellaire, and she wondered how the work was progressing. Throughout the day she found herself yawning. During nap time she was tempted to lie down on one of the tiny cots, just for a few minutes. Of course, she couldn’t.

When Eve returned home, she was pleased to see the Dumpster in the driveway filled with debris. Stepping into the house, she was greeted by a lively Hispanic tune that she traced to the boom box on the floor of the master bath, now an empty shell. Fernando and William were removing the tarps from the beds and furniture. The music was loud, and they didn’t notice her arrival. When they did, they smiled at her. A coating of dust had whitened both men’s hair and eyebrows, and William’s moustache.

Eve smiled back and patted her head. “Mucho polvo.” A lot of dust.

Fernando nodded and stooped his shoulders. “Sí, sí. Somos bien viejos.” We are very old.

Both men laughed, and Eve joined in, brimming with goodwill and happiness.

Ken took pride in giving Eve an update. They had replaced the warped plywood and joists. They had installed the drain assembly in the shower and poured mortar onto the wire mesh layered over the tar paper.

“See that?” Ken pointed to the grayish-brown mud on the shower bottom. “No dips, no humps. The slope is perfect. Water will flow right down to the drain. That’s what you want.”

“Wonderful,” Eve said, thinking Joe would be more interested in the details than she was. The moist, earthy smell of the mortar was making her a little nauseated.

“Tomorrow we frame the window and put in cement backer board for the wall tiles. Moisture won’t affect it, so it’s great for bathrooms. Then the floor tiles. Cabinets, countertop, and faucets are last. And you’ve got yourself a beautiful new bathroom.”

Eve smiled. “I can’t wait.”

She and Joe had enjoyed selecting the materials: white marble for the walls and floors with accents of one-inch green glass tiles above the sink; polished chrome trim for the sink, Jacuzzi tub, and shower faucets; dark brown cabinets; white marble for the countertop. A spa in their own home.

“One thing.” A note of warning had entered Ken’s voice. “That mortar’s solid, but don’t step on it, not even tomorrow. It’ll be hardened, but still soft enough to be easily chipped or gouged with just about anything hard enough to do damage.”

“The shower is off-limits,” Eve promised.

“Thursday, we put in the shower pan liner and the second layer of mud. When that’s dry, we install the marble. You ordered extra, right? Like I said, you have to allow for breakage.”

TUESDAY NIGHT THE scratching was more persistent. Eve hated waking Joe. He was still tired from lugging furniture and boxes and a long day at work, where a patient had been missing for hours, right in the middle of inspection. After fifteen minutes she couldn’t stand one more second of the noise. “Poor baby,” Joe murmured, “try to get some sleep.” Which pissed her off, because it wasn’t as though she weren’t trying, for God’s sake. Minutes later he was snoring, his arm still around her, his breath a little rank as it tickled her cheek. She loosened his arm and nudged him until he was lying on his back. Turning onto her stomach, she pressed her pillow against her ears. No relief. In the living room, she rummaged through several boxes before she found cotton balls that she fashioned into earplugs. Months earlier, planning a trip to Israel, she’d filled a prescription for Ambien. In the end she hadn’t taken the pills. She took half a tablet now, and with the cotton crammed into her ears, she lay down and shut her eyes. Silence. She exhaled slowly and felt her body relax.

The noises came back.

The scratching had been replaced by a whooshed exhalation that formed a word, heave, whispery at first, then gaining in volume. Heave, heave, heave, heave. And something was hovering over her face, pressing against her body, solid and warm and—

Eve. That was what she heard, Eve. Joe calling her name, Eve, dear Joe, he felt bad for her, or maybe he wanted her, which was fine, she couldn’t sleep anyway. Smiling, she raised her arms and embraced air. She opened her eyes. He was lying on his back, fast asleep. Thanks for the concern, Joe.

The voices were louder now, sharper. Not Eve, she realized with a start, not heave.

Leave.

That was it. Leave. Leave. Leave.

Oh God, Eve thought, lying rigid with fear on the bed, what was happening? Ohgodohgodohgod.

At some point, when the first hint of daylight began tinting the gray walls green, the noises stopped. Eve slept. At five forty-five her alarm rang. She slammed the snooze button. Fifteen minutes later the alarm rang again. She slammed the button again. Joe, running his electric shaver over his chin, said, “Ken’ll be here by seven, babe, so you may want to get up.” She wanted to smack him. She crawled out of bed.

When she entered the breakfast nook a half hour later, Joe was sitting at the table reading the Times, a large mug in his hand. He put down the mug and pulled out a chair for her.

“Hey.” He smiled. “I picked up doughnuts for Ken and his guys, like you asked, babe. They’re on the counter. I found the coffeemaker and the coffee. Plus two mugs, hot cups, plastic spoons, and paper plates. I think you’re set.”

“Congratulations. I’ll submit your name to the Nobel committee.”

He ignored her sarcasm and patted the chair. “Sit. I’ll pour you a cup of coffee. You’ll feel better, I promise. The coffee’s pretty good, I have to say.” He rose and took a step toward the kitchen.

“I’m glad you’re all sunshine and joy. I slept an hour. One hour. Coffee isn’t going to fix that.”

“I’m so sorry, babe.”

“I could pack all our stuff in the bags under my eyes. I look like crap, Joe. I feel like crap. There was almost no water coming out of the damn showerhead, and what did tinkle out was lukewarm.”

He took her hand. “Eve, honey—”

She yanked her hand away. “Don’t ‘Eve honey’ me. The shower in the guest bathroom sucks, Joe. I’m sure it was hot when you showered, so of course you don’t have a problem with it. The shower sucks. This house sucks.” She started to cry.

In a flash he was at her side, his muscled arms hugging her to his chest. “I feel terrible, Eve. I wish I could help.”

“Something’s in the wall, Joe. Something alive.”

Joe sighed. “Eve—”

She pulled away and glared at him, her blue eyes intense. She clenched her hands. “I heard it, Joe. Over and over and over, so many times I stopped counting. So don’t you dare tell me I’m imagining things. Because I. Will. Scream.”

Joe placed a hand on her shoulder. “I hear you, Eve. I’ll call an exterminator.”

“I don’t know if an exterminator can help.”

Joe frowned. “You want to ask Ken to open the wall, see what’s in there? Whatever it takes.”

She took his hand. “Promise you won’t think I’m crazy.”

“Okay,” he said, drawing out the word, his tone wary.

“The voices I’ve been hearing?” She tightened her grip on his hand. “Last night they whispered what sounded like ‘Leave.’ And I felt something breathing on my face, Joe.”

Joe covered his mouth with his free hand and forced a cough. Eve knew he was struggling not to laugh. She felt a twinge of anger but couldn’t blame him.

He dropped his hand to his side. “What are you saying, Eve? That there are ghosts in the house?”

“The people who owned it before us . . . The woman killed her husband, Joe. She killed herself. What if their troubled spirits are here? I know we’re not supposed to practice witchcraft, but that doesn’t mean spirits don’t exist. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

Joe drew her close. “You know what I think, honey? I think you and I had way too much wine the other night, and we were talking about the people who owned the house, being disrespectful. So that’s on your mind. Plus our parents scared us with all that talk about bad mazel.”

“I heard the voices, Joe. I felt them breathing on me.”

“Maybe you did, Eve,” he said, his voice soft as cotton. “And maybe you had a nightmare that seemed incredibly real. Isn’t that possible? Hasn’t that ever happened to you? It has to me.”

She’d had those kinds of dreams, more than once. “You’re right. I’m being silly.”

“You’re not silly. I’d be frightened, too.” He released her and cupped her face in his hands. “Look, if it happens tonight, wake me right away. I’ll stay up with you.”

The bands around her chest loosened. “I love you, Joe.”

“I love you, too, babe.”

“I’m sorry I was such a bitch.”

“You? Never.” He smiled. “Gotta go, babe.”

Fernando and William arrived on time. They thanked Eve for the coffee and doughnuts, which they hurried to finish when Ken showed up minutes later. Eve ate a glazed doughnut with her coffee and slipped a cruller into a plastic bag to take to work. She was walking to her Corolla when Ken called her name. She turned around.

“Show you something?” He looked stern.

“Is there a problem?”

“You tell me.”

She followed him down the hall into the bathroom. He pointed to the shower floor.

“I thought I made myself clear,” Ken said.

She stepped closer. The gray-brown mortar with its perfect slope showed markings and cracks in several areas.

“I have no idea how that happened,” Eve said. “We didn’t go near the shower, Ken.”

Ken harrumphed.

She peered closely at the markings. “Doesn’t that look like a bird’s feet? We left the windows open all night, because it was so warm. Maybe a bird flew in.”

“Through the screens?”

She sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you, Ken.”

“We lay tile on that surface, you’ll have cracks, that’s a guarantee. We’ll have to redo the mud. That’s half a day’s work, and it’s not coming out of my pocket.” Ken was scowling.

“Of course not.” Eve wondered how much a half day’s work would cost. Not that they had a choice. “So when will you be able to install the marble?”

“You’re looking at Tuesday at the earliest—unless you have more birds visiting.”

EVE SHOWED JOE the marks on the mortar.

“That is strange,” he said. “You’re right. The marks do look like they were made by a bird. Or maybe a chicken. Bock, bock, bock.” Joe flapped his arms. “Is that the noise you’ve been hearing?”

She stared at him, wounded. “I can’t believe you’re making fun of me. I haven’t slept in two days, Joe.”

His handsome face turned red. “I’m really sorry, Eve. I was trying to get you to see the humor in this.”

“The shower’s going to cost us hundreds more, Joe. Where’s the humor in that?”

Wednesday night Eve took a whole Ambien instead of a half and fell into a deep sleep. She dreamed she was at a grave site where she saw somber-faced people, most of whom she knew. Gina, the staff and teachers from her school. Her mother and father, Joe, Joe’s parents. Everyone was crying. She didn’t see herself, and it took a few seconds before she realized that it was her funeral. Her chest ballooned with sadness. She wanted to cry, too, but the voices were back, leave, leave, leave, leave, leave, and she couldn’t wake Joe, couldn’t move because something was pressing against her chest, breathing on her face, its odor foul and musty.

In the morning Joe said, “I watched you, babe. You were sound asleep. Feeling better?”

“A little,” she lied. She’d had another nightmare. That was the only rational explanation, so why worry Joe? There was nothing he could do.

She was sluggish at work, but the kids didn’t notice. An hour after she returned home her mother, Ruth, arrived with bags of fruits and vegetables. She had brought dinner—a large pan of eggplant parmesan—and homebaked chocolate cake, Joe’s favorite.

“You’re the best,” Eve said, and kissed her mother’s cheek.

Ruth smiled. “I try.” She noted the dark circles under Eve’s eyes. “You didn’t sound like yourself on the phone, honey. You’re not sleeping well, right?” She nodded. “It takes time to get used to a new house.”

“It’s not that.” Eve told her mother about the dream, but not about the voices. She braced for a comment about the house’s bad mazel, but Ruth said, “Your own funeral? Chas v’sholom”—God forbid—and shuddered. Eve’s grandmother, Rivka, would have spit on the floor.

“It’s just a bad dream, honey,” her mother said. “Try chamomile tea before you go to sleep. Or a glass of red wine.”

Eve’s eyes teared. “You warned us, Mom. You all said the house has bad mazel. I should have listened.”

“Evie.” Ruth hugged her daughter tight. “Don’t let a nightmare ruin your happiness.” She moved back and lifted Eve’s chin. “You loved the house, right? You bought it. You’ll make your own mazel. Okay?”

Eve tried a smile. “Okay.” Her mother always made her feel better.

“So, show me what they’ve done. This is very exciting.”

“They finished demolishing the bathroom.” Eve led the way and was surprised to find her spirits and enthusiasm reviving with each step. “They’re working on the shower, and they installed a moistureproof backing on the walls for the marble. It’s going to be so beautiful, Mom.”

“I’m sure it will.”

In the bedroom doorway Ruth came to an abrupt stop. She tsked.

Eve turned to face her. “What?”

Ruth was frowning. “That’s your bed?” She pointed to the bed close to the windows that looked out on the yard.

“Yes. Why?”

“That explains the dream, Eve. Your bed is directly across from the doorway. Your feet are pointing to the door.”

Eve crinkled her forehead. “So?”

“It’s bad mazel, honey. When a person dies, he or she is carried out feet first. You probably heard it before and forgot, and your dream is reminding you.”

Jewish feng shui. That explained the sounds Eve had been hearing. Leave. It was her subconscious nudging her into protecting herself. The feeling that something had been breathing on her, pressing against her—that had been a nightmare, like Joe said.

That night after Eve and Joe enjoyed the eggplant and two servings each of the cake, she helped him move the beds closer to the closets. The beds were off center now. That bothered Eve, but off center was better than bad mazel. Eve debated and took an Ambien. She lay in her off-center bed with a light heart and fell asleep within minutes.

She was at her funeral again. Her heart ached for her parents and Joe’s, all of them weeping as her casket was being lowered into the grave. She was most concerned for Joe. He had stepped back from the grave and was standing with his head bowed, his shoulders heaving. How she wished she could comfort him. He turned around and looked up, as though he sensed she was watching him. She saw him lock eyes with a tall, brown-haired young woman prettier and slimmer than Eve would ever be. Then Joe, her Joe, I-love-you-more-than-life-babe-I-can’t-live-without-you Joe, gave the woman the lazy smile that had won Eve’s heart. He winked at the woman, and Eve had no choice but to watch that lying bastard flirt at her own funeral. The voices started again: Leave, leave, leave, leave, leave . . .

Not the house—no, the house was fine, the house was not the danger.

Leave Joe.

FRIDAY MORNING SHE woke up with a migraine and nausea. Joe notified the school that she wouldn’t be coming in and offered to cancel Ken. Eve reminded him that Ken and his crew wouldn’t return until Tuesday.

“That’s good, then.” Joe arranged a cool damp washcloth on Eve’s forehead and kissed her cheek softly. “I don’t want to wake you if you’re sleeping, so call me when you can, okay, babe? If you need me, I’ll come home.”

She nodded, her eyes shut to block out the soft filtered light that, with her migraine, felt like an assault. Joe was so tender, so solicitous. She could tell he wasn’t faking. She felt guilty having harbored hateful thoughts because of a nightmare that seemed ludicrous when she was awake.

“Don’t worry about cooking for Shabbos,” Joe said. “Your mom is taking care of everything.” He kissed her again before he left.

She lay in bed until the migraine’s accompanying zigzagging aura stopped and the ferocious pain receded to a dull ache. She made her way gingerly to the kitchen and saw that Joe had filled the hot-water urn and set out tea bags and dry crackers. And a note:

If you’re up, that means you’re feeling a little better. Call me. I love you, babe.

The tea and crackers settled her stomach. She showered in the guest bathroom and washed her hair, careful to avoid sudden movements that made her feel as though loose parts were rattling around in her skull.

She craved fresh air. Wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and sunglasses to protect her still-sensitive eyes, Eve walked out the front door. A thirtysomething woman with curly red hair was in front of Eve’s walkway, pushing a stroller back and forth while she kept her eyes on a redheaded boy furiously pedaling a tricycle up the street.

The woman smiled at Eve. “You’re the new neighbor. I’m Sandy Komin.”

“Eve Stollman.”

“Nice to meet you, Eve. I planned to introduce myself before, but with three kids under eight, my intentions rarely pan out. If I can take a shower, I consider it a good day.” Sandy smiled again.

Eve smiled back. “How old is your baby?”

“Lily is eight months.” Sandy beamed at the infant asleep in the stroller. She pointed to the toddler on the bike. “Michael’s two and a half. Our oldest, Geneva, is seven. She’s in school, thank God. Do you have kids?”

Eve shook her head. “We want to start a family. That’s one of the reasons we bought the house.”

“Well, if you want to practice, you can borrow mine whenever you want.” Sandy laughed. “Seriously, let me know if I can help with anything. Dry cleaners, markets, carpet cleaners, plumbers, gardener—I have tons of numbers.”

Eve thought, What about ghost busters? “Thanks, I’ll take you up on that. I hope the noise from the remodeling isn’t bothering you too much.”

“Not at all. We’re up early. And I’d rather hear hammering and drilling than Barney. Barney the purple dinosaur?” she said when Eve looked puzzled.

“I’ve never watched it.”

“Lucky you.” Sandy adjusted Lily’s blanket. “The couple who owned the house before you, Nancy and Brian Goodrich? They did some minor remodeling. They were planning to put in a new kitchen, but then . . .” Sandy’s voice trailed off, and her expression had turned somber. “You know what happened, right?”

Eve nodded. “The broker told us.”

“God, what a tragedy.” Sandy sighed. “We were all shocked. Nancy and Brian seemed happy, and I never heard them arguing.” Her eyes narrowed. “Michael, turn around and come back!” she called. “You’re too far!”

Eve waited until the boy obeyed. “What happened, exactly?”

“The police think Nancy woke up when she heard someone entering the bedroom and thought Brian was an intruder. She must have been disoriented, maybe because she was on antianxiety medication.” The baby whimpered. Sandy resumed the back-and-forth motion of the stroller. “Nancy shot him. When she realized she’d killed Brian, she killed herself.” Tears welled in Sandy’s eyes. She wiped them with her hand. “It’s heartbreaking. It’s . . .” She shook her head.

“Why was Nancy on medication?”

“I heard she had a nervous breakdown. She seemed stressed the month or so before she died. I didn’t see her in the final weeks.” For a moment Sandy was quiet, lost in thought. Then she looked at Eve and her face brightened. “Hey, I hope you don’t let the house’s history bother you. What happened to Nancy and Brian has nothing to do with you and your husband. What’s his name?”

“Joe.”

“I saw him. He’s a hottie, Eve, a keeper.” Sandy winked. “How’d you meet?”

Eve told her.

“That is so romantic. Tom and I dated in high school. We always knew we’d get married. Boring, huh?” She smiled. “I’m glad we finally met, Eve. Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m sure you’re going to be very happy here. Michael, what did I tell you? Not so far!”

JOE AND EVE ate Shabbat dinner in the dining room, uncluttered now that he had moved the boxes into the living room, and she hadn’t even asked. The light switch for the chandelier had stopped working. Eve didn’t mind. The fixture was ugly, and some of the globes were cracked. She much preferred the honeyed glow from the candles in the two silver candelabras, an engagement gift from Joe’s parents. The lighting, lovely and soft, hid the spiderweb of cracks on the walls and ceiling.

Over Ruth’s potato leek soup, Eve told Joe about Nancy and Brian Goodrich.

“Two lives gone because of a tragic mistake, just like that.” Joe snapped his fingers. “I don’t know about you, Eve, but this makes what happened less creepy. You and I—we’re nothing like the Goodriches. I feel better about the house.”

“Me, too.” She really did. “Speaking of the house, I saw cracks on the bedroom wall, above the headboards.”

Joe nodded. “The house is settling. It happens.”

“But we painted less than a week ago, Joe.”

“I guess the house has its own schedule.” He smiled. “We have touch-up paint, babe, so there’s no problem.”

Joe insisted on clearing the table and doing the dishes. Eve, still suffering from the hangover-like aftereffects of the migraine, took two Advil tablets and had read a chapter of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo when Joe joined her.

Joe fell asleep first. Eve took an Ambien and twisted the outer shell of the Shabbat lamp on her nightstand until the room was dark. Drifting off to sleep, she realized she’d forgotten about the Advil she’d taken earlier and wondered if mixing the two pills was dangerous. She could check the package warnings, but unless she was prepared to make herself gag and cough up the Ambien, which she wasn’t, what was the point? She wasn’t really worried.

This time she dreamed she was at her parents’ house. Her mother and father were seated on low folding chairs in their living room. Sitting shiva for Eve. The third low chair, Joe’s, was unoccupied. Eve found Joe leaning against a wall. She saw the slim, brown-haired woman sidle next to him, saw them link their hands, just for a second, when no one was watching.

No one except Eve.

Saturday morning Eve stayed in bed while Joe attended Shabbat services at the synagogue on Chandler, a five-minute walk from their house—another selling point.

“Sure you don’t want to come with me, babe?” Joe said before he left. “You might feel better if you get out, and you’ll meet people in the community.”

Eve was sure.

She wasn’t sure, for the first time since they had started chatting on J-Date, about Joe. She accepted that the nightmare was a product of her unsettled imagination, compounded by the tragedy that had befallen the house’s previous owners. But dreams had a purpose, didn’t they? Wasn’t she supposed to learn something from them?

And what did she really know about the man she’d met on an Internet site less than two years ago? She had never caught Joe in a lie, but then, she’d never questioned anything he’d told her. She’d checked him out before they met—that was only prudent, and she would have done so even without her parents’ urging. She had spoken to his rabbi (“A great guy, Joe!”), had heard positive comments from friends of friends. The Stollmans, her mother had learned, were solid people, well liked by the San Francisco Jewish community.

Eve knew that Joe had spent a year in an Israeli yeshiva after high school and had worked as a day trader in Brooklyn before returning to San Francisco, where he obtained his administrator’s license in a nursing home. Eve knew little about his six-month marriage. Joe didn’t like to talk about his ex-wife. All Eve knew was her name. Karen.

None of which was damning, Eve had to admit.

Eve knew what Joe would say if she told him about the woman in the dream. A figment of your imagination, babe. You’re insecure. You’ve always been insecure about your looks.

That was true. But . . .

Eve got out of bed and searched through Joe’s things, first in the armoire, then in the dresser. She found nothing suspicious, no references to another woman, no photos. In Joe’s nightstand she did find every note she’d written to him since they’d met, every card she’d given him.

Joe loved her. How could she have doubted him?

The door to the bathroom was open. She stepped inside. The room would be beautiful when it was finished, airy and spacious, so elegant with the white marble.

She frowned. Nails were protruding from the cement backer boards. Stepping closer, she noticed gouges in the boards. She examined the bottom of the shower. The marks and cracks on the mortar were back.

“KEN IS GOING to quit,” Eve told Joe when he returned from shul. “I wouldn’t blame him. This is crazy, Joe.”

Joe examined the nails, studied the mortar.

“Let’s eat,” he said.

He was quiet over lunch. When they finished dessert, he said, “I have to tell you something, Eve. You’re going to be upset, but I’m hoping you can keep an open mind. Okay?”

Eve gripped the edge of the table. He wanted a divorce. He wanted to be with the brown-haired woman in Eve’s dreams. “Okay,” she said. As if she had a choice.

“I’ve been thinking about the bathroom,” he said. “The marks, the nails.”

The bathroom. In her relief Eve almost laughed.

“Is it possible—don’t answer before you hear me out, okay?—is it possible that you’ve been walking in your sleep and doing stuff you don’t remember?”

“You bastard.” Her lips were white.

“You’re taking Ambien every night, right? Ambien makes some people hallucinate, Eve. It can make people walk in their sleep and binge without knowing what they’re doing. It was in the news, remember? We talked about it. There are cases of people who didn’t know they were driving, for God’s sake.”

Eve shook her head.

“Think about it, babe,” Joe said. “That’s all I ask.”

Eve went back to her bed. When Joe came into the room she turned on her side. A moment later he was lying next to her.

“Eve, you know I love you. The Ambien is the only thing that makes sense.”

“The floors are ruined.”

“What?”

“The hardwood floors we just paid two thousand dollars to refinish? There are tons of scratches. You probably made them when you were moving the boxes.”

Joe rolled onto his back. “You didn’t say anything.”

“Well, now I am.”

He sighed. “What is this, tit for tat?”

“There are scratches on our bedroom floor, too.”

“You helped me move the beds, Eve. We were both careful about the floors. Maybe Ken’s guys did it.”

“Why don’t you tell him that, Joe? He’ll charge us double for redoing the shower pan, again.”

Eve gazed out the window.

THAT NIGHT SHE didn’t take an Ambien. She dreamed she was at her parents’ house. Joe and the brown-haired woman—Eve hated her!—were alone in a hall. She heard Joe whispering, “You can’t imagine the hell I’ve been through, Eve was so crazy.” She heard the woman saying, “No one blames you, Joey, everyone knows she was suicidal.”

And then the voices: Leave, leave, leave, leave, leave.

Sunday morning she told Joe she hadn’t taken an Ambien.

“And?” he said.

“You were right. No nightmare, no voices.”

He grinned. “Well, now we know. I’m sorry about the floors, Eve. I should have been more careful. We’ll get them redone after everything’s finished. And don’t worry about Ken. I’ll smooth things out, guy to guy. It’ll cost us, but the main thing is you’re okay. This is great, babe, isn’t it?”

“It really is,” Eve said, trembling with hate so strong, it frightened her.

Joe would tell Ken. They would laugh about it, guy to guy, Hahahahah, women, when it was Joe who had damaged the shower and walls, deliberately.

The noises she’d heard the first night had been animal sounds. Cats or squirrels, maybe birds. But her anxiety had given Joe the idea to frighten her. He was very clever, her Joe. He’d probably made a tape that he played when Eve was sleeping. Leave, leave, leave, leave, leave. The weight on her body, the breath on her face? That was Joe. He’d moved quickly and pretended to be asleep when she’d opened her eyes.

It had taken Eve a while to puzzle out why Joe would do something so cruel and hateful. When she did, she was angry at herself for being so stupid.

Joe wanted the house. He didn’t want her. He would make her so terrified that she would beg him to sell the house. He would refuse. They would divorce. He would remain in the house and everyone would say, “No one can blame him. Eve was crazy.”

Eve tried to define the moment Joe had stopped loving her. Then she wondered if he had loved her at all. Maybe it had always been about the inheritance, which she had foolishly mentioned when they were dating.

Well, Eve had news for Joe. She wanted a divorce, too. And guess what, babe? You’ll get far less than half of what the house is worth, almost nothing. Eve had inherited the money before she met Joe, so it wasn’t community property.

Eve decided to bide her time before confronting Joe. She needed proof. She considered moving out, but she had to stay in the house, to protect her claim.

Squatters’ rights, babe.

Of course, Joe wouldn’t leave. Oh, no. Joe would continue his campaign of fear to drive her out.

She was stronger than he knew.

A MIGRAINE KEPT Eve in bed the entire day, and the next and the next. The nightmares and voices disturbed her nights. The headaches, along with increasing fatigue and listlessness, made getting up in the morning impossible.

On Thursday the school principal called again. Eve told him she wasn’t coming back.

Joe looked genuinely worried. “Maybe a therapist can help you get a handle on this, honey. Do you want me to make some calls?”

You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Joe?

A day earlier Eve, listening in on the phone extension on her nightstand, had overheard Joe telling Ken they had to put the project on hold. “My wife isn’t well. I’m sure you understand.”

Her mother came every day. “Tell me what’s wrong, Evie,” Ruth implored, stroking Eve’s cheek.

Eve couldn’t tell her about Joe. Her mother wouldn’t believe her. No one would. She had found no proof, not in any of his papers or on his BlackBerry, which she’d accessed on Sunday while he was out buying groceries.

One morning, the nightmare fresh in her mind, Eve realized she’d underestimated Joe.

“You can’t imagine the hell I’ve been through, Eve was so crazy.”

“No one blames you, Joey, everyone knows she was suicidal.”

Joe wanted her dead.

He would inherit the house they’d fallen in love with and bought with Eve’s money. Oh, he would pretend to be heartbroken, and after a decent period of mourning he would remarry—“He was so lonely, poor Joe, he deserves happiness after what he’s gone through.”

Joe’s wife—the brown-haired woman or someone else, who knew how many women he had in his life?—would live in Eve’s house and sleep in Eve’s bed. She would luxuriate under water streaming from the rainforest showerhead in Eve’s marble-tiled shower and relax in the tub, letting the Jacuzzi jets massage her body. She would see the backyard bloom with flowers Eve would never have picked. She would lie in a hammock and rock a baby that wasn’t Eve’s.

Eve cried.

JOE AND HER mother drove Eve to her internist in the Third Street Towers in the city.

“Her vitals are fine, except for her blood pressure, which is a little high,” Dr. Geller said, addressing only her mother and Joe, as if Eve weren’t in the room or couldn’t hear. “She’s lost over ten pounds and she’s withdrawn, almost nonverbal. I suggest you consult with a psychiatrist.”

Eve had lost weight because she couldn’t be sure if Joe had tampered with the food he coaxed down her throat. Eve thought, wasn’t it ironic that she was thinner than she’d ever been in her life, her hips slimmer than slim?

Her mother said, “Evie, why don’t you stay with us for a few days? I can take care of you until you feel better.”

Eve wanted to say, Yes, please, yes, God, yes. She longed to lie in the safety of her bed in her old room, where she could sleep without fear of the nightmare or noises, or Joe.

But Eve couldn’t leave the house, and she couldn’t see a psychiatrist. A psychiatrist would listen while Eve talked about the voices she heard and the thing she felt pressing against her. A psychiatrist would nod while Eve told him that Joe was behind the voices, behind everything: strange marks on the mortar, popping nails, scratches on the floors, light switches that were no longer working, cracks that were spreading like vines on the Kennebunkport Green walls.

Eve would be committed.

Joe would have the house.

EVE KNEW HER parents were desperate when they brought a rabbi to the house late one Sunday morning. His name, Ruth told Eve, was Rabbi Ben-Amichai. The rabbi was a mekubal—a holy man, a master of Jewish mysticism—who lived in Jerusalem and was visiting Los Angeles. Eve’s father, Frank, had met the rabbi that morning at shul and had asked for his help.

“First the rabbi wants to check the mezuzahs,” Ruth said.

“But they’re all new.”

A week before they’d moved into the house, Eve and Joe, following Orthodox tradition, had bought eight rolled parchments, inscribed by hand with verses from the Torah in Hebrew. One mezuzah for every doorway in the house.

“Rabbi Ben-Amichai says even if they’re new, a letter may be missing, or part of a letter, or there may be some other imperfection. If something’s wrong with a mezuzah, Eve, it won’t protect you.”

Eve stayed in bed. She pictured the rabbi hunched over the small table in the breakfast nook where the lighting was best, inspecting the mezuzahs Joe and her father were removing, one by one, from the doorposts.

An hour later her mother returned. The rabbi had pronounced the mezuzahs fine.

Eve had known they were fine. The problem wasn’t mezuzahs. The problem was Joe.

“The rabbi wants to talk to you,” Ruth said.

“Why?”

“He’s a wise man, Evie. Maybe he can help.”

“Can he stop my dreams, Mom? Can he stop the voices?” Can he stop Joe?

“Eve, get up. Now. Get up, put on a robe.”

Ruth’s tone, knife sharp, sliced through Eve’s lethargy. Eve struggled out of bed. Her mother helped her into her robe and slippers. She found a scarf and tied it around Eve’s matted hair, unwashed for days.

“Perfect,” Ruth said with hollow cheer.

With her hand under Eve’s elbow, she escorted a wobbly Eve into the breakfast nook. Her father was there, and Joe.

The rabbi was old and stooped, with a long silky white beard and white hair covered by a black velvet yarmulke. His face had a thousand wrinkles.

“Sit, sit.” In a deep, unwavering voice the rabbi ordered everyone else from the room.

Eve sat opposite him and tried to place his accent. Yemenite? Definitely Sephardic. His eyes were the eyes of a young man, the dark brown of molten chocolate.

“Your husband tells me you have been hearing voices,” the rabbi said. “When did they start?”

Eve had expected skepticism or pity, but the rabbi sounded genuinely interested. “The first night we moved into the house, I heard scratching sounds. I think an animal made them. Then I started hearing the voices.”

“What do the voices sound like?”

Eve described the whooshing sound. “They tell me to leave. I’m not crazy,” she said with some defiance. “Did my husband tell you I’m crazy?”

The rabbi shook his head. “Your husband loves you very much. He is worried about you.”

Eve’s smile was thin. “He told you that, too?”

The rabbi studied her. “You don’t believe your husband loves you?”

Eve lowered her eyes under the intensity of his piercing gaze. “I don’t know what to believe.”

The rabbi nodded. “These voices that you hear in your bedroom, Mrs. Stollman. Do you hear them anywhere else?”

She shook her head.

“You also have bad dreams, yes?”

“Every night.”

“Tell me about the dreams.”

Eve started talking. The rabbi closed his eyes, and she thought, Great, the old man fell asleep, but the moment she stopped, he said, “Please, continue.”

When she had finished, the rabbi was silent for a while. Then he said, “I can see why you are so troubled. But something else is bothering you.”

“My husband didn’t tell you?” The sarcasm had slipped out. Eve flushed with embarrassment, but she wasn’t really sorry.

The rabbi’s smile was a gentle reproof. “I would very much like to hear this from you.”

So Eve told him about the cracks in the walls, the broken light switches, the scratches on the floors, the recurring strange markings in the shower.

“Who do you think is doing this?” the rabbi asked.

Did she dare? “My husband,” Eve whispered. “He wants to make me think I’m crazy. He wants—he wants the house. He doesn’t love me.” She hadn’t meant to cry, but tears streamed down her face.

“And you know this from your dreams?”

Eve felt silly.

The rabbi said, “Your husband loves you deeply. This I know to be true.”

“How? How can you know?”

“I know.”

“You do think I’m crazy,” Eve said. Maybe she was.

The rabbi pushed himself up from the chair with a sudden movement that startled her. “Come.”

Eve followed him to her bedroom. How odd, she thought, that the rabbi seemed to know the way, as though he’d been here before. He stopped in the doorway of the master bedroom, as her mother had.

“They are very angry,” he said quietly. “I feel them.”

Eve shivered. “Who?”

Squaring his shoulders, the rabbi stepped into the room and stood motionless for several long minutes. He took his time examining the wall behind the beds, then the other walls and the floors. In the bathroom he looked first at the protruding nails. Stooping down, he peered at the markings on the bottom of the shower. He returned to the bedroom, Eve following.

“Show me where you hear the voices,” the rabbi said.

Eve walked to her bed and pointed to an area above the headboard. “There.”

“Do you hear them now?”

Was he testing her? She shook her head. “Can you—do you hear anything?”

“Mrs. Stollman, they have no quarrel with me.”

The rabbi sprinted out of the room and down the hallway as though he were fleeing. Eve, out of shape and out of breath, had difficulty keeping up. Her parents and Joe were seated at the dining room table. They stood as the rabbi and Eve passed through the room and looked at the rabbi expectantly. He motioned to them to remain where they were and continued to the breakfast room, Eve at his heels.

The rabbi sat at the table. Eve did the same.

“Mrs. Stollman, did you close up any windows in your bedroom? Any doors?”

“No. Rabbi Ben-Amichai—”

“The people who lived in this house before you—your husband told me about the tragedy. Two deaths, Hashem yerachem.” God have mercy. “Did they seal a door? A window?”

“I don’t know,” Eve said, stifling her impatience. “Rabbi Ben-Amichai, when we were in my bedroom, you said you felt them. Who is ‘they’?”

“Shedim,” the rabbi said, his voice low. “Some feel that even to say the word is not advisable.”

Demons. Eve flinched.

“They are made of air, fire, and water. The sages tell us that in three ways shedim are like angels. They have wings. They fly from one end of the earth to the other. They hear what will happen in the future.” The rabbi paused. “In three ways they are like humans. They eat and drink like humans, they reproduce like humans, they die like humans. They are here right now.”

Eve felt a prickling up and down her spine. She looked around.

“Trust me, they are here, Mrs. Stollman,” the rabbi said quietly. “The Talmudic scholar Rav Huna stated that every one of us has one thousand shedim on his left hand and ten thousand on his right.”

Eve squirmed.

“Sometimes we can sense them. Have you ever felt crowded even though no one is sitting next to you?” The rabbi leaned toward Eve. “These shedim are what you feel pressing on you every night, breathing on you.” He eyed her with sympathy and a touch of sadness. “You do not believe me.”

“It’s . . .” Eve shook her head.

“Sprinkle ashes on the floor around your bed, Mrs. Stollman. In the morning you will see their footprints, resembling those of a chicken.”

Eve flashed to the markings on the mortar. Not possible, she thought. Still, she felt a frisson of fear and revulsion.

“If you are determined to see them, take finely ground ashes of the afterbirth of a black cat and put them in your eye. You will see them.” The rabbi raised a finger. “I must warn you, this is dangerous. Rav Huna saw shedim and came to harm. Luckily the scholars prayed for him and he recovered.” The rabbi fixed her with his deep brown eyes. “Now it is you who are thinking, ‘This old man is crazy,’ yes?” A smile tugged at his lips.

Eve blushed and looked away. “The markings in the shower could be from a bird.” Or Joe.

The rabbi didn’t respond.

“Suppose you’re right,” Eve said, facing the rabbi. “Why would these shedim be tormenting me?”

“You or someone else has interfered with them. I believe that there was a window or door on the wall where you hear the voices. You say you did not seal off a window—”

“I didn’t.”

The rabbi nodded. “You do not know if the people who lived here before you sealed off a window or door.”

“They did make changes,” Eve said, remembering what the neighbor had told her. “I don’t know what kind. Why does that matter?”

“Shedim have established pathways, Mrs. Stollman. When you interrupt those pathways, they are resentful. They take vengeance. These shedim resided in your house long before you moved in. To them, you are intruders, trespassers.”

Eve wanted to say, That’s ridiculous. But how could she insult this bearded holy man sitting in her home? “Rabbi, why doesn’t my husband hear the voices? Why isn’t he having similar nightmares?”

The rabbi shook his head. “That I cannot answer. Your dreams trouble you more than the voices, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“They have robbed you not only of sleep, but of peace of mind, of trust in your husband. They have convinced you he means you harm.”

Eve felt as though her heart would crack. “Yes.”

“Why do you assume these dreams are true?”

“I have the same dream, over and over. Why would that be unless my unconscious is telling me something, warning me? You said shedim can tell the future, Rabbi. Do they share that knowledge with humans through dreams?”

The rabbi nodded. “They do.”

Well then, Eve thought.

“But shedim love to confound humans, to mix truth with lies,” the rabbi said. “Remember, they are not here to protect you. Quite the opposite. At the very least, find the location of the window or door that was sealed off. Make a small hole through the wall so that the shedim can resume their movement unobstructed.”

“And that will stop the voices? The nightmares?”

The rabbi sighed. “This is a house of misery and bad fortune, Mrs. Stollman. Two people have died unnatural deaths. I’m afraid the shedim will never leave you in peace.”

“SHEDIM? ASHES OF black cats?” Joe said after the rabbi had blessed Eve and Joe and left with her parents. “Sounds like Macbeth, or Halloween. I don’t really believe in this stuff, babe. Do you?”

“Not really,” Eve said, wishing she did.

Her parents had been less skeptical. Her father had looked somber and her mother had said, “Oh my God,” several times and shuddered.

Watching Joe tap his fingers on the wall above her headboard in expanding circles, Eve thought, wouldn’t it be something if the rabbi were right—frightening, yes, but at the same time wonderful?

“Sounds solid to me, Eve,” Joe said.

“Oh.”

“I can call the broker tomorrow and ask him to find out if the Goodriches sealed off a window. Or I can have Ken open the wall.”

“You can ask our neighbor, Sandy,” Eve said. “She might know.”

“She may not be home,” Joe said. He saw the look on Eve’s face. “Okay. I’ll go check.”

Standing in front of the breakfast nook window, Eve juggled hope and despair for what seemed like an eternity until she saw Joe coming back up the walkway.

“What did Sandy say?” Eve asked, knowing the answer from Joe’s shaken expression.

Shedim.

“They sealed off a bedroom window,” Joe said, his voice subdued and so quiet she had to lean in to hear him. “Sandy wanted to know why I was asking. I said we were wondering, because the wall sounded hollow.”

“Good thinking,” Eve said. They were around her, around Joe, everywhere. Thousands, the rabbi had said.

Joe pulled Eve into his arms. “I am so, so sorry I doubted you, babe. I feel terrible that I accused you of sleepwalking and doing all that stuff.”

“You couldn’t know.”

He pulled away and stared at her. “This is surreal, isn’t it? Scary as hell.”

“It is.” Eve’s heart soared.

RABBI BEN-AMICHAI HAD advised selling the house, but Eve and Joe saw no harm in trying a less drastic measure. They would ask Ken to bore a hole through the bedroom wall. If that didn’t appease the shedim, they would sell, probably at a loss, but they would have no choice.

Joe said, only half joking, “We’d have to ask the rabbi if we’re obligated to tell the broker about the shedim.”

In the morning Joe would drive Eve to her parents’ home, where she would stay until Ken made the hole and the rabbi determined that the house was safe for Eve.

“I can take you now,” Joe said. “I don’t want you to suffer through one more night of voices and nightmares.”

Eve said, “Tomorrow is fine, Joe. Now that I know what’s going on, I’m not scared.”

Joe bought dinner from Cambridge Farms: sushi, Eve’s favorite saffron rice with cranberries, grilled steak. Eve, feeling better than she had in weeks, was ravenous. Later Joe murmured, “You and me forever, babe,” and she fell asleep in his arms.

Eve dreamed. She was in a long narrow room filled with Hebrew texts and men wrapped in prayer shawls. A shul. She saw a white-haired man with a long white beard sitting on a bench at a table piled with open texts. He was so familiar, who—

Rabbi Ben-Amichai.

A man approached the rabbi, his back to Eve. He shook the rabbi’s hand and sat across from him. The two talked. Eve heard the man say, “. . . at my wits’ end, Rabbi . . . need your help.” The rabbi raised his hands, palms up. The man leaned forward and continued. Eve couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she sensed the urgency in the hunch of his shoulders, saw the rabbi’s responding sigh. The rabbi said, “I cannot promise, but I will try.” The men shook hands again across the table. Then the man turned and Eve knew before she saw his face that it was Joe. She watched as Joe, crossing the room, greeted her father and brought him to the rabbi’s table.

The image shifted to the cemetery. Eve saw her parents and Joe’s, crying at her gravesite. She saw Joe and the brown-haired woman stealing glances, their hands touching. “. . . everyone knows she was crazy, Joe, don’t blame yourself.” Rabbi Ben-Amichai was standing to the side, his white head raised toward the sky, his faced etched with grief, tears streaming from his dark brown eyes as he beat his chest with a clenched fist.

Then the voices, the rabbi’s among them: Leave, leave, leave. Not a whisper, no, a cry.

Joe had fooled the rabbi. He had almost fooled Eve. “I don’t believe in this shedim stuff, do you, babe? We’ll make the hole through the wall, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll sell.”

All to get her out of the house.

Eve woke with a start and blinked her eyes open. Her heart was beating so rapidly she was sure Joe heard. She gazed at Joe, lying on his back, asleep.

Lover or traitor?

And how would she die? Would she take her own life, driven mad by the voices and dreams and despair? Or would Joe lose patience? Would he poison her? Drug her? Smother her with a pillow as he leaned in for a final kiss?

Shedim lied.

Shedim lied, Eve reminded herself. The rabbi had said so. Shedim lied. Shedim lied.

Were they urging her to leave, showing her a future they hoped she would avoid? Or were they laughing at her with malicious glee, trying to shatter her newfound faith in Joe?

How could Eve know what was truth and what was fabrication?

Lover or traitor?

Careful not to wake Joe, Eve slid off the bed. She tiptoed down the hall to the kitchen. She eased open a drawer.

She would never leave, never, unless she was taken out feet first, and then she wouldn’t go alone, oh no.

She loved Joe so much. She really did.

Eve lay on her back, the knife tucked under her thigh, sharp against her skin.