by Nick Clausen
Lisa doesn’t reply.
Andy feels his cheeks burning without really knowing why. Is Lisa tired of talking with him? Does he bore her? Or is she really exhausted? Maybe it takes great effort for her to talk.
He gets up and goes to put the book back in place. Just before he does, he checks it one last time. There’s a line from Lisa.
»took rebecca«
Andy’s insides turn to ice. He whispers: “Do you know, Lisa? Do you know who took her?”
He almost doesn’t dare to close the book and open it again, but he forces himself. The new line screams up at him:
»wendigo«
Andy suddenly finds it hard to breathe. He never mentioned the wendigo to Lisa when he told her about Rebecca. Now he’s reminded of the ominous dream he had where the demonic creature abducted his sister.
“The wendigo … isn’t real,” Andy croaks. “It’s just made up … like vampires and werewolves.”
Lisa replies right away, repeating herself:
»met it«
Andy almost can’t squeeze out the next question, and it comes as barely more than a breath: “Where?”
The reply from Lisa, on the other hand, comes promptly:
»library«
DAY 61
The next morning, Andy rides his bike to school as usual. And although it seems like a day like any other, to Andy it feels like everything has undergone a shift of sorts.
He’s more hopeful than he’s been for months.
He’s also scared and dead-tired—the latter due to the fact that he was out again last night for three hours straight looking for the yellow van—and the fear comes from what Lisa told him yesterday.
That the wendigo took Rebecca. That she has even seen it, because it visited the library once.
Andy never seriously considered the thought that something other than a human could have taken Rebecca. But now it all makes sense. How he chose that exact book, the story about the wendigo, on the day Rebecca disappeared. What his nightmare meant. And why the police can’t find out who took Rebecca. How would they ever do that if they’re only looking for a person?
Andy has always seen a clear distinction between what could exist in real life and what could only exist in books. But then again, ghosts have firmly belonged in the latter category, and that conviction has certainly been put to the test.
Somehow, the more he talks with Lisa, the more he becomes convinced that she’s real. That he has met her for a reason. In books, nothing ever happens by accident—there is always a deeper meaning—and Andy is getting a growing sense that the real world has somehow been mixed up with the world of books.
He is riding through the park, so wrapped up in his thoughts, that he doesn’t notice the strange sound until the third or fourth time he hears it, even though it’s quite loud in the cool quiet morning air. It’s a brief, sharp rapping.
dakka-dakka-dakka!
Andy stops his bike and looks in the direction of the sound. Apparently, it came from the trees at the bottom of the park. A few seconds pass by until the sound repeats.
He recalls Rebecca often talking about the woodpeckers residing in the park. She always hoped to see them, but as far as Andy knows, she never succeeded.
dakka-dakka-dakka!
There it is again. It’s almost like the noise is calling for him. He puts his bike on the stand and steps out onto the wet grass. The sound keeps repeating with short intervals, guiding him, leading him to the trees. As he crosses the tree line, large, cold drops of dew fall from the branches, hitting his hair and his jacket. Andy hardly notices; he’s too focused on the sound. He’s getting closer. He’s almost—
And then, right beside him: DAKKA-DAKKA-DAKKA!
Andy spins around, staring at the tree he just passed. There are no leaves on the branches, since the tree is dead. He can tell from the white bark the tree is a birch. But he can’t see the woodpecker anywhere.
Slowly, he walks around the tree. He scans the thick trunk up and down, scrutinizing every branch, but sees no birds.
And then he sees it.
The hole.
It’s right in the middle of the trunk about ten feet up. Perfectly round, no larger than a ping-pong ball. The rapid tapping sound comes again. It comes from inside the hole.
Andy has an idea. He purses his lips and whistles.
Almost immediately, a small head peaks out from the hole. It’s black-and-white and has a pointy beak. The woodpecker looks down at Andy, turning his head slightly to do so.
For a couple of seconds they just stare at each other.
Then the bird loses interest. It pulls its head back in. And a moment later the rapping continues.
Andy’s heart is racing. Rebecca loved birds. He needs to show her the woodpecker’s home right away. She will be ecstatic when she—
Then he remembers that Rebecca is gone, and his excitement dissipates. He’s struck by a deep sadness—until he recalls he has someone new he can share his discovery with.
“It’s building a home for itself,” he tells Lisa that same afternoon. “I think it wants to put its eggs in there. Maybe it will even hatch them out and have babies! I really wish you could see it. Wait a minute—you can! I could just bring the book to the park.”
He closes and opens the book, and the reply from Lisa shouts at him:
»NO«
“Okay, okay,” Andy mutters, his cheeks reddening. “It was only a suggestion.” He broods for a moment, then asks tentatively: “What happens if you leave the library?”
»death«
Andy stares at the single, ominous word, feeling a cold shiver run down his spine. What does “death” mean? Lisa is already that—but then again, not really. Part of her is still alive in the books.
If she leaves the library, she will die for real.
The thought of Lisa really dying fills Andy with an unexpected sense of dread. He wouldn’t want to risk losing his opportunity to talk with her. Already he feels a strange bond with the dead girl, having exchanged but a few words with her and still knowing next to nothing about her.
Andy senses Lisa saying something, and he opens the book.
»rebecca?«
“I’m still searching for her every night,” he says, yawning at the mere thought of being up half the night. “I haven’t found her yet, but I will. I just need to find that yellow van.”
»brave«
Andy feels heat go to his cheeks. “Me? Oh, I think anyone would do the same if someone in their family disappeared.”
»not me«
The line befuddles Andy at first. Then it starts to make sense. He frowns. “Lisa, did you … also disappear?”
»I«
The line seems cut short, as though Lisa interrupted herself.
Andy closes and opens again. This time, there’s nothing.
“What is it, Lisa?” he whispers. “What is it you’re trying to tell me?”
A couple of minutes pass by. Andy keeps closing and opening the book. Finally, a new line appears.
»gone«
Andy sinks back in the chair. It’s obvious to him that Lisa almost remembered something important, but then lost it again. He bites his lip, then says: “You told me the wendigo once visited this library. Do you remember what it came for?”
This time, Lisa replies right away.
»book«
“You remember which one?”
This time, no answer.
“Lisa?”
Still nothing.
Andy waits patiently. Several minutes pass. He checks for an answer now and then, but Lisa thinks for a long time.
At last, she speaks again. What appears on the page is the longest line Lisa has ever spoken to him.
»anatomy of the human eye«
Andy feels a rush of adrenaline. “Okay!” he bursts out. “Okay, hold on a minute. I’ll try to find it.”
He puts down the book and eagerly goes to search for the book Lisa just named. Judging by the titl
e, he assumes it’s a nonfiction, so he goes to that section.
He finds plenty of books on the subject of the human body and different parts of it, including one or two about the eye and the vision, but he finds none with that specific title.
Andy goes to the terminal and makes a search for the book, but gets no hits.
He returns to the armchair and asks Lisa: “There seems to be no book by that title—are you sure you remember it correctly?”
Andy closes then opens the book, but receives no reply from Lisa. He waits half a minute then tries again. Still no answer. He waits again several minutes this time, but still Lisa doesn’t say anything.
Finally, Andy concludes that Lisa is tired. She probably spent the last of her strength giving him the name of the book, and she has no more energy to speak today.
Andy is left with a mixture of excitement and disappointment. He was really hoping to find the book the wendigo has read. He’s not sure why, but something tells him that book would provide him with a vital clue; perhaps even lead him to the wendigo—and by that, to Rebecca.
DAY 78
The days begin to look alike. Andy’s life falls into a certain routine.
In the morning, on his way to school, he checks in on the woodpecker. The bird is working away tirelessly building its home, the rapping sound growing more and more hollow with each day, as the hole inside the tree apparently grows steadily larger.
After school he goes by the library to visit Lisa. Some days he’s not alone and they can’t really talk. Other days Lisa is more talkative than others.
Andy tries a few times to get her to remember something more about the wendigo—anything that might help him find it. But whenever he brings up the subject, Lisa becomes oddly quiet, as though talking about it to her is either strenuous or uncomfortable. So mostly, they talk about ordinary stuff.
In truth, Andy is doing most of the talking, telling Lisa about his life, sharing his fondest memories and also his ideas for stories he wants to write someday, when he hopefully becomes an author.
When at home, Andy keeps to himself in his room, avoiding The Silence as best he can.
He goes to bed right after dinner and is awakened by the alarm around midnight, enabling him to sneak out of the house to go look for the yellow van. He has several hundred houses crossed off his list by now, but there are still even more to go, and progress slows down with each night as he needs to go still farther away from home in order to find new houses to check off.
Mom has become even more strict about the time that Andy must be home from school—five o’clock sharp—so Andy does his best to maximize the time he can spend at the library. He packs his bag two minutes before the bell sounds. He keeps his jacket ready by his side. And he bolts out the door the minute class ends. It takes him only four minutes riding his bike from school to the library, and only six from the library and home; this gives him a total of fifty minutes in which he can speak to Lisa.
This routine gives Andy a certain amount of comfort. He feels safe knowing what the day will bring, he enjoys the excitement of talking with Lisa, and he’s satisfied with the progress—however slow it may be—he is doing at night. There is also a touch of pride in his work; at least he’s doing something to find Rebecca, unlike everyone else.
Then suddenly one day, something happens which breaks the routine.
One morning, on his way to school, Andy stops by the woodpecker’s tree as always. He stands still and listens. And then he hears it. Tiny chirping voices calling from within the tree. Andy breaks into a smile. The sound can only mean one thing.
At that moment, something comes whooshing over his head. The woodpecker lands by the opening in the tree, holding something in its beak. Before Andy can make out what it is, the bird disappears inside the tree. The chirping noises grow more eager. A moment later the woodpecker pops back out and flies off to find more food for its babies.
Andy just stands there, awestruck.
“The babies have hatched,” he whispers to the book as soon he sits down in the armchair at the library that same afternoon, still panting from riding his bike as fast as he could all the way from school. “The woodpecker, I mean. I heard them—it was so amazing, Lisa.”
He opens the book, but finds no reply from Lisa.
He checks to see if anybody could be within earshot; no one is. In fact, he’s the only one here right now. Maybe Lisa simply waits for him to go on—so, he does.
“I saw the parents fly off and come back with food. And I made a recording of the sounds so you could hear them. Here, hold on a minute.”
He takes out his phone and finds the recording. He’s just about to hit play, when he suddenly feels a cold shiver run down his back for no discernable reason.
Andy looks at the book. “Lisa? Is something wrong?”
He closes and opens the book. The line from Lisa make the tiny hairs at the back of Andy’s neck all stand on end.
»it’s coming«
He knows immediately who—or rather, what—Lisa is referring to. He darts a look at the window, but can’t really see anything from where he’s sitting.
“Is it coming in here?” he whispers, his ears stiff, listening for the sound of the automated doors.
He closes and opens the book a few times, but Lisa has gone silent again.
Andy gets up, his legs shaky, and goes to the window. The parking lot in front of the library is empty. So is the sidewalk as far as Andy can see.
Then, it comes into view. Andy’s heart feels like it explodes in his chest.
The yellow van drives right past the building.
Before he can even think, Andy is running for the exit. He almost clashes with the glass doors, squeezing out as soon as they’re far enough apart. He stares down the street, but the van is already out of sight.
“Damnit!”
Andy runs to his bike, jumps on it and heads off, pedaling harder than he ever did. He spends twenty minutes searching the nearby streets, checking every possible turn the van could have taken. But he doesn’t find it.
Andy rides back to the library, trudges back inside, his thigh muscles aching from the effort, and slouches back down into the armchair. “I didn’t catch it,” he sighs, wiping sweat from his brow. “It was so close. If I had just come a little bit closer, I could have glimpsed the license plate …”
Lisa doesn’t say anything, so Andy just sits there in silence for a while, feeling the sour sting of disappointment.
“My plan isn’t working,” he mutters. “It could be months before I find that stupid van if I have to keep searching like this. I’m still only halfway. If only there was a quicker way …”
He senses Lisa saying something, and he opens the book.
»memory«
Andy sits up a little straighter. He can feel the hesitation of the word, feel how Lisa is concentrating not to lose the memory again. He says nothing, gives her time. Then, he closes and opens the book again.
»kidnapped«
Andy stares at the word. His tongue is like sandpaper. He can’t talk, so he just closes the book, then opens it once more.
»yellow van«
Andy’s heart is knocking against his ribcage. He closes and opens the book several times, but Lisa says no more.
“Who did it, Lisa?” he finally asks. “Who kidnapped you?”
No answer.
“Was it the wendigo? Was it the same one who’s taken Rebecca?”
No answer.
“Please, Lisa. Say something. Do you remember anything else?”
This time, Lisa answers him.
»blinding sunlight«
Andy reads the line a couple of times, trying to figure out what it means. Lisa mentioned the memory of the sunlight blinding her before, but he must have misinterpreted it since she brings it up again.
What does it mean? Why is Lisa’s last memory of blinding sunlight?
Andy feels like he’s very close to a breakthrough. For some reason, he
knows whatever happened to Lisa has something to do with Rebecca. He just needs the last few pieces of the puzzle.
“You got to give me something more, Lisa,” he tries. “I can’t figure it out.”
He holds his breath as he closes and opens the book.
»tired«
That’s the last word Lisa speaks to him that day.
DAY 79
The follow morning, Andy wakes up exhausted.
He was out again last night, spending three hours riding around looking for the yellow van. Part of him knew he wasn’t going to find it, but another part of him felt optimistic since seeing it yesterday.
He plans on going straight to the library after school as he always does. He can’t wait to find out if Lisa remembered anything else which might help him.
On his way to school, he rides through the park as usual, wanting to check in on the woodpeckers, and maybe snap a picture of one of the parents to show Lisa.
As soon as he enters the park, though, he becomes aware of a sound quite unfamiliar. It’s a loud rumbling, almost like a car engine revving away, except angrier.
Andy stops and stares at the sight which meets him. Many of the trees are tipped over. Two men in bright-orange vests and chainsaws are busy cutting more of them down.
Andy feels his stomach tighten up into a painful knot of fear. He can’t see the woodpecker’s tree anywhere.
He drops his bike and runs over to the place it used to be. Sawdust is everywhere, the smell of freshly cut wood thick in the morning air, mixed with petrol from the chainsaws.
Andy stops dead in front of the old birch.
