Creak. Creak. Thump.
I flinch with the sound, but Nori doesn’t seem to mind it, and she dances around the filthy kitchen, utterly unaware. It is an agonizing symphony that I alone must endure.
No bread left in the cupboard. No jam. Tins, oats, some peanuts; that will do. I shake peanuts out into the mortar and grind them into a dusty paste with the pestle. Add sugar, a little butter. Grind some more. I’m almost manic with stirring before I feel Nori tug on my sleeve.
I hand the bowl over. Eat.
Nori doesn’t complain, but the mess is gone in under three seconds. It isn’t enough. It has to be enough. Need to save the rest—make it last as long as I can.
How different things are now. I still remember when we first came to La Baume. Fully stocked pantry with bread, jams, and more. We had potatoes, turnips, and squash grown in the garden; it was a place of hope even with rumors about another war. There was a tomato plant and a cucumber plant and Auntie Cath would sing while she baked, and there seemed to be endless sunshine.
Whatever: I’m probably exaggerating the memory. Curse of hard times, I suppose. The only thing streaming through the window now is a vaguely foggy gray. I’ve come to hate October.
I glance through the glass.
The trees are closer.
The thought manifests without warning.
I resist. No. No, they aren’t.
They are. The trees are closer than they were yesterday.
Impossible.
Yes, look. And you found that root in the garden this morning, like an old crone’s finger, pointing right at you, remember? It was sticking out of the ashen soil—accusing. A root in a garden that has no trees. Face it, doll.
I shut my eyes. Shut up.
Go into the garden, I sign at Nori, pushing away useless memories and crazy theories. Go and look for strawberries. I hide behind sign language because my voice can’t crack and give me away when the words come from my hands. Nori looks at me, the corner of her mouth bunched up. Go on, I sign again, and then give in. “Strawberries.”
Maybe. Just maybe there’ll be some left. Some life in the ashes. Please. Oh, please…
Who am I asking?
Nori goes outside, carrying the bell she will ring if she gets into any trouble. It’s tied to the ribbon around her waist; I breathe easier hearing the sweet tinkling of metal on metal as she skips away.
I make more of the peanut paste and walk through the kitchen, the lower hallway, the entrance hall, up the first, second, and third flights of stairs, and pause in front of the attic staircase, thin, narrow, and menacing in the near-darkness of this part of the house.
“Catherine?” I call up.
As usual, she has no reply for me.
“Auntie Cath. I have some food for you down here. Okay? Catherine, okay?”
Nothing.
I place the bowl at the bottom of the ancient staircase and hurry away, trying not to rush like someone is behind me, but failing.
A beat more of silence, and then (crazy) Aunt Cath resumes her pacing in the attic:
up
and up.
down and
down
It never ends.
That night, the creaking still filters down to my bedroom, grinding through my head and bones like a tiny drill.
Nori sleeps through it, and I vow to protect that innocence. The innocence of complete and utter, stupid ignorance. I hear music in the night. Endless creaking, on and on. I no longer sleep very much. The bedsprings poke the flesh of my back. The shadows seem to move. I sigh. I stir.
Creak.
I clench my jaw as the night sings on.
Creak.
I wish the horrible percussion away.
Creeeeaaaaak.
The walls begin ticking. La Baume is old. The noises from the attic—(crazy) Aunt Cath pacing back and forth, up
and
down
—are inevitable in
a place like this. There’s too much wood in this house. Were the walls built from Python trees? I wrap my arms around my torso; the idea of being inside a box of Python planks is horrifying. Cursed planks.
Creak.
La Baume is cursed.
Creak.
I didn’t expect to think it, but that’s kind of what it feels like.
Creeeeeaaaaak.
CURSED.
I force the thought of screaming trees away. Trees don’t scream. Trees don’t sing.
Yeah, right. Trees also don’t move.
I meander to the window on the balls of my feet, peering out through the strangling vines at the trees. They thrash and moan through the lightning and thunder like inmates in an asylum.
Creak.
It is going to drive me mad.
Creak…
I am going to lose my mind.
SILLA DANIELS’S GUIDE TO LOSING YOUR MIND
1. Notice things.
2. Notice the things that no one else does.
3. Notice everything. Too much. All the time.
4. Sense the wrongness in things.
5. But don’t feel them.
6. Feel alone.
7. But never be alone.
2
crazy is just a word
A bit of dirt and soil and bone
and blood pricked from a thumb
the Creeper Man so little known
is come, oh yes! He’s come.