by K M Frost
Stewart studies my face uncertainly. “I guess . . .”
I take that as an agreement and straighten up, leading him to one of the empty bedrooms.
There are several rooms, and though they’re smaller than Rogue’s massive one, the layout of each room is always the same. One of the rooms has a pair of beds. I wonder if it was a room for the younger children of the family that used to live here.
Stewart’s room has a single bed, and the same tasteless décor as the rest of this dark, creepy house. He’s so tense, only half his body even touches the bed. I try to remember what Mom would do for me when I was afraid to go to sleep.
After shaking the dust from a neatly folded blanket at the foot of the bed, I drape it over his body and pull the material all the way up to his chin.
“There.” I force another smile for his sake. “You’ll be fine, Stewart. We locked the door, and we’re all here with you. You’re not really alone.”
He still looks nervous, but he nods. “Okay, Jonas.”
I ruffle his red-brown hair and then walk out of the room. When I reach the doorway, I turn back. From the moonlight drifting in through the tall windows I can see him watching me.
I settle my hand on the doorknob. “Do you want the door open, or closed?”
“Open,” he says quickly, almost like he’s afraid I’ll close it before he can answer. Terrified.
I hope he can’t see my face well in the dark. “Good night, Stewart.”
“Or good morning.” There’s a hint of a toothy grin in his voice, and I smile for real this time.
“Yeah, or good morning.”
Leaving the door wide open, I turn away and walk into the next bedroom.
The bed is dusty, and I brush it off the best I can before lying down, trying to ignore the crusty feel of the blankets beneath me.
I close my eyes and try to fall asleep (or wake up), but it’s harder than expected.
Though the house is quiet, I can hear things creaking, the wind sliding past the windows, and the steady drumming of the rain. The room is dark, but I can still see the dead man’s face.
I nearly scream when I roll over and see a shadowy figure standing over me.
“Leah?” I choke, terrified and exasperated at the same time.
“Jonas?” She leans closer, a dusty blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
I try to breathe normally, though my heart is still crashing in my chest. “What is it?”
“I can’t sleep.”
Despite everything, I smile a little, remembering what Stewart said. “Are you sure? Maybe you just can’t wake up.”
Leah huffs. “I’m serious, Jonas.” She glances over her shoulder and pulls her blanket more tightly around herself. “This house is creepy.”
I agree wholeheartedly. Letting out a sigh, I sit up and lean back against the ornate headboard. “What do you want me to do about it?”
She hesitates, staring at her feet and fidgeting with the corner of her blanket. “I don’t want to be alone.”
I wait for her to say more, still wondering what any of this has to do with me.
She pushes out a frustrated breath. “Look, it’s dark and creepy here, and I hate being by myself. I keep seeing that man’s face . . .”
I watch her for a moment, wishing I could erase the horror from her face. And then I have an idea.
I push the dusty blankets off my legs and stand up. “Come here.”
I walk quietly down the hallway, Leah right behind me, until we reach the bedroom I’m looking for.
Leah blinks at the two beds, and then looks at me. “Will you really stay here with me?” Her small voice is uncertain.
I shrug. “Why not? A bed’s a bed, right?”
After brushing off as much dust as I can from the bed on the right, I sit down and see Leah still hasn’t moved.
“Well? Who knows how soon the real you will wake up. If I was you, I’d get to that bed before you wake up. Hitting the ground sure gives me a headache.”
Leah hesitates for another second, and then hurries to the bed and sits down, pulling her legs up onto the mattress and crossing them. She keeps her blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders and looks across the room at me.
I meet her eyes, but I don’t know what else to say. First she wanted to have company, and now that she isn’t alone she’s just sitting there.
Not knowing what else to do, I lay down, stretching out on my back and looking up at the ceiling, though I can’t see much in the darkness. The rain continues to beat against the roof, but it’s muted, controlled, calming.
Leah’s quiet for so long, I wonder if she’s fallen asleep. But then she talks, her voice soft in the deep stillness of the house. “Why did you come?”
I look over in surprise and confusion. She’s still sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching me.
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Why did you come in here?” She doesn’t sound annoyed—just curious. “Why didn’t you just tell me to grow up and get over it?”
I don’t answer for several long moments, thinking about her question.
I fold my hands beneath my head and stare up at the dark ceiling. “I guess I understand what you’re going through. I keep thinking about that guy, too. I figured, maybe helping you would help me.”
“So it was all just self-serving?” Her voice is teasing again. Good old Leah.
I smile. “Something like that.”
We’re quiet for another minute, and then she speaks again. “My dad always said nightmares are just a kid’s confused imagination. He said your imagination would get lost if you stayed up too late. That it would wander into the land of nightmares. Mom just sent me back to bed.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I say nothing.
Leah shifts and her mattress squeaks. “Dad was always the sentimental one. Always had to make up stories to deal with reality.” There’s the bitterness in her voice that I’ve heard before. I wonder again what made her so angry.
“What kind of stories?” I ask, but my voice cracks on the last word. I’m not sure how she’ll react to my question, and I wait anxiously for a few breaths.
Finally there’s another squeak from across the room as Leah moves again, then her voice comes quietly from out of the dark. “Good night, Jonas.”
And she doesn’t make another sound.
I’m pretty sure she’s still awake, but I don’t know what to say.
I feel like Leah’s past is a giant minefield, waiting to blast me to smithereens every time I take a step. I should have learned by now not to venture into that minefield, but as the darkness begins to envelope me, I realize I keep returning because there’s something waiting on the other side of that field, and though I don’t know what it is, I’m sure it’s important—and I need to get to it, whatever it takes.
Chapter 17
Sunday morning I had a lot on my mind. I thought about my body in the Reality Dreams, in the creepy house in the deserted city.
I shivered. No, I didn’t want to think about that. Pushing the thoughts and images away, I got out of bed, grateful my weekend wasn’t over yet. I don’t think I could’ve handled school today.
Dad was in the kitchen when I wandered out, still in my pajamas.
He grinned at me over a row of cooking pancakes. “Hey, kiddo.”
I slid into a chair at the table and looked around. “Where’s Mom?”
“She ran over to Ms. Erikson’s.” Dad flipped the pancakes over with a practiced hand. “She hasn’t been doing well the past couple of days, and Mom wanted to help out.”
I nodded, the sleepiness gradually slipping away from my body.
Dad glanced down the empty hall behind me. “And Ellie’s still sleeping.”
We were quiet for a few minutes, listening to the pancakes steam and bubble.
I stretched back in my chair, fighting down a yawn. “So, what’s planned for today?”
Dad chuckled. “Hey, that’s t
he nice thing about the weekend. You don’t have to have a plan.”
I grinned. “Sounds great. I’m gonna go get dressed.”
Dad saluted me with the spatula when I stood up. I was still smiling when I returned, dressed in my usual cotton shirt and pants.
Ellie stumbled into the kitchen after Dad and I had started eating. She dropped into her chair without a word and immediately reached for the pancakes.
“Someone’s hungry,” I teased, fighting a grin.
She tossed me a quick look and then cut into her breakfast.
Dad got a thoughtful look and licked his fork. “Do you think we can finish off all these pancakes before Mom gets back?”
That drew a smile from Ellie, and I grinned too.
Dad leaned forward, his blue eyes shining with laughter. “Ready?”
We all tossed a couple more pancakes onto our plates.
“Set . . .” Dad waited another second to build the suspense, meeting Ellie’s eyes and then mine.
“Go!”
Ten minutes later Mom walked in the door, and we all cheered and showed off our empty plates. My stomach was so full I could barely move, but I was laughing right along with Dad.
Ellie ran to Mom’s side, laughing hysterically.
Mom smiled at Ellie’s glee. “What’s this all about?”
“We ate all the pancakes!”
Mom forced her smile down and settled her hands on her hips. “What about me? Did you save any for me?”
Ellie tossed her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. Then she whirled and pointed an accusing finger at Dad. “Dad told us to! He made me eat them!”
Dad grinned, pushing away from the table. “Alright. I guess it’s my job to make a fresh batch, huh Ellie?”
Ellie nodded firmly, her little face stern. “And make sure Mom gets to eat all of them by herself.”
Dad laughed, but he obediently poured more batter onto the pan and turned up the heat.
Mom pulled lightly on Ellie’s tousled hair. “Why don’t you go get dressed, Ellianna? It’s going to take me a while to eat all those pancakes.”
Ellie skipped obediently from the room.
I asked Dad if I could take a walk outside, and he and Mom said yes, though Mom told me I needed to be back in time for lunch.
After slipping on my old brown boots and grabbing the book I’d been reading, I hurried out the door and into the sunlight.
One of my favorite things to do on Sunday mornings was walk up the hill just outside town and read. The tall trees always kept it nice and cool, and I’d never seen anyone else up there.
As I walked through the village streets, I tried not to compare the sights around me to the creepy city in the Reality Dreams.
I focused on the differences, instead: The buildings here were short and bulky, each one a different texture, shape, or color; the streets were dirt-paved and only wide enough for four or five people to pass between the houses; there were no strange horseless carriages; and the biggest difference—there was life.
Though much of the town was still asleep, there were people moving to and from various places, talking and laughing.
Unbidden, I found myself wondering if that dark city had looked like this once, full of life and people. I wondered what had destroyed it.
Then I shook the thoughts away, annoyed that the dark images were ruining my day.
A few minutes later, I left the village behind and climbed the hill, taking in the fresh smell and the comfortable shade.
With a smile, I settled into the shade at the foot of one of the bigger trees on the hill and pulled out my book.
Most kids liked to spend their free time reading novels and other fictional things, but my favorite were Concept books by Thomas Moche or Sera Oralis, or any of the other great Conceptors. It fascinated me, reading their thoughts about the world, discovering the inventions they had in their minds.
I was so engrossed in my book that I didn’t notice another presence on the hill until a voice spoke up from beside me, making me yelp in surprise and almost drop my book.
“Leah!” I glared up at her grinning face.
“You sure are jumpy.” She dropped down beside me, settling into the soft grass. She had a sketchbook in her hand, but she set it aside. “Last night you almost gave me a heart attack, what with all your jumping.”
I pulled my knees up and set my book on my legs, trying to find my place on the page. “Well if you’d stop sneaking up on me all the time . . .”
Leah shrugged and flipped open her sketchbook, pulling a dented pencil from her pocket.
I glanced over after a minute of silence and saw her thumbing slowly through the drawings in her worn book. Now, I’d seen Leah’s doodles and I thought they were good, but these were incredible. The drawings were so intricate and detailed, I half expected them to walk right off the page.
“What do you think?”
I jumped at her sudden question, embarrassed to be caught staring. I shrugged, turning back to my book. “They’re good, I guess. I’m not much of an art person.”
She tilted her head to read the title of my book and smirked. “No, I guess you’re more the Conceptor type.” She said it like it was a bad thing.
I instantly bristled, and I turned to face her fully, setting my book aside. “Do you have something against Conceptors?”
Leah’s face was entirely composed, but her eyes were laughing at me. “Why do you ask? Should I have something against Conceptors?”
I nearly choked. “Of course not! Conceptors are the ones we have to thank for all the good things in life: the wheel, our counting and letter systems—essentially, all of society.”
“But we wouldn’t be here to enjoy it if the artistic thinkers hadn’t encouraged people to live together in harmony. What’s the point of surviving if you can’t thrive?”
“Conceptors allow us to survive, and new inventions help us to thrive. Science always pulls through. Can art say that?”
“It always does for me.” Leah shrugged, nonchalant. “Besides, what’s so great about a bunch of dead guy’s opinions?”
“What’s so great?” I leaned toward her, indignant. “Not only does science give us the tools to survive and enjoy life, but it also encourages unique thinking, which in turn brings even better ways to live. Without science, we wouldn’t progress. We would be stuck at a standstill for eternity.”
Leah smiled and leaned back calmly on her hands. “Well, I guess I’m convinced.”
I was surprised she dropped the issue so suddenly, so easily. Belatedly, I realized my whole body was coiled, almost like I was subconsciously anticipating an actual fight.
I forced myself to relax, surprised that she’d gotten me so worked up so quickly. I mean, I’d met people who thought science was a waste of time, but I’d never felt like I needed them to see my way of thinking as badly as I did with Leah.
Still smiling, she looked down at the art book on her lap. “Art’s still better.”
I glanced over at her and realized she was trying to rile me up. Why?
I watched her for a moment, but she was wrapped up in her drawings, oblivious to my eyes on her.
I tried to return my attention to my book, but I couldn’t focus on the words I was reading.
I peeked at Leah and saw more emotion on her face than I ever had before. There was pain and anger and sorrow and bitterness there.
Curious, I glanced down at the drawing she was looking at, and I realized with a start that I recognized it. At least, a little.
I remembered when I’d watched her doodle earlier this week, she’d drawn a rough sketch of a woman lying under a tree. The picture in the sketchbook looked a lot like the doodle, only much more intricate. Though it was all in pencil, I could clearly see the beautiful woman curled up softly beneath the huge tree, her face peaceful.
Even with my limited knowledge of art, I knew the drawing was a very good one. But the thing that got my attention was the emotion. Every line, eve
ry curve, every shadow had been etched with care and heartache. There was something dark about the image, though on the surface it looked simple and peaceful.
I looked at Leah again. Her face was still a wild range of emotions, and she seemed to have forgotten me entirely.
Thinking back on all the disasters I’d encountered whenever I asked about her past, I wasn’t sure I wanted to say anything. But then I remembered the feeling I’d had last night, that there was something hiding in her past, and though I didn’t know what it was, I needed to discover it.
“You drew that picture at school.”
Leah looked over at me quickly, all emotion vanishing in an instant. She studied my face for a moment, and then looked back down at the picture, like she was seeing it for the first time.
I fought against the inner voice that told me to drop the subject while I was still alive—and I reached for the book.
For a second I worried she wasn’t going to let me take it, but then she let it go. I brought it closer to my face, making a show of studying it. “What does it mean?”
“Mean?” The sarcasm in her voice was hollow. “Does it have to mean something?”
I shrugged, not allowing myself to cringe at the sharpness of her voice. If she decided to kill me, I could always yell for help. We weren’t all that far from the village.
“I always thought art was supposed to tell a story.”
Leah snorted and reached for her book. “Yeah, well, maybe you should stick to Concepts.”
But I didn’t give the book back. I was still looking at the picture. Surprisingly, she didn’t threaten to kill me. She just sat there silently while I studied the drawing.
“Is this you?” I glanced up briefly before returning my attention to the book. In that short glimpse of her face, I saw surprise, and the same bitterness that always seemed to be lurking in the wings.
“No.”
Leah’s face was hard. In contrast, her green eyes were wet and a tear had already fallen, cutting its way, unnoticed, down her cheek.
