Also by Michelle Gagnon
Strangelets
Don’t Turn Around
Don’t Look Now
Don’t Let Go
Copyright © 2017 Michelle Gagnon
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Soho Teen
an imprint of
Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gagnon, Michelle
Unearthly things / Michelle Gagnon.
ISBN 978-1-61695-696-7
eISBN 978-1-61695-697-4
1. Guardian and ward—Fiction. 2. Social classes—Fiction.
3. Orphans—Fiction. 4. Secrets—Fiction. 5. Ghosts—Fiction. I. Title
PZ7.G1247 Une 2017 DDC [Fic—dc23 2016025805
Interior design by Janine Agro, Soho Press, Inc.
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Mom and Dad
Who instilled a love of the classics and
taught me that girls can do anything
“No sight so sad as that of a naughty child,” he began, “especially a naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?”
“They go to hell,” was my ready and orthodox answer.
“And what is hell? Can you tell me that?”
“A pit full of fire.”
“And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?”
“No, sir.”
“What must you do to avoid it?”
I deliberated a moment: my answer, when it did come, was objectionable: “I must keep in good health and not die.”
—Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
Chapter I
Rain, wind, and darkness filled the air; nevertheless, I dimly discerned a wall before me and a door open in it; through this door I passed with my new guide: she shut and locked it behind her.
“This is the place,” the driver said. “Home, right?”
“Not really,” I muttered. The ride from the airport had passed in a blink. But then, my whole life felt like that lately. Every time I closed my eyes, the world seemed to jump forward to a new and terrible place.
Less than three weeks ago, I’d been sitting on our back porch watching the tide come in. When a car pulled into the driveway, I figured my parents were back early from their “day date.” Then the doorbell rang, which was weird; weirder still, when I answered it, there were two serious-looking cops standing there. The older one asked, “Are you Janie Mason?”
The next time I blinked, two caskets were being lowered into matching dark holes, while a priest talked about lives cut tragically short. Blink: I was in a lawyer’s office, my bare legs sticking to a leather chair as he droned on. Your parents appointed the Rochesters to serve as your legal guardians. They live in San Francisco . . . Blink: I was on a plane, watching Kona International Airport recede in the distance. Blink: at the bottom of the airport escalator, a chauffeur was holding a sign with my name on it.
And now I’d arrived at the home of total strangers, like so much driftwood cast ashore.
I fought the urge to cry as I tucked stray hairs into the hood of my anorak. The rain was coming down in sheets, making it difficult to see more than a few feet past the car. The driver hurried around to retrieve my suitcases from the trunk. Girding myself against the downpour, I climbed out of the backseat.
The wind drove the rain into me, quickly soaking my clothing. It rained all the time in Hawaii, but those drops were warm, more like a caress. These icy pellets were a different beast entirely. Shivering, I tilted my head back and stared up at the house.
“Whoa,” I muttered. It was a mansion: huge, imposing, and starkly different from our cozy beach cottage. The kind of place you could actually get lost in; especially since it was completely dark aside from the light above the door.
The driver carefully set my battered suitcases on the front porch before pressing the doorbell. I joined him beneath an awning that blocked the worst of the storm.
“You’re sure this is it?” I asked after a minute, trying to keep the tremor from my voice.
“It’s the right address.” The driver frowned at the door, then pushed the buzzer again. We both listened as doleful chords bounced off the walls inside. “Sure they’re expecting you?”
“Yeah. I mean, I think so,” I said.
He smiled at me, and I felt badly about forgetting his name. “If you’d like, miss, you can wait in the car.”
“No, thanks. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll wait with you until they answer,” he said, laying a comforting hand on my shoulder.
He was only trying to be kind, but I flinched at the contact. For the past few weeks I’d felt like a rag doll being passed from person to person, hugged and patted and consoled. Even my parents’ lawyer, Mr. Briggs, had offered an embrace. I was seriously done with being touched by virtual strangers who claimed that everything was going to be okay, when obviously it wasn’t. Nothing was ever going to be okay again.
The door slowly creaked open. I sucked in a deep breath and plastered a smile on my face.
An elderly Asian woman squinted up at us. She was tiny, barely five feet tall. A ratty gray bathrobe brushed the top of her slippers. Enormous round eyeglasses made her look like a wizened owl; the dark wig perched crookedly on her head only heightened the effect. Her scowl deepened, and she barked, “No.”
Then she slammed the door shut.
My jaw dropped. Was this some sort of joke?
The driver grumbled something and rapped hard on the door. It didn’t open. I pictured the elderly woman standing on the other side, willing us to go away.
For a second, I felt a flash of hope. Maybe this had all been some sort of huge mistake. I’d call Mr. Briggs and explain that the Rochesters didn’t seem to want me after all, and he’d get me on the next flight home. I could live with my friend Kaila instead. By this time tomorrow I’d be back on my surfboard, waiting for a set of waves to come in . . .
The door opened. The owl lady peered at us again, frowning.
“I-I’m Janie,” I squeaked. “Janie Mason. The Rochesters should be expecting me?”
Wordlessly, she stepped back and opened the door wider.
The driver cast me a quick, questioning look. When I reluctantly nodded, he picked up my bags and shifted them inside.
“Good luck,” he said, sounding relieved. Then he raced back to the car, head ducked against the rain.
Owl lady closed the door and bolted it while I surveyed my surroundings: my new home, I told myself, but the thought was so absurd I almost laughed. In the dim lighting, it was hard to make out much aside from the thick Oriental rug I was dripping on and some huge, dark pieces of furniture.
“So,” I tried again, “are the Rochesters here?”
“Not home,” she muttered in a thick accent. Looking me up and down appraisingly, she added something that sounded like, “Kung backit mo deeto?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Filipino,” I apologized, recognizing the language. Tourists from the Philippines tended to make the same mistake, since I’d inherited my mom’s hair and skin tone.
–––––––�
��––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
You speak it. Why didn’t you ever teach me? I’d demanded in fourth grade, jealous of Yuko Osumi’s ability to rattle off Japanese phrases at recess.
It brings up too many bad memories, Mom had replied, looking sadder than I’d ever seen her.
What memories?
She shook her head. You’re too young. I’ll tell you someday.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Now there would never be a someday, I thought. My lip quivered again, and I bit it to stop the tears.
Owl lady’s frown deepened, either because I didn’t speak the same language, or because I was clearly a mess. She motioned for me to pick up my bags. As she turned and shuffled down the hall, I followed, thinking that if I spoke Filipino, maybe she’d explain where the Rochesters were.
Mr. Briggs had assured me that they’d been in constant contact over the past few weeks. He’d also said they sounded great on the phone, and were looking forward to meeting me.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Wait, what? That can’t be right.
I’d spent the past half hour fixated on Mr. Briggs’s quivering mustache as he read my parents’ will, so I’d missed most of what he’d said. I frowned. Did you just say that I’m supposed to go live with some random family in San Francisco?
Yes, the . . . He glanced down. Rochesters, James and Marion.
But I don’t know them.
Mr. Briggs squirmed uncomfortably. No?
No. I shook my head hard to underscore the point. I want to stay here.
I’m afraid the will is quite clear. If your grandparents are no longer alive . . . and they’re not?
No, I muttered, thinking that I’d never met them, either.
Well, in that case, you’re supposed to go live with this family.
But that’s nuts. My parents wouldn’t do that to me.
Mr. Briggs gave a small shrug. Apparently, they did. You’d be surprised how many people forget to update their will . . .
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
The Rochesters hadn't even made it to the funeral, although they’d sent a huge bouquet. They’d agreed to raise me from here on out, so it seemed a little strange that they hadn’t made the effort to say goodbye to my parents. Based on their huge house, it looked like they could’ve afforded the plane tickets.
But apparently they couldn’t even be bothered to stay home to greet me, I thought, disgruntled.
I dragged my bags along until we reached a door at the end of the hall. Owl lady opened it and gestured inside. My insides clamped when I realized it was a tiny elevator. I hated small spaces, and this would barely hold the two of us.
Owl lady waved her arm again, looking exasperated, and I grumbled, “Fine, I’m going.”
I dragged the bags inside and pressed myself against the back wall. As the doors slid closed, I shut my eyes and tried to steady my breathing. Unfortunately, my companion was wearing a pungent mix of scents: jasmine perfume mingled with cold cream and Tiger Balm. It was strong enough to make me gag. I swallowed hard and waited for the nausea to pass.
When we reached the third floor, the door slid open and owl lady stepped out. I hurried to keep up as she marched down another dark corridor. Near the end, she threw open a door and stepped aside to let me pass.
This room was dark, too. I was about to ask where the light switch was when she flicked it on.
I froze, gawking.
The bedroom was several times the size of my old one; heck, it was roughly the size of my former house. A chandelier dangled from the ceiling. The poster bed in the corner was draped with velvet and silk, brocade drapes covered the windows, and two small chairs sat in front of a fireplace. Someone clearly had a thing for red, because everything in the room ranged from maroon to crimson. It was probably supposed to look rich, like the inside of a jewelry box; instead, it reminded me of those posters detailing the inside of the human body, where everything was coated in a thick layer of blood.
I turned to ask if she was sure this was the right room, just in time to see the door shut.
“Great meeting you, too,” I muttered. “A real pleasure.”
I peeled off the soaked anorak and spent a few minutes debating where I could hang it without ruining some insanely expensive piece of furniture. I finally draped it over the door handle and set my shoes on the hearth. For a second, I toyed with the idea of starting a fire; the room was chilly, and sitting in front of roaring flames might cheer me up. But I decided against it. I’d never used a real fireplace before, and burning the place down on my first night would probably make a bad impression.
The only other door led to a bathroom, complete with a modern walk-in shower and more marble than I’d ever seen in one place. No adjoining door, so apparently I’d have it all to myself, which made me feel unexpectedly lonely. Back home, we’d all shared a bathroom. Most days started with the three of us accidentally elbowing each other as we brushed our teeth. I looked around for a note, something to indicate that the Rochesters were sorry they hadn’t been here to greet me, but there was nothing.
I collapsed on the bed, tears pricking my eyes again. I’d spent the past few weeks numbly getting through it all: the funeral, the packing, the goodbyes. Nothing felt real, nothing penetrated.
But being here drove the reality home. My parents were gone. My dad’s helicopter had crashed into the jungle on the way back from Mauna Kea, killing them instantly. The house I’d grown up in had a for sale sign hanging out front. And now, the only thing left was me, alone, in a strange house.
I gave in to the grief and lay there sobbing. I was crying so hard, minutes passed before I realized someone was knocking quietly on the door.
I swiped my hands across my cheeks. Maybe the owl lady had brought up a snack; at the thought, my stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.
“Coming!” I said in a strained voice.
When I yanked open the door, a little boy in navy pajamas was standing there. His light brown hair was tousled from sleep, and he was clutching a stuffed rabbit. Seeing me, his whole face split in a wide grin.
“You’re here!” he chirped.
“Hi,” I said dumbly.
“I’m Nicholas,” he said, brushing past me to enter the room. “And this is Bertha.”
He held up the rabbit, paw extended. Gravely, I shook hands with the bedraggled stuffed animal and said, “Pleased to meet you, Bertha. I’m Janie.”
“Are you really from Hawaii?” Nicholas peered around the room expectantly, as if hoping I’d managed to magically transport some of the Big Island with me.
“Yup,” I said.
Nicholas sighed. “I love Hawaii. We went to Maui once. Were you crying?”
“A little,” I admitted, conscious of the tightness of dried tears on my cheeks.
“That’s all right,” he said cheerfully. “I’d cry, too, if my parents were dead.”
“Um, thanks,” I said. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
“Yes, it is.” Nicholas lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Don’t tell Alma, or I’ll be in big trouble.”
“Alma?”
“Our maid. She probably let you in.”
“I won’t tell,” I promised. So far, Alma wasn’t high on the list of people I planned on confiding in anyway.
He beamed again. “Great.”
“Is anyone else here?”
“Oh, they all went out,” Nich
olas said. “To an important society event.”
He pronounced it reverentially, as if attending society events was roughly akin to curing cancer. Seriously? I thought bitterly. Going to a party was more important than greeting me? But I forced a smile and said, “Guess I’ll meet them tomorrow.”
“Oh yes, definitely.” He bobbed his head. “Breakfast is at seven-fifteen sharp. You won’t see me, though. I eat in the kitchen with Alma.”
I furrowed my brow. “Really? Where does everyone else eat?”
“In the formal dining room,” he said.
“Is there an informal dining room?” I joked.
Nicholas’s eyes went wide, and then he started laughing so hard he almost fell over. When he caught his breath, he said, “Informal dining room! Like a place where you’d eat in your pajamas!”
“Yeah, like that,” I said, making a mental note to not wear pajamas to breakfast.
“You’re funny, Janie.”
“Thanks.” Even though Nicholas was charming, these tidbits of information were worrisome. Why did he have to eat separately from the rest of the family? And who went to a party on a Monday night, anyway? I was getting the sense that the Rochesters might not be as “great” as Mr. Briggs had promised. “Well, I hope I get to see you before you leave for school, at least.”
“I hope so, too!” His exuberance was infectious; it was impossible not to smile back. “Eliza can’t wait to meet you. She’s sorry she couldn’t come tonight, but she’s busy.”
“Eliza?” I asked, wishing I’d paid more attention when Mr. Briggs had rattled off the names of the people I’d be living with for the next couple of years.
“My twin sister,” he said. “Anyway, I have to get back to bed. Alma will be so mad if she catches me.”
I walked him to the door. “Good night, Nicholas. And Bertha.”
“Good night, Janie,” he said solemnly, suddenly sounding much older.
I waved, and Nicholas trotted off down the hall, then took a left. A few seconds later, I heard the muffled sound of a door closing.
Unearthly Things Page 1
