The Girl in the Locked Room

by Mary Downing Hahn

  But how can anything be worse than it already is?

  She paces around the room. Her feet leave no tracks in the dust. Perhaps she’s waited here long enough. Perhaps no one will come for her except the men. Night after night, they’ll come, and she’ll hide in the wardrobe. Day after day she’ll stand at the window and watch the seasons change. Years will pass. Centuries. And nothing will change. Is this what she wants?

  The girl tiptoes to the window. Taking care to hide in the shadows, she whispers, “Keep the key. Find the right door. Find me. Let me out.”

  Below her, almost as if she doesn’t notice what she’s doing, the girl from the addition drops the key into her pocket and walks out of sight.

  The girl in the locked room claps her hands soundlessly. Soon the door will open and she will be free.

  Free to do what?

  “Oh, mercy,” she whispers. She has no idea what she’ll do when she’s free.

  9

  Jules

  Mom was where I’d left her, working on her novel. Without even looking at me, she said, “Not now, Jules, I’m busy.”

  I had nothing to do, nowhere to go. So I went to my room and opened my iPad. Using a drawing app, I made silly sketches of cats and dogs and horses. They weren’t very good, so I deleted them, then checked my e-mail. As usual, I had no messages.

  My thoughts wandered to the girl in the field. Out of curiosity, I typed in “1880 U.S. census” and hit Search. Maybe I’d spot something Dad had missed.

  Most of the websites charged for accessing the census, but I finally found a free one. I entered “Bennett” for the surname as well as “married” for status and “Virginia” for residence. One hundred and fourteen Bennetts came up.

  Dad had mentioned a first name. What was it?

  Harry came to mind. No one with that name turned up, but the search engine coughed up several Harriet Bennetts, one Harold Bennett, and three Henry Bennetts.

  Henry sounded possible, so I looked at all three Henrys. The most likely choice was thirty-two years old. His occupation was “artist.” His wife was named Laura, and their daughter, Lily, was one year old.

  Also in the household was a tenant farmer, his wife, and a hired man. Sure that they were of no importance, I ignored them.

  I stared at my iPad, almost as mystified as before. The girl in the field must have been Lily Bennett, but I still had no idea what happened to her or why I’d seen her—​or what she wanted.

  I went to my window and squinted at the window on the third floor. The sun lit the glass so brightly I could see nothing behind it.

  “Lily,” I whispered. “Lily, tell me what to do.”

  No one answered. No face appeared at the window. But she was there, I knew she was.

  I wished I had someone to talk to, someone who’d believe me.

  “Jules,” Mom called from the kitchen, “please set the table.”

  As I arranged plates, glasses, and cutlery, I felt a weight in my pocket and pulled out the key. I was sure I’d reburied it with the other stuff, but here it was. I’d dropped it into my pocket without noticing.

  For a moment I stood still and studied the old key. “What door do you unlock?”

  The answer came like a whisper of air. Lily’s door. Of course.

  Dropping the key into my pocket, I finished setting the table. My mind spun with ideas. I’d go to the third floor, I’d unlock the door, I’d free Lily. But I couldn’t go there in the daylight. I’d have to wait until late at night when Dad and Mom were asleep. Was I brave enough to do that? Just thinking about it made my hands shake so badly I dropped a spoon on the floor.

  I said little during dinner, but Mom and Dad were too interested in their own conversation to notice. Dad described the progress he’d made with the walls and ceiling. Mom told him about her idea to add a character to her novel—​a child whose recurrent nightmares hold clues to the mystery.

  “I wonder where you got that idea,” I muttered, but kept my voice too low for her or Dad to hear me.

  That night, I hid the key in a little wooden box where I kept special things—​seashells from a Rhode Island beach, stones from a creek in Ohio, a tiny silver bracelet Grandmother had given me when I was born, a plastic palm tree pin from Florida, a broken whistle, a couple of marbles, childhood treasures worthless to everyone but me.

  Before I got into bed, I looked up at the third-story window. Its glass reflected the moon, but no one stood in the darkness, staring down at me.

  “Lily, Lily,” I whispered, “what do you want? Why are you here?”

  * * *

  For the next two days, it rained, a cold, hard rain. Mom and I were trapped inside, with no escape from the pounding of hammers, the whine of drills, and the roaring of power saws. Heavy feet tramped around in the old house. Men shouted over the noise of their tools. They laughed and swore.

  I finished my book. With nothing else to read, I played some games on my iPad, stared out the kitchen door at the rain puddling on the deck, and watched a few movies on demand—​The Black Stallion, National Velvet, The Secret Garden. I’d seen them all before, but they were like comfort food for my mind. Knowing how they ended made me feel safe and happy. . . .

  On the third day of rain I begged Mom to take me to Hillsborough. “There must be a library or a bookstore in town. I don’t have anything to read, and Dad’s crew is driving me crazy.”

  “A break’s a great idea.” Mom pressed Save and shut down her laptop. “The noise is giving me a headache.”

  She picked up her purse, grabbed her rain jacket, and tossed mine to me. She found the truck keys and headed for the door to tell Dad where we were going.

  Reluctantly, I followed her into the house. Now that the plywood was off the windows, a gray, rainy light spilled into the rooms. The crew had pulled up the rotten flooring and put down a solid subfloor. They’d gotten rid of the tree limb and replaced the old stairs to the second floor. They’d swept up dead leaves, fallen plaster, and other trash.

  The house smelled like new wood and sawdust. No more musty odor, no mold, no dark, scary corners.

  I looked up the stairs toward the third floor. Dad’s crew hadn’t done any work there, and it was still dark, even in daylight. I sensed Lily hiding behind her locked door, waiting for me to climb the steps, unlock the door, and help her escape from whatever held her there.

  If only I had someone who believed in Lily, a friend to climb those stairs with me and save a frightened child.

  10

  The Girl

  The girl in the locked room stands at the window. She spends most of her days here now, watching for the dark-haired girl, who hasn’t come outside since the rain began. The things that the girl dug up are lying in a hole filled with muddy water. She can make out the head of the bald doll. One of the doll’s arms reaches out of the water, as if she were drowning.

  Below her window, the dark-haired girl and her mother hurry through the rain to their tin machine. Their outfits are even more peculiar than usual. The dark-haired girl is wearing a coat so yellow it’s blinding. It reminds her of pictures of sea captains steering their boats through stormy weather. She’s even wearing the right sort of hat. Oilskins, that’s what they’re called.

  Where on earth does that girl buy her clothing? Surely not in Browne’s Emporium.

  The mother is dressed in a shiny black belted coat, which looks less strange, but, like the daughter, she’s wearing long blue pants. Why do they both dress like boys?

  The mother calls, “Jules, watch out for that puddle. It’s really deep.”

  She watches the dark-haired girl hop nimbly over the puddle. Jules—​is that her name? It’s an odd name for a girl, more like a French name for a boy. The world must have changed a great deal since the girl last saw it. Maybe boys wear skirts and play with dolls now. Maybe children take their grandparents for rides in baby buggies.

  How silly. She giggles at the very idea.

  Even if she dared to lea
ve the room, where would she go in a world so strange? She understands the way things were, not the way they are now.

  Jules and her mother get into the tin machine. The engine makes its usual loud noises before they disappear from sight.

  The girl prefers a horse and carriage, but perhaps they are no longer in style.

  She wonders where Jules and her mother are going.

  Perhaps to town.

  Town. The girl frowns. What gave her that idea? Has she been to town herself? Maybe. She pictures a narrow, dusty road, with rows of shops and houses on either side. There’s a church with a steeple at the end of the street. Horses pull carts and carriages. Other horses are tied to railings. People are laughing and talking.

  She holds a man’s hand, but she can’t see his face, only his dark jacket and trousers. A woman takes her other hand. Her dress is long, and tiny blue flowers dot the cloth.

  She looks down at herself and sees a blue dress. On her feet are high-top shoes with buttons.

  The girl clings to the hands holding hers. She feels safe with the man on one side and the woman on the other. She doesn’t know who they are, but she’d like to stay with them.

  The woman says something to her, but her voice is faint and far away, and the girl can’t make out the words. She tries to smile, but her lips won’t move.

  Suddenly the man and woman vanish, and the girl is once more standing alone at the window. The rain still falls. It drums on the roof and gurgles in the gutters and splashes in the puddles.

  She looks down at herself and smooths her white nightgown, but it isn’t white anymore—​it’s yellowed and worn so thin it’s beginning to fall apart.

  Where did her blue dress go? Where did her shoes go? What happened to the man and woman? Where are they?

  She goes to the mirror on the wardrobe door. Once, she talked to her reflection as if it were a dear friend, a kindred soul. But as the years passed, cobwebs draped the mirror. Its surface tarnished. Her image slowly faded. Now she sees nothing but a shadowy shape, too vague for her to be sure it’s her reflection.

  Perhaps she doesn’t need to hide. Perhaps no one can see her.

  11

  Jules

  In less than half an hour we were in Hillsborough. Even in the rain it looked like a nice place to live. Picket fences, flowers in gardens and window boxes, brick sidewalks, well-kept old houses with big yards, tree-lined streets.

  We passed restaurants and coffee places, small clothing stores, a toy shop, a bookstore, a post office, a couple of banks, and a library. Just about everything a person could want or need was right here.

  Mom parked in the municipal lot near the courthouse, and we walked toward the library. She paused to sniff a dense green hedge. “Boxwood,” she said. “One of my absolutely favorite smells.”

  I sniffed too. The leaves had a sort of woody, old-fashioned fragrance. If we ever had a house of our own, I’d make sure Dad planted boxwood.

  “I’d love to live in a town like this,” Mom said. “It reminds me of where I grew up.”

  “Has Dad said any more about staying in one place for a while?”

  “I’ve talked to him, but you know how difficult it is to pin him down. Always moving, always looking for something new.”

  I sighed. Dad would never agree to stay in Hillsborough. Or anywhere else. In another year or so, this town would be another memory.

  Mom squeezed my hand. “Don’t give up, Jules. I think he’s open to the idea this time. I’ll keep trying to persuade him. You try too. Together we’ll wear him down.”

  Although I wasn’t as hopeful as Mom, I let myself imagine living in one of the big old houses we’d driven past. I pictured a boxwood hedge, a tree tall enough for a swing, my bedroom with big windows and a view of the mountains in the distance. I’d make friends. I’d go to the same school every year. Maybe I’d have a dog or a cat, maybe both—​why not? It was just a daydream, after all.

  At the library, Mom headed for the history collection, and I went to the area set aside for teens.

  I found the science fiction and fantasy shelves and started searching for a book I hadn’t read. A girl about my age joined me. She had short brown curly hair and a friendly face.

  Peering at me through eyeglasses with large round lenses, she said, “I haven’t seen you before. Are you new here?”

  Surprised by her friendliness, I nodded.

  “My name’s Maisie,” she said. “Maisie Sullivan. What’s yours?”

  “Jules Aldridge.” I fingered the paperbacks and struggled to carry on the conversation. “Do you read a lot of fantasy?”

  “I devour fantasy. My favorite author is Diana Wynne Jones. Have you read the Chronicles of Chrestomanci?”

  When I shook my head, she pulled three books off the shelf and thrust them at me. “Read them in order. Witch Week is my absolute favorite. You’ll love them. I’ve probably read the whole series at least three times.”

  I studied the covers. “They look good.”

  “I guarantee you’ll read all of them after you finish the first one. Try The Magicians of Caprona when you’re done with these three.”

  “What are they about?”

  “Enchanters and magic and alternate worlds.”

  “Alternate worlds—​like space travel? And life on other planets?”

  “No. It’s more like there are lots of different worlds. The Almost Anywheres, they’re called. In each one, something happens that didn’t happen in the other worlds.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about. “Like what?”

  “Well, suppose the Confederates won the Civil War. That world would split off from our world, and its history from then on would be different from ours.”

  “So there could be a world where the British won the Revolutionary War or a world where the Nazis won World War Two or—” I stopped and stared at Maisie. “Wait—​how many alternate worlds are there?”

  “Too many to count.” She laughed. “Maybe there’s a world where you didn’t come to the library today and you never met me.”

  I leaned against the bookcase. “Stop. You’re making me dizzy.”

  Maisie’s face grew serious. “You know what? According to my dad, lots of people, scientists even, believe there really are alternate worlds.”

  “So it could be true that different versions of you and me, and everyone else, lead different lives in other worlds that are kind of like this one, only different?”

  “Apparently—​if you believe the theory.”

  “Do you?”

  “Sort of, yes, pretty much. It’s like ghosts and unicorns and magic. You can’t prove they exist, but you can’t prove they don’t exist either. So why not believe in the Almost Anywheres? It makes life more interesting, I think.”

  I hugged the books to my chest and said, “I can’t wait to read these.”

  Maisie grinned. “You sound like someone who loves books as much as I do.”

  “I get teased all the time about being a bookworm. Do you?”

  “Just about every day,” Maisie said. “Even my own father tells me, ‘Get your nose out of that book and help your mother set the table.’”

  “We should start a bookworm club.”

  “We’ll call ourselves Worms R Us!” Maisie slapped her palm against mine, and I dropped my armload of books.

  While we gathered them up, I hoped I’d found a friend for as long as I stayed in Virginia—​which I hoped would be a long, long time. More likely, of course, it would be a year or two at the most. And then goodbye Maisie, goodbye Hillsborough, hello somewhere new.

  Maisie sat down at a table, and I took a seat opposite her. “Do you live here in town?” she asked.

  “Just outside,” I told her. “My dad’s fixing up an old house for a big corporation.”

  Maisie’s eyes widened in interest. “Whoa. Is your dad the guy who’s restoring Oak Hill?”

  “Yes, that’s his job. He—”

  Maisie interr
upted. “Do you actually live in the house?”

  “No. In an addition behind it. My dad and his crew are working on the inside of the house now. It will be a long time before it’s fit to live in.”

  Maisie leaned across the table toward me. “Do you know what happened at Oak Hill?”

  I fidgeted with my stack of books. It was obvious Maisie knew something I didn’t know, something bad, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it. Somehow I knew it would be scary, and Oak Hill was scary enough already.

  “It was abandoned a long time ago,” I said. “Woods grew up around it, and people forgot it was there. Then Stonybrook discovered it and hired Dad. That’s all I know.”

  “Ha. What does some big company like Stonybrook know? Talk to the people who live here. Nobody ever forgot that Oak Hill was there,” Maisie said. “It’s been our haunted house story for years. Even in my grandma’s day, people were scared to go there.”

  She pulled a pack of gum out of her pocket and offered me a stick. I took the gum, but all I wanted was to hear what Maisie knew about Oak Hill.

  “People say,” Maisie went on, “that robbers broke into Oak Hill and murdered the family who lived there. A man, his wife, and his daughter. They say the killers were never caught and the bodies were never found, but the family has haunted the house ever since. Lots of kids have seen their ghosts, my brother included—​he says if you go inside the house, you never come out. He’s heard stories about a hiker who went in there. All they ever found was his hiking boot. Just one. With blood on it. You can hear him screaming sometimes when the wind is right. He also says—”

  I grabbed Maisie’s arm. “Stop it. Just stop it. I knew something bad happened in that house. From the minute I saw it, I knew.” I was shivering, and my teeth were chattering, and I thought I might throw up.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I get these feelings. And I see stuff no one else sees.”