Harrow Lake

by Kat Ellis

  The first thing I see is Nolan. Not the ashen Nolan I left sleeping at the hospital; this Nolan is from a long time ago, his hair darker than it is now. Fewer lines on his face. He sits perfectly framed at his desk, head in his hands, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor in front him. Then he’s obscured as Larry walks between Nolan and the door. Larry leans against the corner of the liquor cabinet. Completely relaxed.

  “She said she was going to leave me . . .” Nolan says, almost whispering. Larry makes an exasperated sound in response.

  “This isn’t your fault, Nolan. You did your best for her, but she never appreciated you. Always one eye on the door, that one.”

  I tense, expecting one or both of them to look at the door and see me spying on them, but they don’t turn my way. I shouldn’t be eavesdropping on them.

  “What the hell am I going to do?” Nolan says. I get the feeling he isn’t really asking, but Larry answers anyway.

  “I told you, I’ve taken care of it. She wanted to go to Harrow Lake so badly, well . . . that’s where she’s gone. That’s all you know, isn’t it?”

  It’s a pointed question, but Nolan doesn’t answer immediately.

  “But her mother . . .”

  “Has also been taken care of. And will continue to be taken care of as long as she doesn’t make a fuss. Like I told you, I’ve handled it.”

  Finally, Nolan looks up. His eyes are bloodshot, as if he hasn’t slept in weeks. “What do I tell Lola? How exactly are you going to handle that?”

  Larry gives a flat laugh. “Maybe she’d be better off with her mother.”

  “What?” Nolan snaps. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Larry stops pacing. “It was a joke. Look, don’t worry about Lola. She’s a kid. Tell her Lorelei left, and won’t be coming back. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

  “But what about what she saw?”

  Larry sits in the chair in front of Nolan’s desk, and I see the hairy backs of his hands resting on his thighs.

  “She saw you arguing with Lorelei. That’s all.”

  “But . . .”

  “Look, you’re worrying too much. I get it, you have Red Sheba coming out in a few weeks, and work on the new movie starting right after that—this is all too much stress on top of everything else you have going on. But that’s why you have me, isn’t it?”

  Nolan stares at Larry, and it’s not a friendly stare. I would shrink under it. Larry just pulls a checkbook from his pocket and slides it across the desk to Nolan.

  “I take good care of you, and you take good care of me. Like old pals should. Isn’t that right?”

  With an angry motion, Nolan snatches the checkbook and scribbles out a check before hurling the whole thing back at Larry.

  “We never talk about this again,” Nolan barks, getting up from the desk.

  My heart leaps into my throat as he strides right toward the door where I’m hiding. Mary Ann pulls me over to the coat closet in the hallway, and we both slip inside just as the study door opens.

  We huddle together in the dark, the rustle of coats and umbrellas shrouding us while Nolan’s footsteps thump around the apartment. I wonder if he’s looking for me. If he is, I should get out of here quickly before he finds me and realizes I’ve been hiding—and eavesdropping. How many times has he told me not to do that—that spying on him is not Optimal?

  But as I try to push my way back through the coats, I can’t seem to find the door. There’s so much fabric jostling around me. It’s like the coats are multiplying.

  No matter which direction I turn, I can’t find the door. I get tangled in a waxy-smelling raincoat as panic sets in.

  “Nolan?” I shout, but there’s no answer. “Larry?”

  Nothing. Not for a long moment. And then the first bars of a song hum to life somewhere in the apartment. It bleeds in through the cracks around the closet door.

  “T’ain’t No Sin.”

  The sound seeps in through my pores, threading a tapestry under my skin—over the secrets stitched quietly there, over and over again. God, I hate this song. I’ve always hated it. It was playing so loud the day Lorelei left, too; turned all the way up to cover their arguing. Larry was right about that, I remember now—they did argue. This song always makes me feel jumpy and strange.

  There’s something else . . . It nags at the back of my mind, just like when Grandmother lies to me. I need to scratch it, make it bleed out its secrets. But how am I supposed to do that with this damned song playing?

  I hate it!

  As the track fades into that loaded pause before the next begins, the itchy static grows louder. Morphs into the tap-tap-tap of sharp fingers. It’s the crackle of dead air, the needle jumping at the end of the song. But it’s the sound a monster makes when it claws its way out of the wallpaper, too. The sound of something waiting in the dark.

  “Mary Ann?”

  No answer.

  Wait—I think there’s another door at the back of this closet. Maybe I can get out that way . . .

  I roll my head toward the ceiling, where I know there’s a chain hanging down that will turn on the light. But it’s too high, too far. I see a silhouette up there, black on black, in the corner of the closet. Too tall to be real, too big to actually be in this tight space. His bony limbs bend at inhuman angles. My heart bangs out a rhythm: Who is that, who is that, who the hell is that??

  But I know. I know who he is, even as his snapping, juddering sound goes on and on. It’s Mister Jitters.

  He moves closer, a blade of shadow reaching down toward me. I huddle back into the shroud of coats, but there are too many, and I’m tangled in them, stuck.

  “Lola! He’s here!” Mary Ann has seen him, too. I reach blindly for her, but find only fabric.

  A scream tries to punch its way out of me, but there’s a band around my chest, pinning me in place, choking me. I try to raise my arms, but they’re just as powerless.

  My eyes are the only things I can control. I shut them tight.

  Mister Jitters drags one stiff, cold finger across my collarbone, stopping at my throat. He presses against the pulse point hammering there like he’s testing how hard he can push, how much I can bear. I try to kick my legs, to lift my arms and shove him away, but my muscles only spasm pathetically.

  The closet is too full of his noise; that terrible rattle fills every secret place it can crawl into. It chokes me. Drowns me. Breaking me apart from the inside out.

  Then it’s gone. The weight lifts and I fall from the coat closet onto the hallway floor. I heave in enough air to burst my lungs, to scream for eons.

  I look back through the open door behind me, but it’s just a closet now. No more than four or five coats hang inside it. Nothing else. Nobody there.

  Mister Jitters is gone. And so is Mary Ann.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  No, no, no, no, NO . . .

  My heart pounds as I blink awake, gray light coming through the lace curtains of Lorelei’s room. Except I’m not in Lorelei’s room. Those aren’t lace curtains. Tree branches shiver above me, their little white acorns swaying in the breeze.

  I’m lying beneath the Bone Tree.

  I try to scramble up, but my right foot won’t move. With a wave of horror, I realize I’ve fallen asleep here. And, judging by how light it is, I’ve been here far too long.

  The Harrow Lake woods have claimed me. My roots will hold me here forever.

  No. No!

  But wasn’t there a full moon last night? I yank at my foot and it moves. My shoe is just wedged beneath a gnarled tree root. I twist it until it comes free, and stagger back from the Bone Tree, heart thudding in my chest.

  What am I doing here? I was at the apartment . . . no, that was a dream. I was waiting for Carter to come pick me up to take me to the airport, then Mary Ann . . .

&nb
sp; That’s all I remember. I was sleepwalking again, following Mary Ann. Whether the conversation I overheard between Nolan and Larry was a dream or a memory or some confusion of both, I can’t shake the certainty that Mister Jitters took Mary Ann. That was real. And now I’m alone in the woods.

  Shit! Am I too late? Have I missed Carter? I have no idea what time it is. I turn to hurry away from the Bone Tree, but trip on all the damned roots. Something flies from my pocket as I land hard on my knees, coming to rest in front of me. It’s the white jitterbug, lying open. Not just open, but open.

  The inner base of the shell where the jitterbug sits has sprung up to reveal a tiny compartment hidden underneath. Carved into the moving base are the words:

  KEEP YOUR SECRETS SAFE

  Lorelei used to say that to me. She would repeat it every time I wrote a new secret on a slip of paper. And there’s a slip of paper nestled within the hidden compartment. Hand trembling, I pluck it out and read it.

  I can’t bear to have that monster touch me again. Why won’t he let me go? Please, just make it stop.

  I drop the note. The breeze catches it, swirls it away.

  That was Lorelei’s handwriting. And not childish, little-girl handwriting. She must have been a teenager when she wrote it.

  Before she met Nolan? How long? How much did she tell him about Mister Jitters? I need to get out of Harrow Lake and talk to Nolan.

  I pick up the white jitterbug and hurry back to Grandmother’s house.

  She isn’t standing over the stove as usual when I get there. The kitchen is empty, the stove cold and lifeless. She isn’t in any of the other downstairs rooms. Upstairs, her bedroom door is closed. I knock—lightly at first, then louder. She doesn’t answer, so I try the handle. The door swings open with a squawk. Her bed is made. Nothing’s out of place about the room except that Grandmother isn’t in it. I close the door and lean against it.

  Where the hell is she? I check the yard just to make sure, but my grandmother is gone. This is the first time I can remember her leaving the house since I arrived in Harrow Lake.

  Screw this. I only need to grab the few things I have with me, and then I’ll see where Carter is. Back in the house, I storm upstairs. Slam the door to Lorelei’s room with a satisfyingly loud crack. It sets off the jitterbugs, their legs tippy-tapping, snickering inside their shells . . .

  They’re back. The jitterbugs are all back, all sitting on their shelves, shells open and facing me. They’re watching me.

  Go to hell!

  I snap each of them shut, one by one. I channel Nolan’s icy brand of anger; between the two of us, we could obliterate this town. Wipe its secrets off the face of the earth and never have to think about Lorelei or monsters again. I’ll tell him that Larry has been keeping my messages from him, sending me here when I just wanted to stay with Nolan. Getting me out of the way, like Larry always does. Handling me. Nolan will go ballistic. Larry will be no more than a smudge on his shoe when he’s done. I remember Nolan doing that once—punching Larry in the eye so it was left swollen and purple.

  Why did he do that? The memory is blurry and old, but then it comes to me. Nolan was a wreck, unshaven and stinking, a whiskey glass in his hand, and Larry yelled at him, “Are you going to let that bitch ruin you?” and then Nolan’s fist flew and Larry sprawled on the hardwood floor . . .

  The image is so shocking, I wonder if I’ve made it up. That shabby drunk is so unlike the Nolan I know.

  I squeeze my hands against my temples, just like my grandmother did. Maybe if I squeeze hard enough, the pieces will all fall into place.

  I’m reaching for some fresh clothes from the closet when a floorboard squeaks near the bed. The jitterbugs’ noise has stopped, like it was never there. Maybe they’re listening.

  Under the bed, the space is dark, mostly hidden by the quilt I’ve left hanging over the side. Anything could be hiding under there.

  I slide into a crouch. I’m sure I hear breathing. Just like in that closet.

  This is the point in any horror film where the girl should run, but never does.

  So I run. Straight down the stairs and out the front door. But as I near the gate, I see a face in the upstairs window—the window of Lorelei’s room.

  I trip, skinning my knee in the dirt. Who was that? Grandmother? I get up and run back across the yard.

  Footsteps scurry over the landing above my head as I enter the front door. I’m up the stairs in a beat. “Where are you? Grandmother? Mary Ann?”

  There’s a faint scuttling noise, like someone running upstairs, except I’m at the top of the only staircase in the house. Grandmother’s bedroom door stands open. Treading lightly, I peek around the door. Mary Ann isn’t there—at least nowhere I can see. The room looks just as it did before. But then my gaze lands on the closed closet door.

  Some instinct pushes me toward it. I reach slowly for the door handle. Try to calm my breathing. Then in one swift motion, I pull the door open.

  There’s nothing inside but old-lady dresses. No Grandmother. No Mary Ann. No monster. But I’m missing something, I’m sure. I have the strange sense that this closet goes back farther than I can see—that there’s a secret part to it.

  Look behind the dresses.

  I shove them to one side of the rail.

  And there it is. Another door. It’s no more than a few boards nailed together, really, but when I push it open there’s a rickety-looking staircase. It must lead to an attic. The moment I realize that, it feels obvious. Of course there’s an attic door in the closet. I’ve seen it before.

  I hesitate before stepping through the door, lingering dread from my dream making me wary.

  “Mary Ann, are you up there?”

  I wait. What would Nolan say if he saw me shivering here like some terrified child? I set my jaw and head up the stairs. At the top, I almost trip over a stack of crates. I curse, then spot a blue object tucked away under the eaves.

  “Is that my bag?” I pull it out, unsnap the catches, and throw it open. The contents spill out onto the dusty boards, but I don’t care. There are my clothes and a stack of books, as well as a few pairs of shoes.

  “Who did this? Who hid my suitcase up here?”

  There’s no answer.

  I taste the dust hovering in the air. Dust, covering everything, except where my footprints have disturbed it. Mine, and one other person’s. Footprints smaller than my own, just like Grandmother’s.

  It was her. Grandmother actually hid my suitcase from me. Why? I look down at my dress. Remember how pleased she looked when I put on Lorelei’s makeup. All the little slips where it seemed as though she’d forgotten that I’m her granddaughter, not her daughter. Does she even remember hiding it up here?

  A faint patter-patter fills the silence. But it’s only a tree branch blowing against the attic window, tap-tap-tapping against the glass.

  * * *

  • • •

  It feels good to wear my own clothes again, even though it’s just a shapeless black sweater and a pair of gray skinny jeans and sneakers. Not what I’d wear if I had my whole wardrobe to choose from, but at least I’m not a clone of Little Bird anymore. Or Lorelei. I don’t look like I belong in Harrow Lake at all. I look like me.

  I tried calling Carter, but he must be out of the house. Looking for me? I hope not. I don’t want him to think I’ve disappeared like Marie. But maybe he never meant to come for me at all. Maybe he wants nothing to do with me after I freaked out in the caves.

  No. Carter keeps his promises.

  I’ve spent the last hour going through my mother’s things. At first, it was just to make sure I wasn’t leaving anything of mine behind, but after a while I realized I was looking for more secrets—like the one from the jitterbug shell. I’ve gone through drawers and looked behind photo frames and beneath loose floorboards. Searching for any
other scraps of paper she might have hidden. Searching for traces of her—and what brought her back to Harrow Lake. Because in this whole mess that’s one thing I can be sure of: When Lorelei left Nolan, she took me with her. If I can find her secrets, maybe they can tell me what happened next.

  I find the first secret tucked into a crack beneath the windowsill in Lorelei’s bedroom. I tease it out with my fingernail until the paper roll falls free. A confession about some Quarrysider boy she kissed in the ruins of the church. I was there with a Quarrysider boy only last night. Where I saw those twin spots of light backing into the cave. Someone watching. I suppress a shiver and try to focus.

  Two secrets turn up under a board at the bottom of the closet.

  I tipped over Mother’s planter in the yard and blamed it on Grant. He says I owe him.

  From the handwriting, I’d guess Lorelei was a teen when she wrote that.

  Father found out what I did. He says I’ll be punished for lying.

  Written around the same time. But why did she put so little detail in them? They’re hardly secrets at all.

  The next note is inside the frame of the photo of Lorelei with her father. As I put it back together, I feel another twinge of jealousy at seeing them so close, with the white jitterbug in her hand—that connection between them. Why don’t I have that with Nolan? Why won’t he let me?

  But then I read the note.

  He came again last night. I slept through the jitterbugs’ warning.

  That’s all it says, but it’s enough to turn my stomach over. She must mean Mister Jitters.

  I continue my search of the house and find a couple more—one curled into the keyless hole in her closet door, and the other in the hollow of a lamp base in the downstairs hallway—but these are in wobbly, childlike handwriting. I’m checking under the bed one last time—slowly, slowly—when I notice those peculiar scuff marks on the floor around the bed frame. Again, I try to imagine Lorelei bouncing on her bed and laughing, or having wild sex in this room just down the hall from her parents’ bedroom. Neither seems likely.