The Gathering

by Dan Poblocki

  For Bruce

  CONTENTS

  Sigil Page

  Matilda Page

  Letter Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Art Credits

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek

  Shadow House App

  Copyright

  WHENEVER POPPY CALDWELL glanced in a mirror, she saw another girl standing behind her.

  There were plenty of other girls at Thursday’s Hope, the group home where Poppy had lived since age six. But the Girl wasn’t like the other girls.

  Poppy was pretty sure she was dead.

  In the mirror, the Girl always appeared smiling, hazel eyes glinting with playful kindness, long dark hair slanting sharply across her forehead. She always wore the same white pinafore over a dark dress, with large pockets that gaped near her hips and seemed filled with mystery.

  Poppy knew that seeing the Girl was odd. Was she a ghost? An angel? Once, Poppy had worked up the courage to ask her bunkmate Ashley if it was normal for girls to appear behind you in mirrors—girls who couldn’t speak, girls who weren’t actually in the room with you when you turned around. Ashley had laughed so hard, Poppy had forced herself to giggle too, pretending it was all a joke.

  She thought she’d be able to keep her secret. But Ashley didn’t like keeping secrets.

  Tales of Poppy’s visions spread through the dormitory like smoke, and Poppy acquired an unfortunate nickname: Crazy Poppy. For a while, she tried to argue, hoping that she could convince the others that the Girl was real. It only made the teasing worse.

  Poppy started to believe that she actually was crazy.

  But whenever things got really bad, when the other girls of Thursday’s Hope badgered her ruthlessly, the Girl was Poppy’s special comfort—a friend who made her less lonely, less afraid. Sometimes when a mirror caught her eye, Poppy would find the Girl peering back at her, and the Girl would remove an item from one of the giant pockets of her smock and then hold it up as if to make Poppy smile.

  The next morning, Poppy would discover the item tucked under her pillow.

  The first time, it had been a thin wire twisted into the shape of a finch. Then came pressed flowers, out-of-print comic strips snipped from yellowed newspapers, a paintbrush with dried green paint at its tip.

  Old things.

  Surprising things.

  Strange things.

  At first, Poppy couldn’t believe it was happening. But the objects were there—she could hold them in her hand, and that meant they were real. Unexplainable, but real.

  Poppy treasured these items, tucking them inside a book she’d hollowed out to keep them secret. But Ashley took particular pleasure in raiding Poppy’s belongings, passing the Girl’s treasures to the others, who would tear and sometimes destroy them. On those nights, Poppy had nightmares of terrible fires, and watched, screaming, as her bunkmates burned around her. The worst part was that in those dreams, Poppy was always the one to light the flames.

  In real life, Poppy didn’t know how to fight back … until the day Ashley got her hands on a delicate charcoal sketch of five kids in masks and uniforms, all lined up against a stone wall. Poppy had hidden the sketch in a separate place, between the pages of a book she loved, a book she knew Ashley would never, ever read. But Ashley was a better snoop than Poppy had imagined. Poppy found her standing beside their bunks, the drawing held roughly in her hands.

  “Is this from your friend?” Ashley asked with a thin, flat smile. She tensed her hand threateningly on the sketch.

  Something inside Poppy broke. Before she could stop herself, she reached for Ashley’s favorite possession, an ornate mirror on their shared nightstand, and swung it. There was a smash. A scream. Ashley clutched her hand into a fist—but the sketch had already slipped away from her. Miraculously, it landed unharmed on Poppy’s bed.

  Poppy just watched as Ashley howled for help.

  Poppy had never been sent to Ms. Tate’s office before. Its cold, metal cabinets and big oak desk had always intimidated Poppy when she walked past it. Now she was seated in front of the desk, in the chair for troublemakers. The secretary told her in no uncertain terms to not touch a thing and to wait there until Ms. Tate had checked on Ashley.

  Poppy knew she should listen. She was in enough trouble already. But her stomach was churning with so much anger that it burned her usual meekness away. For once, she didn’t hesitate to take the chance she’d always dreamed about. As soon as the office door closed behind her, Poppy was out of her chair and searching the cabinets for her own file. If she was already in big trouble, why not get in a little more?

  The room smelled too sweet, as if there was bubble gum stuck underneath every piece of furniture. Sunlight streamed in through the tall window, illuminating a dust-mote storm that swirled around Poppy as she searched. The filing cabinet stood against the far wall. Poppy found the correct drawer, removed her folder, and placed it on Ms. Tate’s desk.

  Pawing through the material, a veil of disappointment fell on Poppy. There were report cards and medical records, pictures she’d painted when she was much younger, but not a single thing from before she’d arrived at the group home. She’d wanted to find out about her parents, but as far as the file was concerned, her parents had never existed. Poppy had come from nowhere.

  This was highly unusual.

  And then it got more unusual.

  Near the back of the folder, Poppy found a sealed envelope with her name on it. She turned it over again and again, almost dizzy with excitement.

  In the upper-left corner, written in pen by a delicate hand, were the words Larkspur House, Hardscrabble Road, Greencliffe, NY. The postmark was smudged, so Poppy couldn’t read the date it had been sent.

  A letter? The anger flooded her again. Why had Ms. Tate never given it to her?

  Poppy slid her fingernail carefully under the flap. Inside rested a slip of salmon-colored stationery with intricate floral designs lining every edge. It was one of the most beautiful objects she had ever seen. There was a small photograph of a luscious country mansion tucked in the envelope too. Placing that aside, she began to read.

  My Dearest Niece,

  Oh what a relief to have finally found you! You have no idea what the family has been through, though I’m sure it is nothing compared to the life you’ve been forced to lead. Poor thing!

  You may call me Great-Aunt Delphinia. I live on a grand estate in the Hudson Valley with more room than I know what to do with. It would be such an honor if you would consider coming to stay with me. I will provide the best schooling, cuisine, and clothing—all the comforts that any girl could ever wish for—though I’m sure you understand that those things would be worthless without the loving house
hold that will form the foundation of your new life here at Larkspur. The photograph of the grounds should provide an idea of what you are in for!

  I would come down to Thursday’s Hope to collect you if it weren’t for my health. But please do let me know that you’ve received this letter, and I shall arrange for your immediate travel from the city. We’ve so much to discuss!

  Yours truly and with love,

  Delphinia Larkspur

  Poppy closed her eyes as chills brushed her skin, and her eyes flooded with tears. This was better than any treasure the Girl had ever given her. It was like something out of a fairy tale, and not something that could happen to a girl like her. Family! A happy ending!

  Somewhere in the office behind her, the floor creaked. Poppy whipped around to find the director standing just inside the doorway.

  “And just what do you think you’re doing, Miss Caldwell?” Ms. Tate glanced at the folder lying open on her desk as well as the envelope in Poppy’s hands.

  “I want to ask you about my file,” said Poppy, trying to hide the trembling in her voice.

  “That file is not meant to be seen by you,” Ms. Tate chided in her best rules-are-rules voice.

  Poppy’s face burned. “I found this.” She held up the envelope. “A letter. Addressed to me.” She made herself look Ms. Tate in the eyes. “Why would you hide it from me?”

  Ms. Tate’s expression shifted from anger to confusion. “I would never! Let me see that.”

  Poppy handed it over reluctantly. She watched as Ms. Tate scanned the writing. “Poppy, I’ve never seen this before. I swear.”

  “I have a family!” Poppy said.

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

  “My great-aunt Delphinia knows all about me.” Poppy’s voice was small but insistent.

  Ms. Tate sighed, looking like she’d seen this sort of thing before. “The return address is vague. There’s no phone number. No email. How do you expect me to even get in touch with her?”

  I don’t, Poppy thought. I’ll figure it out myself.

  At the look on Poppy’s face, Ms. Tate rounded the desk and sat down in front of her computer. Poppy watched, barely daring to breathe, as the director searched the Internet for evidence of this Larkspur House. “I’m not getting much. Just a dozen or so real estate listings from all around the country. And I can’t find a thing about a Delphinia Larkspur.”

  Poppy’s chest collapsed in on her. “So that’s it?”

  “I know the girls have not been kind to you lately.” Ms. Tate leaned back in her chair and gave Poppy an apologetic look. “I think you’re going to have to accept that this was a joke. And in the meantime, you still have your actions to account for. What you did to Ashley is inexcusable.” Poppy was still very much in trouble.

  Later that night, when Poppy approached the mirror over the sink in the bathroom, the Girl was not there.

  This had never happened before.

  Only after Poppy had slipped beneath her sheets, watching the reflected glow of car headlights drift across the ceiling, listening to the wheezing of Ashley on the lower bunk, did she make the connection: Maybe now that I have the possibility of Larkspur House and Great-Aunt Delphinia, I don’t need the Girl anymore.

  Poppy couldn’t have been more wrong.

  MARCUS GELLER HEARD music that no one else seemed to notice, music emanating from inside a nearby room that only he was aware of.

  There was no way to fight this music. No way to ignore it.

  So whenever he could, Marcus tried to play along.

  Marcus had just sat down on the stool in the corner of the dining room, hugging the cello between his knees and raising the bow, when his mother called out to him. “Marcus! Would you come up here, please?” Her voice sounded thin and far away, and he knew that she’d parked herself at her computer in her bedroom upstairs, her usual spot for hiding from the real world.

  Marcus felt a knobby object rise up his esophagus. He hadn’t even begun practicing yet today, and already his mom was preparing to stop him. He squeezed his hands into fists and then released them slowly before answering, “Can you give me a minute!” Then he drew the bow across the strings, filling the room with a deep, resonant hum that drowned out all of his worries, as well as his mother’s reply.

  Practicing at home had always been difficult—finding privacy when you have three older siblings living under the same roof is akin to discovering a unicorn sleeping under your bed—but recently, the problem had been even more complicated.

  Marcus’s music seemed to be affecting his mother in an unusual way.

  His mother’s younger brother, Shane, had also played the cello. According to everyone in the family, he’d been really, really good at it. He’d had a bright future as a musician—

  But then something horrible had happened.

  Marcus didn’t know the details of Shane’s death. Nobody talked about that part of the story.

  All he knew was that Shane had been twelve years old when he died.

  The same age as Marcus was now.

  Maybe it was because of the age thing. Or maybe it was because Marcus was getting good at the cello. Whatever the case, it was freaking his mother out—and she was taking it out on him.

  Which wasn’t fair.

  It wasn’t like Marcus could stop playing. If he did, he’d be overwhelmed by all the music that no one else seemed to hear.

  To Marcus, the sounds of the strings and the brass and the reeds were so bright and vibrant, the rhythms so wild and wicked, he couldn’t believe that he was alone in his experience of it. And as a young child, he’d spoken incessantly about it, humming the melodies aloud so people would believe him.

  Eventually his parents took him to see a doctor who suggested medication to stop the “hallucinations.” Afterward, Marcus realized that maybe the music should become a secret instead. He didn’t want it to end, even if it was all in his head.

  This was around the time he’d finally begun to pick up whatever instrument was available from the music classroom at school and from his uncle’s old collection at home to try to mimic the gorgeous melodies constantly floating around him.

  It was a perfect transition: Stop talking about the music and start making it. This change alleviated his parents’ fear, but it also invited attention from teachers and other adults who were fascinated by Marcus’s sudden talent.

  Though Marcus liked this attention, he wasn’t sure he deserved it. Part of him felt like a fake; it wasn’t as though he was inventing the compositions himself.

  They were coming to him from somewhere beyond this world.

  “Marcus.”

  He jerked the bow away from the strings and then opened his eyes. His mother was standing in the dining room doorway clutching a piece of paper. Marcus hadn’t realized how lost he’d gotten in the music, nor how peaceful the afternoon had become. “Sorry, Mom,” he said. “I was distracted.”

  To his surprise, she smiled. “It’s okay.” She held out the piece of paper to him. “I just got this message. Figured it was easier to print it out and bring it down to you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Read it and find out.”

  Dear Mrs. Geller,

  My name is L. Delphinium, and I am the director of the Larkspur Academy for the Performing Arts in New York State. I work with several professional scouts around the world, and when one of them attended your son’s recent recital at the Oberlin campus in Ohio, she was overcome by the power of his performance. We would love it if Marcus came to study with us.

  At Larkspur, Marcus will have access to the most accomplished visiting faculty from New York City’s best companies. We have attached a file that includes our brochure with additional information about our music program and what we stand for.

  We realize it is a little late in the season for an invitation such as this; however, it is our guiding principle that we seek out the most promising young talent, and we would be remiss if we did not at least try.
With a student like Marcus, we would be willing to cover all tuition, board, and any travel expenses. It would cost you nothing.

  Please let us know at your earliest convenience.

  Best regards,

  L. Delphinium

  Director, Larkspur Academy

  “Is this a joke?” Marcus asked.

  “I can’t imagine so.”

  “It’s insane! There was a scout at the Oberlin recital?”

  “You’re a talented kid, Marcus,” she said. “Don’t act so surprised.”

  “And you wouldn’t mind if I went?”

  “I’d be delighted if you went.” She folded her arms and grinned. She looked a little too delighted.

  Before he could answer, a blast of noise resounded in Marcus’s ears, a cacophony filled with instruments, too many to name. This wasn’t like any music he’d ever heard before—it was more like a scream. Marcus flinched, and then, glancing at his mother, tried to disguise his shock as wide-eyed excitement.

  She didn’t hear it at all.

  IN THE DREAM that haunted her, Azumi Endo walked barefoot through the forest behind her aunt’s home in Yamanashi Prefecture. The volcanic rock that had long ago spewed from the top of Mount Fuji made the ground there uneven and tricky beneath twisted tree roots and thick underbrush. Ignoring the clearly marked paths that crisscrossed the wilderness, Azumi often tripped, dropping to her knees, dirtying her nightgown before rising and continuing on. She knew that if she stopped even for a moment she might feel a hand on her shoulder, and if she turned around … well, she didn’t want to imagine what she’d find looming behind her.

  Tonight, she’d pushed farther than she ever had before, to a ravine where a drop-off sliced through the terrain. In the shadows and fog, she couldn’t make out the bottom. One step forward and she would dive into a pit of sharp branches—a deadly trap rigged to ensnare her. She’d been following one of the long ribbons that had been tied to a trunk near the park’s entrance, leading into the heart of the woods.

  That was where the bodies were hidden.

  In the dream, her skin was covered in a cool sheen of sweat, and her mind whirled, making her second-guess what direction to take. She couldn’t lower herself down. The drop was too dangerous. Besides, it didn’t seem likely that Moriko was there. Wouldn’t she have answered Azumi’s call? Azumi suddenly couldn’t remember if she’d even been shouting out to Moriko, but she knew that she must have been. Wasn’t that why she was there?