4
Wyatt
I fell asleep, eventually, but it was far from peaceful. For hours, I tossed around, alternately freezing and looking for the cool side of the pillow. Danielle didn’t return. Of course she didn’t. Either she’d been a figment of my weary imagination or she’d disappeared—again—when she heard her mother’s voice. No, there was no either. She was a figment of my imagination. Period. But still, the wind howled like the opera singers my grandfather worshiped on PBS, and each time I started to descend into sleep, I heard a voice that seemed to say, “Find me!” But there was nothing there. The last time I saw on the digital clock was 5:00 a.m.
The next time was 10:00. Sun streamed through the trees and dotted the walls. I blinked my eyes. The snow and wind had stopped, and there was a silence like I’d never heard.
I wished I could stay in this room forever, alone, unseen by anyone. That was the deal, get away from everything, the people who wanted to talk to me and the people who didn’t. Sure, I would have only my own thoughts to deal with, but those would haunt me wherever I went, no matter what. At least, here I wouldn’t have to share them.
I hadn’t thought about the old lady or, if I had, I hadn’t thought much. An old lady had seemed harmless. Mom had kept in touch with her over the years, Christmas cards and things, and when we’d visited the area once, Mom had met her for coffee while I went fishing with my grandfather. So Mom had asked her to let me stay here, to finish out my senior year in exchange for money and chores like mowing the lawn.
I went to the window and looked down. The lawn in question was at least three feet deep in snow. Did that mean I had to shovel the path?
Or, more important, what if the old lady was crazy?
It was a fair question. Danielle’s diary made it sound that way. Also, why would she even let me stay? Obviously, she’d been doing okay until now. What if she was a whack job who would murder me in my sleep? What if she’d murdered Danielle?
I fumbled for my cell and, absent anyone else who cared, tried to text my mother.
No bars. Still.
I tried again.
Nothing. Maybe I could go to town or somewhere today, to try and see if it worked. Doubtful. Besides, who did I want to speak to? This place was like one of those novels we read in English class, where people were out on the moors with no one around anywhere and nothing to do but read. You know, like two hundred years ago.
Speaking of which . . . I took out the novel I was supposed to be reading for my online school class, Wuthering Heights. I’d tried several times to start it on the train, but it was just too boring, so boring I kept falling asleep. I started again. The chapters where Lockwood arrives at the house he’s renting but first stops to meet his landlord were still the same, still boring. No surprises until I came to a part that made me sit upright.
My fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand!
The intense horror of nightmare came over me; I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed,
“Let me in—let me in!”
Impossible. It was what had happened last night, exactly what had happened. Now, I dimly recalled that Lockwood in the story had done as I had, gone into a bedroom and found an old diary. But I hadn’t read this part. I was sure.
Or had I?
No time to think! My thoughts were interrupted by a knocking on my door, not a desperate knocking like last night, but a calm, businesslike knocking and a chipper voice.
“Wake up, sleepyhead! Everyone must wake sometime!”
It was Mrs. Greenwood. I looked down, found myself still in jeans and a T-shirt from last night. Would she think I was lazy, lock me in a room?
“Are you dressed? I made biscuits!”
I shrugged. No need to prolong the inevitable. “Sure.” I opened the door.
The old lady standing there looked nothing like the one I’d met last night. This one could have been in a commercial for Hallmark cards or stuffing or something, a sweet, blue-eyed old lady in a red dress and white apron. She held a tray with what looked like a Denny’s Grand Slam on it: eggs, bacon, and biscuits. She smiled. She had dimples and all her teeth.
“I let you sleep in. You must have been tired from your journey.” She placed the tray on a small table with a ruffled cloth. “Oh, it’s so nice to have someone to cook for. It’s been years.”
She gave no sign of having met me the night before, much less having yelled at me. In fact, she said, “I see you found your room all right then?”
“Of course. This looks great.” So weird.
“Well, don’t expect room service every day. This is a special occasion. You can’t stay in bed all the time, or soon, you’ll find you can’t get up. I know.”
She must mean when her daughter disappeared, that she’d been depressed.
“Dig in.” She spied the book on the bed. “Wuthering Heights! Do you like gothic novels?”
Being male, no. “I just started it. It’s for school.” This was sooo weird. Had last night been all a dream? But then, how had I gotten in this room, in this bed? Had I been here all the time? Was something wrong with me, even more than I’d imagined?
“When you’ve read a bit more, we can have a nice, long talk about it. And if you enjoy it, I have Jane Eyre and The Woman in White.”
“That’s great.” I’d given up on thinking about this.
“Oh, forgive my babbling. It’s just so nice to have someone to talk to. I’ll let you eat and then, perhaps later, you can help me shovel the walk.”
This was part of the deal, I knew. My mother had said I’d help around the house. I didn’t mind that, but I was weirded out. Mrs. Greenwood gestured toward the tray, urging me to eat more, then left.
As soon as she was gone, I dove for the book. I kept reading. It was long-lost Cathy at the window, and then, as with last night (Had it been a dream?), Lockwood’s cries woke his host, Heathcliff. Heathcliff ran into the room, scolded Lockwood, and then, after Lockwood left, Heathcliff rushed to the window, screaming, “Come in! Come in! Cathy, do come. Oh, do—once more!”
Just as Mrs. Greenwood had.
Clearly, it had all been a dream, a dream born from reading Wuthering Heights while half asleep. The only thing was, I didn’t remember reading it.
Whatever.
I realized I was hungry, really hungry. I hadn’t eaten anything on the train, and I couldn’t remember what I’d eaten before that either. In fact, the past few weeks were sort of a blur. So I wolfed down the breakfast, hoping that food would replace doubt as central in my mind. It almost did. Almost.
In fact, the food was delicious. It had been a long time since I’d really enjoyed food or anything else, but Mrs. Greenwood’s biscuits might have broken the barrier. Maybe coming here hadn’t been a bad idea. At least, I was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt that she wasn’t crazy, hadn’t killed her daughter, and hadn’t creeped me out last night. I mean, did crazy people make biscuits like this?
After I finished breakfast, I walked to the window and opened it to see if the cell phone service was any better (or existed) there. It wasn’t, but the view was pretty. The snow had finally finished falling, and the sky was bright, reflecting blue on the white. I stared at the vast, snowy lawn.
Maybe my mother had been right. For once. It was a new start, a new place, decent food, a friendly old lady who knew nothing about me. I could be anything, anyone I wanted. I could be better.
Then, I noticed something weird. On the lawn, below the room next to mine, were footprints. Footprints barely hidden in the snow. Even though it had been snowing all night, I could make them out as if they’d been made only hours, not days, earlier.
I opened the window to see something else, the walkway leading to the door where I’d come in. I’d agreed to shovel the walk, and even from a distance, I could tell it was completely blank, white. I’d come in after midnight. That meant the footprints under the window had been made even later.
Through the trees, I heard a sound. At first, I thought it was birds, or the tinkling of a wind chime. It was so blank and white and empty here, I bet you could hear noises from miles away. But, as I listened, the sound put itself together in my mind, and I recognized it.
A human voice.
Singing.
Then, the wind shifted, and the voice was gone.