Don't Tell a Soul

by Kirsten Miller

  Still half-asleep, I slowly pushed myself up and glanced at the clock. It was three in the morning, and I’d left the curtains open again. The moon was a sliver short of full, and I could see my room clearly. When I turned back, the girl was gone, but my bedroom door, which I’d been careful to lock, was ajar. That’s when I knew for sure that I wasn’t dreaming. I slid out of bed with my phone in my hand. I could hear someone in the hall.

  I tiptoed to the door and peeked outside my bedroom. When I saw the figure at the far end of the hall, I almost ducked back inside. Her tattered gown glowed faintly in the moonlight. The fabric seemed to be satin, but it was no longer pure white. The hem and sleeves were black with soot, and the train of the dress left a trail of dampness on the floorboards.

  I lifted my phone, but I didn’t dare take a picture. I knew that the girl didn’t want to be seen. She slouched toward the north wing, her back hunched with her eyes on the floor. Her head swiveled slowly from side to side, the movement as regular as a pendulum keeping time. The floorboards creaked and groaned with each step she took. I wondered if I was hearing the same sounds Lark used to hear.

  I followed her, doing my best to remain hidden in the shadows. That night, I was the one haunting her. We entered the burnt-out north wing of the manor. Every room I passed through was colder and darker than the last. And with each room, the girl’s search seemed to grow more urgent. She examined the walls and scoured the floor, but she never looked behind her. I could tell she was searching for something—something she never managed to find.

  I thought of all the stories I’d read about poor, lost souls forced to relive the same terrible moments for all of eternity. The jilted lover would always jump off the same cliff. The condemned woman would flee down a hall. The murdered hitchhiker sought nightly rides back to town. I’d always wondered if it was some kind of cosmic punishment. But maybe they kept going because they hoped the next time would be different—that the universe would eventually let their story end happily.

  I followed the girl through the blackened chambers until we reached the room with plywood boards nailed to the wall. The balcony from which Lark had jumped lay on the other side. There, the girl came to a stop. A cold breeze squeezed through the boards and ruffled her tattered veil. I watched her head slowly tilt until her ear was up in the air. She was listening to something. Then I heard the sound through the cracks in the boards covering the windows—heavy footsteps in the snow outside the manor, making their way to the front door. There wasn’t much light in the north wing. When the girl turned around, I couldn’t make out a face behind the veil. There was no way to know if she was looking my way. I stayed perfectly still, hoping I’d blend into the shadows. Downstairs, there was someone at the door.

  “Run!” she whispered.

  And I did.

  I raced back through the north wing, my arms stretched out in front of me, my hands treading the darkness. I was sure that I’d touch something—or that something would reach out and grab me. When I finally emerged from the north wing, the moon came out from behind the clouds, and I could see my bedroom door open ahead. I’d almost made it to safety when I heard a loud bang in the entryway.

  I ran to the stairway banister and looked down. The front door stood open and snow was blowing inside. My uncle lay sprawled out on the floor below. A bottle still clutched in his hand was leaking what little was left of its contents. As I stood watching, his body began to convulse. Then a low moan rose from his throat. When it was over, he began to sob.

  “What’s going on?” Miriam stood outside a room down the hall, wearing her plaid flannel robe. She raced right past me when I didn’t answer, the robe floating behind her as she took two stairs at a time and dropped to her knees by the body. “James,” she said as she rolled my uncle over onto his back. “James, can you speak?”

  I’d never seen a living person look so dead. His face was a chalky white, and his lips and the tip of his nose were blue. His hair remained frozen, its stiff silvery tendrils reaching out in every direction.

  “She’s gone,” he wailed pitifully.

  Miriam looked up and saw me still standing at the top of the stairs, with my fingers clenched in terror on the banister.

  “It’s okay, Bram,” she said. “You can go back to bed. Your uncle will be fine. He’s just very drunk.”

  I didn’t need her to tell me that. I was no stranger to booze. Plus, I’d recognized the bottle in his hand. It had been my father’s favorite whisky—a rare Orkney scotch. I’d ordered a bottle just like it and had it sent to James on the day of his second wedding. My mother screamed bloody murder when her assistant flagged the eight-thousand-dollar charge on her credit card. But I didn’t give a damn. I’d wanted James to know that, even though I couldn’t be at his wedding, he was still on my mind. I knew he’d agree—it was the thought that counted.

  “Where was he just now?” I asked.

  “Dahlia’s mausoleum,” Miriam said. “He doesn’t sleep much. He goes there at night to be with her.”

  “So he really loved her,” I said.

  “Yes,” Miriam told me. “I think he really did.”

  I went back to the rose room and closed the door, but I didn’t lock it. I curled up under the covers with my knees tucked to my chest and my arms wrapped around my shins.

  The next time I woke up, the sun was rising. I hadn’t closed the curtains, and the wind had blown one of the balcony doors open. The room wasn’t frigid yet, though it was well on its way. I crawled out of bed to close the door. Just as the latch clicked into place, I caught a glimpse of a figure moving toward the edge of the woods, and I pressed my forehead to the glass. She was dressed in white, which made it difficult to see her against the snow. But it was the same girl. There was no doubt about it. I threw on my boots and coat and went after her.

  I wasn’t hallucinating, but I wasn’t thinking straight, either. I was so fed up with mysteries that I was willing to risk everything for a clue. By the time I reached the tree line, the girl was nowhere to be seen. Still, I plunged into the forest, deeper and deeper until I couldn’t tell where I was. I wandered until sheer exhaustion finally brought me to a halt. I stopped under a tree to catch my breath, and I felt the cold overtake me. My limbs were numb, and my mind began to drift, but I was too tired to move. I slumped down against the tree trunk, my knees tucked against my chest. Time passed, and then something seemed to ignite inside me, and warmth spread throughout my body. My mind left the forest, and I found myself back in my bedroom in Manhattan, getting ready for Daniel’s party. Everything seemed right in the world. For the first time since the incident, I felt at peace. I could have stayed in the moment forever.

  The next thing I knew, I was staring up at a moldy ceiling. I felt no fear at first, just a crushing sadness. I knew, the moment I opened my eyes, that I hadn’t died and gone to heaven, though I wasn’t so sure about hell. I was hot—too hot, and I was lying on a ratty old sofa. A fire was crackling somewhere nearby, and the room reeked of animal hair and old grease.

  I tried to sit up, and discovered I could barely move. I was wrapped in blankets, my arms pinned to my sides. The panic set in, and I flailed like a fish in a net, arching my back and kicking my legs to break free.

  “Don’t struggle. You’ll hurt yourself,” a man ordered, and I froze. I didn’t recognize the voice. It was deep and emotionless—classic serial killer. For a few unpleasant seconds, I imagined the worst. I waited to hear the rev of a chain saw or the whetting of a knife.

  Then I felt him lift my shoulders from behind and push me up into a sitting position, and I almost wet myself in terror when I got a good look at the house. There was no way any normal person could possibly live like that. The wood-paneled walls were lined with teetering towers of books, and at least one of the stacks had fallen, scattering books across the floor. At the far end of the room, on a table made from two sawhorse
s and an old door, the head of a dead buck sat facing me, two dark holes where its eyes should have been. Dirty dishes were stacked up beside the head, and several cases’ worth of beer cans had been tossed into the nearest corner. Aside from the worktable, everything in the room was covered with a layer of soot, and the floorboards were black with grime.

  “They’re clearing the drive to the house right now so the ambulance can get through,” the man said.

  I latched on to the word “ambulance” like it was a life preserver. I was so relieved that he wasn’t going to kill me that it took a few moments to realize that I might be hurt.

  “Why do I need an ambulance?” I managed to croak as he walked around the sofa.

  “You don’t, as far as I can tell, but I figured I’d let the EMTs make that call.” He sat down across from me in one of those leather recliners you see on old TV shows. I suppose at some point in the past he’d been handsome. But it looked like it had been a while since he’d showered or shaved. The bags under his eyes suggested he hadn’t been sleeping much, and the state of his work pants told me that laundry wasn’t exactly a priority, either. But he didn’t look homicidal. He didn’t even seem dangerous. If I’d had to pick one word to describe the man, I probably would have said he looked haunted.

  “Are you Ruben Bellinger?” I guessed.

  “I am indeed, and you must be Miss Howland,” he replied politely. Then Lark’s father glanced over his shoulder. “I apologize. I should have thrown a sheet over my workbench. Taxidermy isn’t for everyone.”

  The voice that had terrified me now sounded tired. And as my eyes passed over the books all around us, I picked up a few of the titles. There were a few taxidermy manuals mixed in, but there didn’t seem to be a subject that wasn’t of interest to Ruben. If he’d gotten through even a third of his library, there was no doubt he was the best-read man in town. I’m sure the Unabomber’s cabin had a few interesting titles, too, but it’s hard to be frightened of someone with a Budweiser, a bag of Cheetos, and a copy of The Life of the Buddha on their coffee table.

  There was something else there. A black hair tie. Nothing fancy—just a rubber band that you’d use to put your hair into a ponytail. It must have been Lark’s. I had no idea how long it had been sitting there, but the sight of it made my heart ache. I could only imagine how bad things must have been if Dahlia had been willing to force Lark to live here.

  “How do you know who I am?” I asked Lark’s father.

  “It’s a small town,” he told me. “Everyone knows everyone.”

  By then I was thoroughly sick of that answer, and Ruben Bellinger didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who dabbled in small-town gossip. I remembered Nolan saying that my uncle thought Ruben used to watch the manor at night. I wondered if it could be true—and if my host might still enjoy peeking in windows.

  “How did I get here?”

  “I carried you. I found you halfway between this place and the manor. I don’t know how you got as far as you did without snowshoes. Might ask your uncle to buy you a pair. And next time you take a walk in the woods, consider wearing a hat and changing out of your pajamas.”

  “What were you doing out in the woods?” I asked.

  Ruben laughed. “Funny, I was looking forward to asking you the very same thing,” he said. “I woke up hungry and went out to do a little hunting. Lucky for you that I left the house when I did. A few more minutes in the snow would have turned you into a Popsicle.”

  “You really saved me?”

  Ruben’s eyes were a bright, almost unnatural blue, and when he stared, it felt like he was reading my mind. “You sound like you find that hard to believe.”

  “I walked by your house with a friend the other day, and I heard you in the woods. You must have been watching us. I know you had a gun.”

  I can’t believe I had the guts to say it. I knew nothing for certain—until Ruben confirmed it. “I always have my gun with me in the woods,” he said. “And if your friend Nolan Turner had stepped one toe over my property line, there’s a good chance I’d have used it.”

  “Do you think Nolan had something to do with what happened to Lark?”

  “Not necessarily,” Ruben said with a shrug. “I just never cared all that much for his family. Bunch of parasites, if you ask me. People like them have been feeding on this town for over a century.”

  “Did you know Nolan was friends with Lark?”

  “My daughter is allowed to make her own friends,” Ruben said.

  “I wish I could talk to her about the night of the fire. Is there any way I could visit Lark—or maybe call her on the phone?”

  I shouldn’t have asked. The moment I did, Ruben Bellinger lost interest in humoring me. “No, Nancy Drew,” he said. “Lark doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”

  “Are you sure?” I wasn’t quite ready to give up. “I swear I’m not trying to be difficult. It’s just that I spent a few months in a mental health facility last year. It was a pretty lonely place. I would have killed for a phone call.”

  Most people would go on alert the moment they heard that I’d been locked away. I’d seen their spines stiffen and their muscles tense—like they were preparing to defend themselves or make a run for the hills. A lot of the time the shift was subtle. I’m sure they didn’t even know what they’d done. But if you’re on the receiving end often enough, you learn to pick up on the signs.

  Ruben had the opposite reaction—he relaxed. My confession seemed to render me less of a threat. “Miss Howland, even if Lark did want to talk, she wouldn’t be able to answer your questions,” he said softly, as if he were sorry to break the bad news. “She suffered a brain injury the night of the fire. She doesn’t remember much about all of that anymore. Now, if you’ll please excuse me.”

  He rose from his chair and walked out of view. I could hear him shuffling around in what I assumed was the kitchen, but I was wrapped up too tightly to turn around for a look.

  “Mr. Bellinger, would you mind loosening some of these blankets?” I called out to him.

  “I think it’s best you sit tight until help arrives,” he replied. “But you’ll be glad to know I can hear the snowplow. I don’t think we’ll have the pleasure of each other’s company much longer. And in the future, Miss Howland, please stay out of my woods. It would be a real shame if I mistook you for a deer.”

  I lay back on the sofa and waited for the EMTs to arrive.

  * * *

  —

  Turned out Ruben Bellinger had done a bang-up job of bringing me back from the dead. The doctor who examined me knew the Bellingers well (because everyone in Louth…blah, blah, blah). She confirmed what Sam had told me—Ruben had been a medic in Afghanistan. He’d been stationed in the mountains, where cold-related injuries and amputations were as common as bullet holes. I understood why he’d want to keep to himself after that. I knew what it was like to see things that you can’t unsee.

  It took about ten minutes for the doctor to draw my blood, watch me wiggle all of my digits, and give me a clean bill of health. After that, I had a nice long chat with the hospital’s psychiatrist, who informed me that it wasn’t entirely normal to be found in your pajamas in the middle of the woods. I told her something close to the truth—that I saw a girl run into the forest and I thought she might need some help. I didn’t mention that the girl in question could very well be dead. I could tell that the shrink didn’t buy a word of my story, but she didn’t seem to think I was suicidal, either. She said she’d be paying close attention to the results of my blood test, and I heartily encouraged her to do so.

  After that, I was free to sit in the hospital waiting room, though I wasn’t allowed to leave. An adult needed to check me out, but the plows hadn’t yet reached the manor, and James was still snowed in—and likely nursing the mother of all hangovers.

  Just before noon, I was flip
ping through a four-year-old copy of Modern Maturity in the waiting room when Miriam and Sam charged through the door. They bustled right past me on their way to the reception desk. Judging by the stricken looks on their faces, you’d have thought they were on their way to my deathbed. Sam was wearing sweatpants tucked into his snow boots, and Miriam clutched a manila envelope in one hand. I shuddered when I imagined what forms were inside it. As they leaned over the desk to speak to the woman seated behind it, I considered sneaking out of the hospital. I was halfway out of my chair when the Reinharts both swiveled in my direction. In the gap between them, I saw the hospital’s receptionist pointing directly at me.

  “They gave me a drug test!” I announced, shrinking back into my chair as the Reinharts approached me. “You can ask the doctor! I’m clean!”

  Miriam and her son shared a confused look. “What?” Sam asked.

  I gestured at the envelope in Miriam’s hand. I was sure it contained the paperwork needed to send me away. “The rehab center won’t take me if I haven’t been using. It doesn’t matter what forms my mother signed.”

  Miriam pulled a chair across from mine and sat down. Sam did the same. “This isn’t about rehab,” Miriam said in a low voice. “I don’t need to see any drug tests.”

  Having known my mother for seventeen years, I assumed the worst. “She’s having me committed to a mental hospital?”

  Sam shook his head vigorously as Miriam reached out and put a hand on my knee. “No, Bram! You’re not going anywhere! Your mother doesn’t even know what happened this morning, and your uncle was still sleeping when we left. I wrote him a note, but I doubt he’s read it.”

  “Then what’s going on?” I asked. “What’s in the envelope?”

  Miriam took in a deep breath as if to steel herself. “I’m going to show you,” she said. “But first I need you to be completely honest with me. The hospital told me you followed a girl into the woods. Is that true?”