The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  We don't belong here.

  “Okay Johnny,” Rebecca says as we start climbing out of the car. “Grab a box from the trunk and take it inside.”

  “Why do I have to do everything?” he complains, casting a dark stare at me as he passes. He bumps his shoulder against mine, and it's clearly deliberate.

  I don't think he likes me much. Maybe he knows that I killed my mother.

  “You don't do everything, Johnny,” Rebecca mutters. “You do very little. Now grab a box.”

  “Well, this looks okay, doesn't it?” Dad says, smiling at me. “Fresh start, huh?”

  “I guess so”, I tell him. “It looks nice.”

  I even try to smile back at him as I set my notebook on the roof of the car and write a couple more lines with my special astronaut pen. At the same time, I look past the driveway and see the vast countryside spreading out in every direction. When Dad told me that this house was in the middle of nowhere, he definitely wasn't joking.

  “We've got so much work to do,” he continues, patting my arm. “Heavy work. Back-breaking work. Polly, why don't you go inside and take a look around the place while we're busy?”

  “I can help,” I tell him.

  “I think it might be best if you leave it to us. Just go inside and see what you think of the house, okay? You can help by keeping out of the way.”

  I feel bad, but I know there's no point arguing with him. As Johnny continues to grumble and complain, I make my way along the garden path, reaching the front door just as Rebecca gets it unlocked. She steps inside and I follow, and I immediately notice this really strong woody smell, as if the place has been kept sealed for a long time. Rebecca makes some jokey comments about airing it out, and then she adds – not unreasonably – that we'll give it our own smell after not too long.

  I try to think of something funny to say back to her, but I can't. I wish I could, though. I like Rebecca.

  “We've got a lot of boxes to lug in,” she says, as she turns to go back out to the car. “Take a look around. Get comfortable.”

  She used almost the exact same words that Dad used. They probably discussed what to do with me in advance, to get me out of the way.

  “I can help,” I tell her.

  “Nonsense. You can help by keeping out of the way and getting settled.”

  She glances at my notebook as she heads off, and then finally I'm left alone in the hallway. The house is pretty gloomy, so I briefly balance the notebook against my chest as I try the light-switch next to the door, only to find that apparently the power hasn't been switched on yet. Seeing a doorway at the end of the hallway, past the stairs, I decide to follow the light, so I wander along until I find myself looking through into the kitchen. It's empty, of course, except that there's a kind of breakfast bar and a bench over by the window, so I go and sit down, and finally – several minutes after getting out of the car – I'm able to set my notebook flat again.

  I never like writing while I'm walking. I mean, I've developed a technique that works for me, but it always feels kind of clumsy. Thank God for these astronaut pens.

  “Not there!” Rebecca calls out from the front of the house. “Johnny, take it all the way to the kitchen!”

  I flinch as I realize that means I'll be getting company. Sure enough, I hear my newly-minted step-brother stomping into the house, and a moment later he carries a large cardboard box into the kitchen and lets out a theatrical grunt as he slams it onto the table. Of course, he manages to plant one corner of the box over the edge of my notebook, and I feel a moment of panic as I have to lift the box and pull the notebook free. At the same time, I hear Johnny chuckling, and then he simply stands there and watches as I write these words.

  He's still standing there.

  Still.

  Even now.

  Still.

  Why isn't he going away?

  Oh God.

  “So do you, like, seriously write everything in that book?” he asks finally.

  “Uh-huh,” I mutter, hoping it'll be enough. I don't even look up at him.

  “Like, everything?” he continues.

  “Everything,” I tell him.

  “Every single thing?”

  “Yes, Johnny,” I reply, hoping he'll find something else to keep himself busy. After all, I'm not that fascinating. Dad delayed introducing us for so long, probably because he's ashamed of me.

  “And that's 'cause of this hyper... What's it called, again? Hypo... graphing?”

  “Hypergraphia.”

  “Right. Cool. And it's, like, an actual medical condition? It's not just something you made up to get out of doing normal stuff?”

  “It's not something I made up,” I tell him. “It's a real thing. I wish it wasn't.”

  “And other people have it? It's not just you?”

  “It's not very common, but yeah, there have been other people with it. Some people think Lewis Carroll had it. Maybe my version is a bit more extreme, though.”

  He continues to stand over me, staring down at my notebook as I finish another page and turn to the next. For a few seconds, the only sound is the nib of my pen scratching against the paper.

  “And it means you have this compulsion to write everything down?” he says finally. “All the time?”

  “All the time,” I mutter.

  “And you're even doing it now.”

  He leans over me, blocking the light from the window.

  “He leans over me,” he reads out loud, “blocking the light from the window. Hey, you wrote what I did! That's cool! You're, like, narrating everything that happens!”

  “I'm glad you're amused,” I tell him.

  “What the hell?” he continues. “You're writing it all down in real-time? That's why I've never, ever seen you not holding that thing?”

  “That's right.”

  “It's like you're writing a novel of our boring lives, as stuff happens. Like, in real-time.”

  “I guess.”

  “That's mental. Don't your hands get tired?”

  “Sometimes. I think mostly I'm used to it now.”

  “Why do you write in such tiny, scribbly writing?” he asks. “It makes the whole page look almost, like, completely black.”

  “To save space. So I don't use quite so many notebooks.”

  “How many have you used up so far?”

  “This is number three hundred and fifty.”

  “For real? Is that what's in all those heavy boxes with your name on the sides? Hundreds of notebooks?” He chuckles. “How far back do they go?”

  “A few years.”

  “And you even write down everything we say, huh? Wow, you're doing it now. And now. And now!”

  “I am,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Are you still doing it? You are! That's so freaking weird, dude. You even put little marks around the words. What are those called again?”

  “Quote marks.”

  “Yeah! Wicked.”

  I force a smile, even though I really just want him to go away. Then again, Johnny and I have barely met, and the last thing I want is for him to think I'm some kind of complete weirdo. Who am I kidding? That boat sailed a while back.

  “I don't think you're a complete weirdo,” he replies, having clearly read those words. “So do you write everything you think, as well?”

  “Not everything. Most things.”

  “Like you've got rules about what to write?”

  “I've got lots of rules.”

  He laughs. “I bet you do. What about typos?”

  “What about them?”

  “Do you sometimes write the wrong word? I mean, you're writing so fast, you have to.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And do you go back and correct them? Do you, like, read over what you've written and -”

  “No,” I say, interrupting him. “I don't have time for that. I'm too busy writing.”

  I want to tell him to leave me alone, but then I'd sound precious and I don't wan
t to sound precious. Not ever. And I know he's reading this right now, as I write the words, and I really wish he'd stop! Now!!! Seriously, Johnny, stop reading!

  He watches for a moment longer, as Rebecca and Dad call for him to help carrying more boxes from the car.

  “So what happens if you can't write for a while?” he asks finally.

  “Doesn't happen.”

  “But what if it did?”

  “Doesn't happen.”

  “But when you're on the toilet, you -”

  “I write”, I tell him, although I know he's going to find that hilarious.

  “All the time?” he continues, with a hint of incredulity in his voice now. “What about when you're in the shower? Or asleep? Or watching porn? What about -”

  “I write all the time,” I tell him, as I feel a twinge of pain in my wrist. I'm already at the end of another page, so I start on the next. “I have systems. Lots and lots of systems, and rules. I've learned how to write in different situations. I get by.”

  “Freaky,” he mutters, leaning even closer. “You're never gonna get any friends or a boyfriend if you don't get out more. You know that, right?”

  “Fine by me.”

  “So what'd happen if I did this?”

  “Did what?” I ask.

  Okay, Johnny was just a complete asshole. He grabbed my notebook and took it away from me. I tried to grab it back, but he took it to the other side of the kitchen and started laughing, telling me to go get it back from him. I started to get up, but he held it behind his back and I felt a sudden rush of panic. There were tears in my eyes too, and I could feel cold, prickly sweat on my forehead, so I quickly started writing on the surface of the breakfast bar instead. Johnny was guffawing like an idiot, and I was just starting to really panic when Dad came rushing through and sorted everything out. He took the notebook and gave it back to me, and then he led Johnny out of the room. As I started writing this paragraph, I could hear Dad whispering to Johnny in the hallway, no doubt trying to explain – yet again – that I need to be allowed to keep writing.

  TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: THE NEXT FEW LINES OF POLLY'S NOTEBOOK ARE INDECIPHERABLE. APPROXIMATELY THIRTY TO FORTY WORDS ARE MISSING BEFORE THIS NEXT PART.

  Taking a deep breath, I realize I can feel my heart pounding in my chest.

  “Are you okay in here?” Dad asks as he comes through alone.

  “I'm fine,” I tell him.

  “Johnny knows not to do that again. It's just new to him. I guess he didn't take your condition seriously. People... I don't think they quite understand it, not at first. They just see it as something weird that you do.”

  “It's okay. I don't want people making a fuss over me.”

  He's watching me now while I write. I've told him before that I hate when people do that, and that I just want to be treated normally. Finally, I tell him I'll go help the rest of them with the boxes, and I start getting to my feet while holding the notebook in my hands and still writing.

  “Honey, actually it'd be better if you wait in here.”

  “No, I'm helping!”

  “Honey, just -”

  Before he can finish, I trip over the leg of the breakfast bar. I try to steady myself, but I fall to the floor and land hard, dropping my notebook and pen and letting out a cry as I feel my right ankle twist. The pain is intense, but I don't have time for that now. Instead, I crawl forward and reach for the notebook, then for the pen, and I quickly write these lines as Dad asks if I'm okay.

  I'm fine, I tell him, wincing as I feel the pain in my ankle. It really hurts.

  Looking around, I watch for any sign that my mistake might have caused something bad to happen. Whenever some kind of outside force makes me stop writing, even for a moment, I worry about the consequences. Fortunately, the break was very brief just now, so hopefully I won't be punished.

  Please, let nothing bad happen.

  Dad starts helping me up, as I continue to write. He settles me back on the bench and then he starts examining my ankle, although I immediately let out a gasp of pain as soon as he touches the side. He takes a closer look and tells me it's just twisted, that it'll be fine soon enough, but that I should try to keep the weight off for a while. He asks if I want painkillers, but I tell him no, definitely not.

  “There are still lots of boxes to bring in,” he says finally. “I'll take yours straight up to your room. That's the door on the right, as soon as you get to the top of the stairs. All your stuff'll be in there waiting for you, okay?”

  “I'm not an invalid.”

  “I know that. I just wanted to let you know.”

  I tell him that's okay, and that he should get back outside to help Rebecca and Johnny. I keep writing as he stares at me, and then finally he mutters something about coming back to check on me soon. As he leaves the room, I realize I'm holding my breath, so I let out a gasp as I feel the pain throbbing in my ankle. I wish I could have just one painkiller, but I know from experience that they make my mind muddled, which in turn makes it harder for me to write, and the last thing I need now is another panic attack. Johnny would make fun of me, and he'd think I'm some kind of total cripple. Tears are running down my face, no matter how hard I try to hold them back, and I feel like I'm on the verge of another anxiety attack. To counter that, I start writing faster and faster, and slowly the sensation of panic starts to fade again. Damn it, I'm so stupid. I should never have dropped the notebook. Why don't I learn?

  Dad and Rebecca and Johnny are still bringing boxes inside, and I want to go help them, but my ankle is really hurting now. So instead I decide to write a list of all the ways in which the house is turning out to not be quite so ordinary after all. I'm going to start with a list of ten things I've noticed since I came into the kitchen.

  First, there's the creeping ivy that's partially covering one of the windows.

  Second, there's the weird marks that are all around the doorway, as if something with really long fingernails has been scratching furiously at the wood.

  Chapter Two

  Eight. Those candies they used to sell at the store near where we lived when I was a kid. Those were bright blue, so I guess they count.

  Nine.

  I stare at the paper, trying to think of another example of blue food, but it's not easy. When I started writing this list, I told myself that only properly blue food could be included. So no plums, for example, even though sometimes they look a little blue in certain lights. I even feel like I shouldn't include bright blue candy, but then I doubt I'd have a hope of getting the list up to ten. Even now, I'm really struggling to think of anything, but I have to finish the list before I go back to bed. I'm not allowed to stop.

  As I try to think of something for number nine on the list, I realize I can hear footsteps coming along the landing outside my bedroom. Tensing myself, I really hope that it's Dad. If it's not him, then Rebecca would be okay, because she knows not to ask too many questions, and she's kind. As step-moms go, I think she's probably about as cool as they come.

  A moment later, Johnny steps into the doorway, and he stops as soon as he sees me. He's standing there now, just gawping at me. He's wearing a red Thundercats t-shirt, yellow boxers and black socks.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he says finally. “It's, like, three in the morning, dude!”

  “I know.”

  “I thought you at least, like, slept!”

  “I do. I just got up with the alarm.”

  “I thought I heard an alarm go off, but I figured it must have been in my head. Why'd you set a goddamn alarm for three in the morning?”

  Realizing that he's not going to stop asking questions until I tell him, I explain that I always set my alarm to go off every two hours during the night, so that I can get up to write a few lines about any dreams I had. When I can't remember my dreams, I make top ten lists, although sometimes those take longer than planned. Especially when I start a list that turns out to be hard, like a list of ten properly blue foods. What I don't te
ll him, however, is that once I start a list, I have to finish, so sometimes they take a long time. And I don't allow myself to start a list that I know is going to be too easy, because that would be cheating. I live by a lot of rules.

  “So you never sleep more than two hours at a time?” he asks.

  “It's okay, I'm used to it.”

  “Wow.” He pauses. “You're properly sick, aren't you? I mean, Mom warned me, but you are properly, properly not right in the head.”

  “It's just a habit I have,” I reply, feeling a little sweaty again. I hate when people talk about me.

  “Do you know why I got up?” he asks after a moment.

  “No. Why?”

  “The scratching sound.”

  “What scratching sound?” As I write those words, however, I suddenly realize what he means. “My pen?” I ask. “Am I writing too loud? I could try to be quieter. I could go down in the basement.”

  “Not that,” he replies. “There's something else making a similar sound. Stop writing just for a second and maybe you'll hear it.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Can't you stop writing for just one second and listen?” he asks.

  “I don't need to. I believe you.”

  “Sure, but -”

  He pauses, watching me as I continue to write, and as my pen nib continues to scratch against the paper.

  “Okay,” he mutters, “but let me tell you. If you did stop writing and listen to the other sounds of the house, then trust me, you'd hear this other scratching sound, like something clawing at wood. I don't know where it's coming from, but it woke me up. It's pretty similar to the sound you're making with that pen, but it's totally louder and closer. Well, that's what it seemed like from my room, anyway. Whatever's causing it, it's up there somewhere, maybe in the attic. Mom and Daniel don't seem to have noticed. They're still asleep.”

  “Mice,” I reply. “It's probably mice. Or rats.”

  “No, we had mice in our last place. I know what mice sound like. This isn't mice.”