“Thanks. I couldn’t think of a polite way to refuse his invitation and he is your dad. I didn’t want to seem rude.” Wyatt lets me tow him toward the basement stairs.
“Golf on TV, is there anything more boring, except maybe classic golf on TV, when you already know who wins?”
“Gardening shows.”
“What?”
“You asked me if there was anything more boring than classic golf on TV. And there is: gardening shows. Not exactly fast-paced. You get to watch plants grow.”
“That’s what my mom watches! America’s most boring couple.”
“They seem nice.”
“They are. They’re pretty funny sometimes. Once in a while it’s even intentional.”
“Promise not to destroy my ego with your ping pong skills,” Wyatt teases. He isn’t far off, though. He stinks at ping pong and his air hockey skills are miserable, too. We give up and he puts in his DVD. Wyatt sits down on the couch first and then I sit down, leaving about five feet of space between us. He shows me the DVD he brought over: The Silence of the Lambs. Best movie ever.
“My uncle’s really into film and this one’s his favorite. He helps organize a local film festival every year.”
“I know. My brother Clement won it when he was a senior. He made this amazing movie in the graveyard behind the old Unitarian church. He shifted the camera shots back and forth, zooming in on epitaphs and names carved into the gravestones. Then he created short, fictional scenes about the lives of the people buried there. He called it Life and Death.”
“I’d like to see it sometime. Has your brother influenced your taste in movies?”
“Definitely, I don’t know as much about films as he does, but I love them. When he’s home we hang out down here sometimes, watching movies and talking, if I’m not busy beating him at ping pong.”
“I know. I feel kinda humiliated. Ping pong isn’t my sport, sorry. I wish I could’ve given you more competition.”
“Is soccer your only sport then?”
“Yes, I play forward mostly. I’m not exactly a star out there, but the team seems to appreciate my size and speed. I think I grew so fast my coordination will never catch up, but I can point myself in one direction, run fast and kick a ball really hard. In the spring I’ll probably run track, sprints. Do you run track in the spring, too?”
“Nope, I play tennis.”
“That explains your dominance at the ping pong table.”
Getting beaten game after game doesn’t seem to annoy him at all. He puts his feet up on the lumpy old ottoman and settles back on the couch.
I’m exhausted so I turn lengthwise, slump down, rest my head on the arm rest, kick off my flip flops and put my feet up. Wyatt pulls them onto his lap. Rubbing my toes gently with his big warm hand, he says, “Your feet are freezing.”
We start watching the movie, quoting some of the lines out loud and announcing our favorite parts as they come along. If we aren’t careful, we’ll give my parents some competition in the boring contest. But I don’t feel the least bit bored, just relaxed. My feet are warm and cozy. Right when Clarice is about to ring the serial killer’s doorbell, I doze off.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty!” Wyatt tickles the bottoms of my feet and I wake up. “The movie’s over. Everyone lived happily ever after, except that cheesy psychiatrist guy, Dr. Chilton.”
“Sorry, I was really out. We have an early practice every Saturday morning.”
“I’ll leave, let you get to bed.”
“No, that’s okay. Stay. We haven’t even talked about him yet.” I want Wyatt to stay so we can discuss the ghost; I hate that I feel so sleepy.
Wyatt moves my feet off his lap and stands up. “I’m going. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Thanks. It was fun.”
And he’s gone, boom, no hesitation. Once I’m in bed, even though I’m exhausted, it takes me twenty minutes to fall asleep because my feet are so cold.
* * * *
Wyatt calls the next day, Sunday, and we talk for a few minutes. After that we get into the habit of calling or texting each other a lot; even more than before. At school, whenever something happens that’s funny, he texts me and I text him just as often. Some of the teachers will take your cell phone away if they catch you using it in class, so we have to keep it under control. But if there’s a substitute, they usually assign the work or start the movie and then ignore the class. You can get away with almost anything.
Today, there’s a really clueless sub in Wyatt’s English class. When I leave Physics and pull out my phone to check for texts, he’s left me ten, mostly about other kids in his class and what they were getting away with because of the sub. Jen’s in his English class and she actually took out a bottle of nail polish and did her nails. Wyatt said he was surprised she didn’t take off her boots and do her toenails, too. I’m heading toward my locker, reading his texts, giggling, with my head down and my eyes on my phone, when I hit a wall. Except it’s not really a wall; it’s Wyatt’s chest. Even quivering with laughter he’s solid and immovable.
* * * *
On Wednesday he calls and invites me over to his house for Saturday night, to hang out with him and his uncle. I only agree to go because we might get a chance to talk about the Lonesome Boy. Maybe Oliver knows something about the history of the Wild Wood asylum. I’m sure I can find a way to bring up the subject somehow.
I don’t get my chance, because there are too many people there. But it’s fun, which surprises me, seeing as junior year, Mr. Finn was my History teacher. After a half hour or so, I don’t feel awkward at all and he doesn’t seem to either. Wyatt’s uncle has invited a few friends over: Jackson Andrews, the pastor of the Unitarian church and some ladies from the Eastfield Historical Society who know my mother. He made a delicious vegetable and pasta dish and we all eat together and then watch Gone, Baby, Gone, one of my brother Clement’s favorite movies.
The adults drink wine and talk about the movie and I’m happy because I read the book which is way different than the film and only one other person has read it—Mr. Finn. We get into an intense discussion about how certain characters are completely different in the movie than they are in the book. Wyatt’s uncle insists I call him Oliver and I feel really mature because I’m holding my own in a conversation with an intelligent adult.
Finally, Wyatt and I say good night to everyone and climb into his car.
We still haven’t made any progress in our investigation of the Lonesome Boy. His spirit has been quiet lately and I haven’t had the nightmare in a while. But Wyatt says we need to be patient. He’s always with us. Something will happen. I’m scared, but I want to know more. I want something to happen.
Chapter 9
Be Still My Heart
Rainy Sundays in New England can be awful, but a baking project cozies-up even the wettest, most miserable day. So Meg, Jen and I decide to get together at my house and bake something. Mom thinks it’s a great idea and runs out to buy all the ingredients. Meg wants to be a chef, so she’s in charge.
Soon after we start baking, Connor texts Jen, looking for something to do and ends up coming over. Just as we’re putting the first loaded-up cookie sheet into the oven, Ryan calls Meg. She tells him we’re at my house, baking cookies.
Then she turns toward me and says, “Wyatt’s at his house. They want to come over.”
Ryan plays keeper on the soccer team and they’ve been hanging out a lot lately.
I whisper, “Yes.”
“Come on over. I’m cooking, so the food will be professional quality.” Meg smiles and we bump fists. Ten minutes later Wyatt and Ryan are pounding on my back door.
As soon as the double batch of cookies is done, we start in on them, finishing off two dozen pretty fast, along with almost a whole gallon of milk. Then we all head downstairs to play ping pong. Meg and Jen challenge Connor and Ryan to a match. As they begin whacking the ball back and forth, Wyatt touches his finger to his lips to shush me, grabs my hand and pulls me out of th
e room. Together, we tiptoe into the unfinished part of the basement. After he eases the door closed, we move through the dark, hand-in-hand, past the furnace, into the middle of the room. We can barely hear the distant pop of the ping pong ball because the pelting rainwater’s splashing so hard against the window pane. It looks like someone’s spraying the glass with a hose. Wyatt turns to me and takes hold of both my wrists.
“They won’t notice we’re gone for a while.” He leans in closer. “I’ve thought of a way to find out more about him.”
I know Wyatt’s referring to the ghost. But even though I’m anxious to find out more about him, I feel weird about sneaking off like this. “Everyone’s right in the next room. What are they gonna think?”
“Why do you care so much about what they think? Let them think we’re making out. Everyone in the whole school thinks we’re hooking up anyway. Who gives a damn, Annabelle?”
“I do.”
“Why? What would be so awful about hooking up with me?”
“I’m leaving.” I pull away from him and start toward the door. I didn’t sneak off to talk about our nonexistent relationship. I want to know more about the ghost.
He grabs my hand and pulls me back toward him. “Okay. I give up. For now.”
“Thank you. Now what about the ghost? How can we find out more?”
“I want to try to communicate with him. If we hold hands and concentrate really hard, maybe something will happen. Kind of like a séance. Are you in or out?”
“I’m scared.”
“That’s okay. We don’t have to try it if you’re too scared. We can go back in there with the others.” He cocks his head toward the door.
Curiosity sneaks in, overpowering my fears. “Is he here now?”
“He’s always nearby, Annabelle. And right now he’s very close.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Just watching and waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For us to make a move.”
“What kind of a move, Wyatt?”
“A move that will empower him further. He grows stronger when we’re alone together. But never speaks. I think he might be able to if we help him.”
“How can we help him?”
“By staying in here alone together and concentrating really hard.”
“It’s getting colder.” A shiver runs across my scalp and down my neck.
“That’s because he’s growing more powerful.”
“How do you know that if he doesn’t speak?”
“I can read his emotions. I feel them as if they were mine.” Wyatt stops talking for a second and his eyes open wide. “The cold just moved into my hands.”
His hand in mine turns to ice.
“My arms! My chest! I feel like I’m neck deep in a snow-bank…I’m freezing, Annabelle.”
Wyatt drops my hand and holds out his arms to me, as if I’m his only hope on earth for warmth. But I hesitate.
Gently, he tips my chin up, with one icy finger, so I’m forced to look into his eyes. “Come closer. It won’t work unless we’re holding each other.”
I take a deep breath. Then step into his arms. Immediately, he folds me in so I’m pressed solid against him. He lifts me up, until my feet dangle a couple of inches off the concrete floor.
“Shh, listen.” His icy breath chills my ear. Even through the layers of both Wyatt’s clothing and mine, I can feel the deadly cold temperature of his body. His heartbeat thunders against my chest. Slow but strong. Once. Twice. Powerful and hypnotic. The only warmth generated between us lies centered at the union of our pulsating hearts.
“Shh, listen,” he says again. He rests the side of his cold face against mine. Then turns and presses a frigid kiss against my cheek.
A blinding flash of lightning explodes. Seconds later a blast of thunder shakes the foundation.
Wyatt’s heart thumps once then stops. I can’t feel it anymore.
Like an ice sculpture, we stand frozen together in our treacherous embrace. Frantic, I wedge my arms in between us and push at his chest. With a loud groan, he exhales and then finally relaxes his grip. My feet thud onto the floor. Then another flash of lightning sprays across the room. The burst of brilliance illuminates Wyatt’s face. His eyes are rolled up with only the whites showing. He’s trying to inhale but can’t. I open my mouth to scream but only a croak comes out.
Finally he steps back, bends over, rests his hands on his knees, and starts choking. I whack him on the back. He coughs a couple of times and then starts to breathe normally.
When he straightens up, I grip his icy hand firmly between my two warmer ones. Trying to sound calm, I suggest, “Just relax for a second, Wyatt. I’ll go up and get you some water.”
As I turn toward the only exit, my eyes adjust to the gloom and our surroundings grow more distinct: the furnace, the fieldstone walls, the cement floor, the rusting oil tank in the corner, a bookshelf with cans of paint organized by size and color and an old wooden Adirondack chair my mother sanded down, but hasn’t started to paint yet. The sight of this familiar junk, together with the damp, earthy smell of the ancient rock foundation, quiets my panic a little. I turn back toward Wyatt and point to the chair.
“You should sit down for a few minutes.” He still doesn’t move or respond. His eyes look wild with confusion, like he flew off somewhere and when he returned, he crash-landed here in the basement. I keep trying to sooth him. “As soon as you catch your breath, we better go back and join the others.”
“Others?” His voice curves up, like he’s asking a question; like he has no idea what I mean.
“Wyatt, do you feel all right?”
“Feel all right.”
His response doesn’t reassure me at all. I touch his cheek with my open hand. “You’re still freezing.”
As if he thinks that moving his head might cause it to fall off, he dips it uncertainly, down then up. “Freezing.” He whispers the word. His eyes open wide and his lips part in wonder as the sound travels up his throat and floats out of his open mouth. His brow furrows in concentration and the echo of his voice reverberates off the stone walls before it finally dissolves like steamy breath on a winter’s day.
“Do you feel sick?”
Slowly, he dips his head down then up again and says, “Sick.”
“Maybe you’re coming down with something.”
“I have words.” He stares into the darkness as if he could catch sight of them before they fade and disappear. His fingers drift up to touch his lips. Then move down to his throat.
“Annabelle.” The quality and depth of Wyatt’s voice sounds different; hoarse like he’s unused to speaking.
“We need to go back to the others. C’mon.”
“I can look at you with his eyes; speak to you with his voice.”
“Whose voice, Wyatt?” I’m more terrified than I’ve ever been before in my life.
He reaches for me and I flinch and back away.
“I want to touch you.” Suddenly, he shoots one long arm out and wraps his hand halfway around my neck, pressing his icy thumb into the hollow at the base of my throat. Tingles of panic slide down my spine and into my feet. I want to run but I’m paralyzed by fear. And something else. Fascination.
The shape of his hand and the texture of his skin feel normal, but he’s freezing.
Shiny, deep and dead, his reptilian gaze mesmerizes me.
“You’re not Wyatt!” I try to pull away, but he tightens his grip on my neck. I gasp for air and tears rush to my eyes.
Immediately dropping his hand, he whispers, “Sorry.”
I stagger back, horrified by the sinister, disturbing creature before me.
“Come here, Annabelle. Please. I’ve waited so long.”
I need to get away from him. Keeping my movements slow and my thoughts to myself, I start backing toward the door. I know I should call Oliver, but I don’t have his number in my phone. So I stop inching away. Careful not to seem panicked, I
hold out my hand. “Can you find Wyatt’s cell phone?”
“It’s right here in my pocket.” As he digs around in the pocket of his jeans, an expression of pleased discovery dawns on his face. Pulling out the phone, he presents it to me, like finding it was an accomplishment.
I grab the phone and quickly find Oliver’s number. He answers after the second ring. “Wyatt?”
“Oliver,” I hurry to explain. “It’s Annabelle. Wyatt’s here and he’s okay, physically, that is, but something’s wrong. He’s not himself.” I can’t think of another way to say it.
“I’ll be right there. You’re at home, Annabelle?”
As soon as I say “yes” he hangs up. I reach out my hand to pass the phone back to Wyatt and his knees sag. He lurches toward me. I cringe at the idea of touching him, but he seems like he’s about to collapse. So I drape his right arm across my shoulders and help him move backwards until his legs bump the seat of the Adirondack chair. As he eases himself down into the dusty old thing, he looks up at me and the irises of his eyes lighten to fish-scale gray.
He clears his throat as if he’s preparing to speak but just then, hesitant footsteps stop right outside the door. Two knocks announce someone’s arrival.
“Come in,” Wyatt croaks.
Ryan opens the door and stands at the threshold, peering through the gloom at us.
“Hey, Wyatt, I gotta get going. My dad just called and now that it’s stopped raining, he needs help clearing the leaves out of the gutters.”
“Okay. I think I’ll stay a little longer. Annabelle, can you give me a ride home later?”
“Sure. No problem.”
Ryan steps farther into the room. “You don’t look too good, Silver. Are you feeling okay?”
Wyatt’s slumped down in my mother’s latest yard sale find. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just go ahead without me.”
“Connor and Jen left about ten minutes ago. I’m gonna give Meg a ride home.” Ryan moves toward the doorway. “’Bye Annabelle. Thanks for having me over. See you at practice tomorrow, Wyatt.”
About a minute after he walks up the stairs, I hear his car start up in the driveway.
Enter If You Dare Page 6
