Threshold

by Sean Platt

  He was in the manor, but it wasn’t the present. And Savannah was there.

  He tried to remember more, but everything was fuzzy. Now he wanted to return to the dream more than when he was about to get laid. Because now Savannah’s mystery was waiting.

  Since reading the journal, he’d returned to her room and found another two, sneaking them to his room and devouring both in a single sitting. They were earlier journals, written a year or two before the one he’d already read, and not nearly as interesting. Nor did they answer the question of what happened after her punishment. Had that been her last journal? Her final words before taking her own life?

  Even though the earlier journals were written when she was younger, and filled with silly things about music, animals she liked, and other things that girls wrote about as kids, he still appreciated getting to know more of her. They weren’t the pieces of her puzzle he was looking for, but they were pieces nonetheless, pieces that helped him get to know her better.

  And the more he knew, the more he felt an odd connection with her. Connection might not be the best way to describe it, as it was purely one-way. It wasn’t as if she could know him in return. It was kind of pointless, he thought, yet he couldn’t stop yearning to know more.

  He wished Iris would return his stupid message, so he could stop obsessing about a girl long dead.

  But Iris had yet to reply. Maybe she was still laughing at his message. Maybe she was regretting letting him kiss her that night. Maybe her brother and Horse-Face ridiculed her. You like that dork? And now she’d lost interest.

  Even as he thought about Iris, his thoughts kept getting pulled back to Savannah.

  It was weird reading Savannah’s later journal first, then reading ones she’d written when she was younger. A part of him felt like if he tried hard enough, he could go back in time to when she was writing the pages and warn her of what was to come.

  Don’t tell your father about the things you see!

  Don’t tell him about Madison and the cellar!

  And as he thought of the cellar, Hudson again wondered what was down there that Alastair was trying to cover up. What had scared him so?

  “Hudson,” a girl’s voice whispered from outside his room.

  He sat up in bed, staring at the door and the shadow passing beneath it.

  “Hazel?” he whispered back.

  No response.

  “You better not be messing with me.”

  Hudson got out of bed, annoyed, then went to his door and opened it.

  The hallway was dark and empty, save for a swath of moonlight bleeding through the window behind him.

  Hazel’s door was closed. But Savannah’s was ajar.

  “Hudson …” The whisper came again.

  He wanted to yell at Hazel to come out from Savannah’s room and stop messing around. But a weird part of him that thought maybe it wasn’t Hazel.

  Maybe it’s—

  He couldn’t finish the thought, lest he admit to something he didn’t — shouldn’t — believe.

  He’d felt like a fool too many times in his life. The last thing he wanted to do was give his sister a reason to mock him, or his father a reason to think him crazy, too.

  He stepped into his shadow and followed the voice.

  He passed Hazel’s door on the right. It was open, and she wasn’t in her bed.

  Of course she’s not in her bed — she’s in Savannah’s room waiting to scare me!

  He walked as quietly as possible, passing two other closed doors, thinking maybe he could surprise Hazel by ducking into one of them and calling her.

  But the closer he got to Savannah’s room, the more he felt it pulling at him.

  He reached the end of the hallway. Savannah’s door was on the right, with his father’s directly ahead.

  He looked at Dad’s closed door and wondered if Hazel was in there just on the other side, her ear pressed against the wood, waiting until she heard him. Hell, maybe she and Dad were both waiting, poised to scare the crap out of him.

  It wasn’t like Dad to do something like that, or much of anything fun lately. But maybe he’d do it to lighten the mood.

  I swear to God if they scare me, I’ll soooo make them regret it!

  If Dad thought Hazel was a drama queen, Hudson would make sure to show him what real drama was. See how the old man liked having both his children sleeping in his room.

  Hudson laughed at the idea of pulling the same shit as his sister, maybe out-Hazel Hazel.

  He paused in front of his dad’s door, waiting.

  To his right, in Savannah’s room, he heard his name whispered again.

  Okay, you little brat, you asked for it.

  He reached out and pushed Savannah’s door open.

  It swung with a light creak, revealing an empty room.

  His eyes locked on the closet doors.

  Hazel had to be in there, probably giggling like crazy, about to piss herself.

  Want to scare me, eh?

  He turned around, pulled Savannah’s bedroom door closed, then twisted the lock.

  See how you like this!

  Hudson was pissed at himself for being nice to Hazel following her attic scare. She’d played him, just like she played Dad, making him proud to be her big brother and protector. But clearly she didn’t want to mend fences. No, she wanted to wake him up from a great dream, playing childish games in the middle of the night, maybe hoping to get revenge for whatever imagined sins he’d committed.

  You wanna play? Let’s play.

  He looked down at Savannah’s bed, the stuffed animals looking eerily up at him, moonlight in their eyes.

  He grabbed the girl’s pillow, pulled the pillowcase off, then tossed the pillow back onto the bed. He held the pillowcase open with two hands, ready to slide it over Hazel’s head, yank her into the closet, and really scare the crap out of her.

  He held his breath as he gingerly stepped toward the closet doors, careful not to make a sound.

  He listened.

  He could hear her breathing on the other side.

  He smiled.

  This is going to be so good. If I’m gonna get in trouble, may as well make it worthwhile.

  He reached out, touched the handle’s edge, then threw open the door.

  It slid fast, hit the track with a thud, and Hudson jumped into the closet with the pillowcase open and ready.

  Except Hazel wasn’t in the closet.

  Nobody was.

  “What the hell?” he said, looking around.

  Impossible! I just heard her breathing.

  Something on the floor grabbed his attention.

  He reached up, found the string to turn the light on, and yanked it.

  The light revealed a journal sitting behind the boxes.

  This wasn’t here the last time I looked.

  He reached down and picked it up.

  He opened the book.

  The first page began with:

  I HATE MY LIFE.

  I WANT TO DIE.

  The words were bold, big capital letters traced over many times in blue ink, occupying the journal’s entire first page.

  He flipped to the next page.

  The entry was dated nearly six months after the entries where she’d been punished and held in isolation.

  It’s not getting any better.

  He still won’t let me out of my room, nor will he let me see anyone.

  Says I’m still EVIL.

  He brings this woman over to the house who comes in my room and says all these weird words in another language, but none of it makes sense.

  She doesn’t say anything else, and she always leaves looking disappointed.

  I don’t know what’s going on, and

  The entry ended abruptly.

  Hudson turned the page.

  Another one, a week later:

  I saw the ghosts again.

  They showed me something special.

  They showed me that I have a power.
<
br />   I can move things.

  I practiced on my unicorns, and then on heavier stuff.

  I think I can get out of my room.

  They said if I do, I can join them in the cellar.

  The next entry, two days later:

  I got out.

  But Father stopped me before I could get into the cellar.

  He dragged me up to my room, slapped me across the face, then locked me inside.

  I screamed for an hour, but the staff ignores me, just like always.

  I can’t take it any longer.

  I guess I’ll have to find another way to join the ghosts.

  Sorry, Mom.

  Hudson’s heart was in his throat as he stared at the words which ended abruptly in the middle of the page.

  No! There’s got to be more!

  Hudson panicked.

  He tore at the pages, plowing forward, finding nothing until the final one. His eyes settled on the words — written in red unlike the rest of the journal’s blue ink.

  He shook his head as he read them.

  No.

  Impossible!

  Scrawled in Savannah’s hand, shaky and red all over the page, were the words:

  I need you, Hudson. Please help me.

  He touched the red and found it wet.

  * * * *

  SCOTT

  Prince Hudson was sleeping in as Scott sat with Hazel for breakfast in a little nook, enjoying a lovely view of the gardens and woods stretching forever behind the house. Hazel munched on a Danish as she laughed at a group of birds playing in their bath in the garden.

  Scott tried to enjoy the moment, even vicariously through Hazel’s enjoyment, but his anger at Hudson was souring everything.

  Scott had tried to wake his son at 8 a.m., as they’d agreed to the evening before, but that effort led to what seemed like a brutal argument would surely erupt if he pressed it.

  The children would be starting school in a week if they were still living in Las Orillas. And while they’d been assured they would get the very best resources without ever having to leave Galloway Manor or being forced into a rigid school schedule — not that Scott saw anything wrong with that — he wanted them to have a normal bedtime, and wake at a reasonable hour. Having sudden wealth didn’t abdicate his responsibility to raise his children correctly.

  After too many arguments, Scott and Hudson had begrudgingly agreed on an 8 a.m. wakeup, an hour later than Scott thought should be his absolute latest, and an hour before Hudson said was reasonable.

  Scott looked up from Hazel to the clock on the wall behind her which read 8:30, and tried to not let Hudson’s tardiness further ruin his breakfast.

  He smiled at Hazel.

  “Are you ever going to get tired of these amazing breakfasts?”

  “No,” she spoke through a mouthful of Danish. “Definitely not. Are you?”

  “No. Never.”

  “I see where Mom got it.”

  Scott looked at Hazel, raising his eyebrows. “Got what?”

  “The food thing. You know, how she was always cooking, no matter what. And how she always wanted us to eat, and gave us too many choices. Stuff like that. Maybe she got that from staying here … Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why do you think Mom never told us about Great-Uncle Alastair, or the manor — or any of this?”

  Scott set down his coffee, not surprised by the question. He had expected it since their arrival, and had wondered why it was taking his children so long to ask.

  “I don’t know, honey. I really wish I did.”

  “Do you think it has anything to do with … her not being here?”

  “It might.” Scott had wondered the same thing, too many times.

  The kitchen doors swung open, and Mara came in carrying the silver carafe full of coffee. She nodded at Scott, smiling as she poured a fresh cup. She looked from him to Hazel and back.

  “My mom and I are going into town, Mr. Dawson. I was wondering if Hazel wanted to come, and if that would be okay with you if she did.”

  “Of course.” Scott forced a smile, not really wanting her to leave.

  Mara told Hazel to meet her out front in five minutes. She beamed, then turned to Scott. “We’ll finish talking later, okay? I promise. I love you, Daddy!”

  She threw her arms around him, kissed Scott on each of his cheeks, then left the nook. He finished his coffee, taking his time, sipping while reading headlines on his new tablet.

  He finished, killed time wandering the manor without direction, and finally found himself in the bar, pouring a drink. The small glass was halfway to his expectant lips when Carter stepped through the doorway, looked at Scott, laughed out loud, and said, “Little early for that, isn’t it?”

  “It’s 5 o’clock somewhere.” Scott turned from Carter and poured the drink down his throat.

  * * * *

  HAZEL

  Hazel stared out the window, trying to capture everything they passed on their way into town. Mara and her mom both kept talking so much, she could barely focus on anything beyond their words. Mara was twenty-four but seemed younger — like a teenager — and Hazel liked being around her.

  “Aren’t you glad to get out of the manor?” she asked.

  Hazel was, but shrugged and said, “I guess.”

  “The manor is wonderful,” Jacquelyn said, keeping her eyes on the road. “But it’s great to get out every now and then, too. When I was your age, my favorite part of the week was driving into town. I always went with my mom and grandpa. Grandma died when I was just a bit younger than you, and Grandpa hung around for another two years. He went with us everywhere. He always seemed so sad at the manor, walking around and missing her, rifling through drawers and handling all of her old things. It was awful. But he’d always brighten up as soon as we left, and talk right through the drive every time.”

  Hazel smiled, not because the story was anything special, but because of the sweet lilt to Jacquelyn’s voice while she told it.

  They drove past fancy houses and smaller shacks, then eventually into town, the car’s cabin filled with an unnatural silence. Hazel knew what was coming.

  “Is it true you saw your mom?” Jacquelyn asked.

  Everything seemed suddenly louder: The car, their breathing, a single shock of thunder in the distance. Hazel deflected. “How far are we from the store?”

  Jacquelyn said, “Two minutes.”

  Mara said, “It’s fine if you saw her. Carter told us. You don’t have to feel weird about it.”

  Hazel would have gladly poured herself an acid bath and dipped right in, rather than answer questions about her mom.

  “It’s okay, you know,” Mara continued. “Whatever you saw, it’s not weird. And you shouldn’t think it is. That’s the way things have always been at the manor. Anyone who has ever lived at the mansion has a ghost story to tell.”

  Hazel still said nothing, tapping her foot on the floorboard, muscling through the final minute before their arrival at the store.

  Jacquelyn moved her eyes from the road to the backseat. “You’re safe, Hazel. Whatever you say in this car will stay here. We want to help you understand, however we can. You’ve been through a lot, and don’t have to go through it alone. Let us help you by listening.”

  Put like that, it sounded wonderful.

  Hazel did need someone to hear her.

  “I saw my mom by the gazebo,” she admitted, trying to keep her voice from cracking. “I used to hear her back home, just after I’d fall asleep. But this was the first time I saw her since she disappeared. She called me outside. She didn’t stay long because my dad came outside, and then my brother. Mom left once we were all there.”

  Jacquelyn parked three rows from the front of the grocery store, killed the engine, then turned to the backseat after a subtle glance at Mara. “What did she say?”

  Hazel tried to separate the voices in her head from those that seemed to chase her through the manor. “She didn’t say mu
ch. And she wasn’t there long.”

  Hazel wondered if they had really been oblivious to the commotion, or were only pretending.

  “Have you ever seen other things in the house?” Mara asked.

  “What do you mean other things?”

  Jacquelyn seemed to be studying Hazel, her eyes narrowed, nose turned up, mouth drawn back, expression kind but assessing.

  “Well,” Mara said, “anything, really. The manor is different for everyone, depending on who you are. Have you seen anything?”

  Hazel knew: They wanted to know about Savannah. The ghost.

  “I saw Savannah.” Hazel studied their faces. “Have you?”

  Mara said nothing, though Hazel thought she wanted to. Almost too fast, Jacquelyn said, “Savannah was a sweet girl. Her passing was an absolute tragedy. My mom cried for two weeks, almost without stopping. I cried for longer than that.” She pulled keys from the ignition, and shook her head. “Just. Horrible.”

  Jacquelyn hadn’t answered the question. “Ready to go inside?”

  Five minutes later Hazel was inside the store and picking out cereal, any one that she wanted, when Mara was suddenly beside her. “Do you have a favorite?”

  Without moving her eyes from the rows full of color, Hazel said, “I love Cap’n Crunch, but hate how it makes the roof of my mouth feel.”

  “All scratchy?”

  “Yeah. It’s worth it, though, especially with the crunch berries.”

  Mara shook her head. “Try something else. Cap’n Crunch is a liar and a fraud. Go with Golden Grahams, they never lied to anyone.”

  Hazel laughed as Mara handed her a box of Golden Grahams.

  “A liar and a fraud?”

  “Navy captains have four stripes; commanders have three. Like Cap’n Crunch. Sure, anyone who leads a ship can technically be called a captain, but I think the Cap’n knows exactly what he’s doing and is trying to work us all. Don’t let him fool you.”

  Hazel laughed, returned the fraudulent Cap’n to the shelf, and hugged a box of Golden Grahams to her chest.