And the Trees Crept In

by Dawn Kurtagich

  “Let’s forget this whole damn thing,” he says, offering his hand.

  I take it, and we each grab two bottles of wine and run upstairs, cackling.

  “Let’s drink to the irony.” Gowan raises his bottle in a toast. “No real food, plenty of alcohol. We could make passable college students yet.”

  The cork crumbles into the wine, and it doesn’t taste particularly nice, but soon we are sprawled on the library floor in front of the fire, laughing and singing.

  “… and her toe was sticking out of the slipper like this tiny little sausage!”

  I can’t contain my roar of laughter. One bottle of wine is gone. The embers burn low. The house cools and sighs.

  “I’ve never had a boy over before. Overnight, I mean.”

  Gowan looks at me.

  “It’s kise to have numpany.”

  His eyes widen and we howl with laughter again until I’ve got tears streaming down my face and I can’t talk. He’s not doing much better.

  “Numpany!”

  I nudge him. “Shove off! You’re nice company, okay?”

  We laugh for a long time, until I’ve almost wet myself, and then Gowan’s laughter dies suddenly and he sighs.

  He takes a drink. “Unless I get through those trees in the garden… you may be stuck with me for a while.”

  “I… don’t mind.”

  We talk for a while, back and forth, until the talking becomes a question game.

  “Would you rather live alone or in a commune?”

  “Alone. Easy.” I think for a moment. “Would you rather have four hands or four feet?”

  “Oh, come on,” he says, laughing. “Four hands would totally win. Think of everything you could get done.”

  “Yeah, but you’d fracture your wrist bones if you tried to walk on them for very long.”

  He snorts. “I still vote hands. Okay…” He takes a drink from the bottle. “What is the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”

  My turn to drink. I can feel the wine swimming in my head like floppy fizzy fish. “Once, when I first came here, I woke up on the roof. I used to sleepwalk really badly, so I guess I sleepwalked up there. Anyway, I woke up around midnight or so, and decided it was so beautiful, I just stayed there. Only in the morning, I was back in my bed. Craziest thing ever.”

  Gowan grins. “I remember.”

  “What?”

  “Nori told me that one already.”

  I frown. “How?”

  “She’s a very good writer. Terrible speller. R-U-F-E I took to mean roof.”

  I laugh. “She’s a nut, that one. Okay, well, then have this one: When I was four, my mother told me about La Baume. I was so obsessed with it that I spent six years trying to get her to draw me a picture of it. When she finally gave it to me, it became a sort of talisman of hope, and now I keep it hidden in my pocket at all times. To remind me what a goddamn idiot I was and still am.”

  Silence.

  I fill it by drinking.

  “You’re not an idiot for wanting a better life.”

  I snort. “What the hell would you know about my life? It’s stupid. I’m stupid.”

  “You should stop doing that.”

  “What?”

  “Calling yourself stupid. You’re not.”

  I shrug. “I guess I just got used to hearing it.”

  He’s quiet for a while, and it begins to feel heavy. Then he asks, “Would you rather punch a toad or a slug?”

  I feel a surge of affection. “Toad.”

  Back and forth, we play, until the room is spinning and I start laughing again, and then Gowan is laughing and we are rolling on the floor, howling, the night nothing but a backdrop to our forgetting. Forgetting the curse, forgetting this messed-up situation, forgetting that none of this can possibly be real.

  I lean forward and the floor leans, too. “Did you know,” I say, dangling the bottle between two long fingers, “that most artists and most scientists are technically insane?”

  Gowan takes the bottle and I topple forward, landing on my forehead with a dull bonk!

  “Is that a statistic of convenience?” he asks.

  I manage to untangle myself from the floor and my own limbs and sit swaying. “Fact is fact. Insanity is common. And I am starting to think I might be insane.”

  “Define insane.”

  “It’s a state of mind. Contrary to normal people. Unstable. Unusual. Seeing things that can’t be real.”

  “Then, by definition, I could be insane, too.”

  I snort, and a little wine goes up my nose. I laugh until I’m rolling on the floor, and then I snort again.

  By the time I’ve clawed my way back to sitting, using Gowan’s shirt as a rope, he’s grinning at me with his eyebrows up. His eyes say, Oh, yeah?

  “You,” I say, taking back the bottle and waving it at him, “are not insane.”

  The wine s s s s l l l o s h h h h e s s s s.

  “How would you know?”

  He means it a certain way, playfully maybe, but it comes out like: You don’t know me.

  It stops me, that. I’ve been telling him as much for weeks and he’s never said it back. But it’s true. I don’t. Except, I do. I know how kind he is. I know he has anger, like me. I know he has a wound. I do know him.

  My heart cries—danger. I buy time by drinking, and ridiculous hiccups ensue.

  “I’d know crazy if I saw it.” I fear it.

  And he laughs. And I laugh. And we laugh and laugh together. Gowan’s laughs turn into coughs, and when I go to take another sip from the bottle, I find it empty.

  We giggle and open another bottle.

  This is nice. So nice.

  It feels almost normal. I’ve forgotten all about—

  [DARK

  CREEPING

  TREES

  MOVING]

  … well, almost.

  “My turn,” I say. “Would you rather kill yourself or kill someone else?”

  His face changes, cheeks pale. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion, and I think: Oh, no. What did I say? For ages, I think he won’t answer. Then, quietly, he says: “Myself.”

  He gets up, and I think he is going to leave, so I get up, too. This was too good to be true to begin with. But then he spins and grabs me and holds me firmly against his body and he is trembling and my arms are going around him and my heart is racing and I want him to

  let go

  hold me forever

  and then I have kissed him and I am kissing him and he is kissing me back. This first kiss. My first kiss ever. Something at the core of me, something that is hard and porous and dry, begins to fill in and soften and I feel my heart yelling: DANGER! DANGER! even louder, but I don’t care. For this tiny moment, with the wine still swimming in my head and my inhibitions down, I don’t care about anything else in the world.

  I can’t breathe, and he’s not doing much better himself, and he is pulling me toward him and my whole body is one giant blush and I feel like I am going to pass out and I want to be here forever.

  His hands explore me and mine explore him, and I don’t want this to go further, but I do—

  Gowan pulls away, steps back, clenching his fists at his sides and panting. His lips are flushed and red and I want to kiss him again—always—but he is shaking his head and saying, “I can’t I can’t I can’t” over and over and I realize that he thinks this was one huge mistake and I am

  mortified.

  I fold my arms around my torso and look away from him, my heart still thudding in my ears, and when I look up again, he is staring at me with this blazing expression and I almost step toward him again. But he steps back. Steps away. Says, “Sorry… I can’t do this,” and then he leaves me all alone again and I feel the rage returning, but I don’t want it anymore. I want him.

  I am alone then, in a book-lined room of shadows.

  Some time later, my father’s voice floats down the stairs, meeting me where I can’t escape a drunken nightma
re.

  SILLA DANIELS’S GUIDE TO NOT FALLING IN LOVE

  1. Don’t think about him.

  2. Don’t notice.

  3. Remember the rejection.

  4. Harden the stone.

  5. Realize that something is wrong with you.

  He finds me curled into the window seat, the curtains closed against the night.

  “Silla?” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  My head is killing me, and I see no reason to answer.

  And that’s when he leans forward and puts his forehead on my arm. “Please, Silla… I’m so sorry. I wish… so many things.”

  His eyes are closed.

  And his lips keep murmuring, “Sorry. So sorry.”

  And I hate seeing him like this. And I hate his stupid apologies.

  So I take his head and hug it to me, and kiss the top of it. He smells like apples, but it doesn’t make me sick this time. I breathe him in, and I tell him I’m sorry, too. But inside I’m thinking, You left again. You left me again.

  “Silla…” he says, and I know what’s coming.

  I’ll follow him anywhere.

  Except… I can’t.

  “I can’t,” I say.

  His jaw clenches as he gets to his feet. He turns away and I notice his hands are fists. Like rock. Like stone.

  Stone-hearted girl.

  This is it, now. He’ll leave again. He’ll go and leave me here, trapped by the trees and… and what?

  “This isn’t a haven, Presilla. It’s a cage. Your aunt is crazy, in the attic. You have no food. Your garden is dead—why won’t you come? Why won’t you save yourself? Why won’t you leave?”

  “I have to stay. For Nori.”

  He takes my face in his hands. “Please. Come with me. Be with me.”

  “Gowan…” He doesn’t understand. “It’s Nori.…”

  He shakes his head, and his eyes are an overcast evening in winter.

  “She would come.”

  “He’ll get her.”

  And I need to tell him what I know—know—is true.

  “If Nori goes into those trees, he’ll get her. He wants her.”

  “Who?”

  I take a deep breath. “The Creeper Man.”

  When I’ve explained everything to Gowan—all the illogical parts, like the moving trees (which he’s seen for himself), the shape in the woods, Cath’s story, the fact that I’ve seen the Creeper Man—he is pale. I’m not sure if it’s because he believes me, or because he finally realizes I really am off my rocker. Just like I fear.

  I don’t mention my theory about my father being in the house because… because his presence in this house doesn’t explain anything besides his voice. And, what, is he sitting in an endless hole just trying to scare me? He’s a monster, sure. But he’s not that patient.

  Gowan doesn’t say anything. But then he moves and I think: He’ll leave me now. He’ll finally just go.

  Instead, he puts his head on my legs.

  We stay like that for a long time, his head resting on my lap, my fingers curling into his hair.

  “You asked me once if I loved anything,” I whisper. This time of night, alone in this library, feels special. Our secret. Outside of time. Outside of reality.

  “You said you loved your sister, and that was all.”

  “And there’s a reason.” I hesitate. Where do I even start? It might be a bit much to say that I find the world lacking. If that’s true, I couldn’t place the blame at the foot of the universe. I’d have to lay it squarely at my own feet.

  Instead, I say, “My mother was a weak woman. She married a man who… should never have been a father. For anyone to be cursed with his genes would be punishment enough, without having to cohabit with him.”

  “Nori doesn’t seem so bad,” he jokes, smiling up at me.

  “She got a lucky escape, unless you remember her teeth, her arm.…”

  His smile falters and dies. “You’re perfect, Silla.”

  And you’re a fool.

  “My mother was like a leech. Needing someone to lock on to. She needed someone stronger than herself. But my father wasn’t strong. He was weak. Weaker than her, even. I was born from weakness, and that’s why I’m so flawed. And that’s why I love my sister and nothing else. She’s a victim of their dependency and cruelty. And I love her for it. But I love something else, too.… I love my anger. It’s solid, pure. Anger doesn’t lie. Anger allows me to carry on.” I close my eyes. “It’s all I have.”

  “Silla…”

  “Don’t say it again, please.” I can’t hear him tell me I’m perfect one more time.

  “You can’t take my opinions away.”

  “Even if they’re stupid?”

  He grins. “Even then.” He goes very still, eyes taking me in. Eyes, to lips, back to my eyes. “Silla… I want—”

  “Don’t.”

  But he is going to. He leans in, and my treacherous body responds in kind. The gap between us, which seemed a gulf, is suddenly gone, and his lips are on mine, and his hand is on my cheek and I am losing myself to this kiss.

  I fall asleep in his arms, and I think, Maybe there is hope.

  My father’s voice is cackling downstairs, calling me on my bull.

  16

  the mad always are

  Four corners around my bed

  four demons round my head

  one to watch and one to prey,

  two to eat my soul away.

  Come, little darling, don’t say a word

  I am trying to ignore

  Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

  his voice as it seeps

  And if that mockingbird don’t sing

  out of the black hole

  Papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.

  which has gotten bigger again.

  No one else can hear it. Only me. So I’m imagining it. It isn’t real. But how perfectly the sound mimics his voice. How clear and ringing and deep the tones. I can believe, just for a moment, that my father—cruel, hard, and (horribly) beloved—is down there. Waiting for me.

  I find myself leaning over.

  Looking down.

  Wanting so badly to just—

  give in

  —but I can’t. I won’t.

  This isn’t real. It’s a hole, for crying out loud. The floorboards have fallen away, that is all. So why does it seem like there may be a tangle of twisting roots, reaching to receive me, lurking down there in the pitch? I sometimes think I half see them.

  I step away, which is very, very hard to do, and the hole seems to sigh with disappointment. I sigh, too.

  And then I run into the dining room and begin to gather all the chairs. One by one, I place them around the edges of the tiny gulf, a barrier between the pull and me. I call Nori and tell her, while she stands looking solemnly at me, that the hole is a hazard and that she should go no farther than the chairs, not until Gowan has fixed it.

  She nods that she understands, but I can see she doesn’t. Not really. She thinks I am being overprotective and maybe just a little bit nutty, but at least I have an excuse.

  You won’t get me, I think.

  Oh, Silla, darling, the hole laughs in Father’s voice. We’ll just see about that.

  Along the hall, in Nori’s bedroom, something is stirring in the darkness.

  I assume that she’s having a nightmare.

  Though an infrequent occurrence, it has been known to happen, and I can always sense it. I lift my head from my pillow, holding my breath, and wait.

  It’s a muffled noise. A shuffling almost, punctuated with a little bump! here and there.

  It is cold.

  I don’t want to get out of bed to check.

  Instead, I wait.

  As I suspected it would, the noise dies down, and the house is filled with absence.

  About an hour later, it’s the silence itself that wakes me. It’s a heavy silence, and I startle so intensely that light spots of adre
naline prickle across my vision.

  A terrible, horrible dread creeps up my legs and I suddenly regret not going to check on Nori sooner. It takes a moment for the paralysis to pass, but when it does, I hurry down the hall, ignoring the old paintings of madmen leering at me from the walls.

  I stop just inside Nori’s doorway.

  I’m still.

  I swallow.

  Waiting.

  Creep closer.

  The sudden—and certain—sense that Nori will not merely be sleeping, but… something far, far worse, had come over me intensely upon waking. And now… it’s all I can do to breathe.

  The room is too still.

  I stumble forward and lay a gentle hand on Nori’s small head, and am racked with silent and intense sobbing—the kind of sobbing that jerks the soul from the deepest reaches of the body—when I find that the forehead is warm.

  I was so sure.

  So absolutely sure…

  That I would find Nori in the bed, dead and cold.

  The sobs pass after long, agonizing minutes, but the dread doesn’t diminish.

  It grows. And grows.

  Until I am staring into the corners of the black room, waiting for some horror to rise up and engulf us whole.

  And Nori sleeps on.

  Cath has stopped screaming at night. And that is even worse.

  I think the silence could deafen me.

  There is no sound. None.

  I go to the stairs that lead to the attic, making sure I keep to the middle of the hall—far enough away from the shadowy wallpaper. And then I make sure I am a pace or two away from the first step. I look up—so much darkness. But awareness, too.

  “Cath?” I call in a half whisper. I don’t know why, since Nori will sleep through thunder.

  Creeeeeeak.

  “Aunt?”

  Creeeeeeeeak.

  Silence.

  “Tell me about him,” I say, because I know she is right there, at the top of the stairs, two paces back like me, and waiting. “Tell me about the Creeper Man. Tell me now.”

  Aunt Cath walks. Creak. Creak. Creak. Cath sits down. A rocking chair. Creeeeak, creak. Creeeak, creak. Rocking back and forth. Freaking creepy. I look right, down the third-floor hall, and convince myself that the door to the husk room is not open. That there is not someone standing at the end of it.