A House Guest

I was still standing at the back door with the cooling coffee in my hand when I heard the soft, ordinary sound of the front door opening and closing.

No knock. No call of “hello.” Just the quiet click of the latch and the light, practiced footsteps of someone who already knew the layout of the house.

Ben didn’t react. He kept sipping his coffee, eyes on the counter, as if the sound belonged here.

Then she walked into the kitchen.

Young. Strikingly so. Dark hair falling in careful waves over one shoulder, a fitted black maid’s dress that stopped mid-thigh, white apron tied neatly at the waist. The kind of figure that made ordinary morning light suddenly feel deliberate. She carried a feather duster in one hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Morning, Dr. Harmon,” she said, voice smooth and lightly amused. “Mrs. Harmon.” Her eyes flicked to me, polite, almost shy, but there was something older and sharper underneath the smile. “I’ll start with the upstairs today unless you’d rather I do the living room first.”

Ben nodded as if this were routine. “Upstairs is fine, Moira. Thank you.”

The name landed like a slap.

I stared at him. “Who the hell is this?”

Ben looked genuinely confused for a second, then slightly exasperated, the way he used to when he thought I was being difficult for no reason. “Moira. The housekeeper. We talked about this. Marcy arranged it before we even moved in—someone to help with the place until we’re settled. She’s been coming since Tuesday.”

Tuesday. Three days ago. The same day Constance had first appeared with the sage.

I had never seen this woman in my life.

Moira tilted her head, the picture of mild concern. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Harmon. I didn’t mean to startle you. I used the spare key Dr. Harmon left under the planter. Same as always.”

Same as always.

The coffee mug felt suddenly heavy in my hand. The mark on my breast throbbed under the sweater. The residual ache from the Rubber Man dream pulsed between my legs as if the house itself had decided to remind me it was still listening.

I looked at Ben. He was already turning back to his mug, the matter settled in his mind. He saw a helpful young woman in a short uniform. He saw continuity. He did not see the impossibility of her being here without my knowledge.

Moira’s gaze lingered on me a moment longer - cool, assessing, faintly amused - before she turned and started up the stairs with that same unhurried, proprietary grace. The hem of the dress swayed with each step. Ben’s eyes followed it for half a second before he caught himself and looked away.

The house felt warmer.

I set my mug down hard enough that coffee sloshed over the rim.

“Ben.” My voice came out flat. “I have never met that woman. She has never been in this house while I was awake. Explain it to me again.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, the long-suffering gesture that always made me want to throw something. “Viv, you’ve been distracted. We’re all adjusting. She’s been quiet, she stays out of the way - Violet hasn’t even complained. It’s just help. We need it.”

Help.

I thought of Constance’s words. Of the latex dream. Of the way the house had watched me touch myself in the dark and then given me nothing when I left the door unlocked.

Now it had given me this instead: a beautiful stranger who moved through our rooms as if she already owned the dust, and a husband who insisted she had always been here.

Upstairs a vacuum cleaner started, soft and efficient.

I stared at the empty doorway where Moira had disappeared, the taste of last night’s bitterness still thick on my tongue, and felt the day begin to tilt.