“Maybe he left in a hurry?” Piper suggested. “Maybe he was in trouble or something and had to get away fast.”
There were books and magazines stacked all over the place—on the kitchen counters, the floor beside the bed, along the windowsills—slim paperbacks with yellowed pages and old magazines with names like Weird Tales, Fantastic Adventures, Astounding Science Fiction.
“You’d think, if he was taking off for a new life out west, he’d pack a few things, maybe even straighten up.” Amy went into the kitchen and looked in the sink. “Holy crap, there are two dirty cups in here. He didn’t even do the dishes before he left.”
Amy turned and picked up a book from the counter; on its cover, a scantily clad girl was standing in front of a spaceship. “Guess the dude liked his sci-fi.”
Another book sat in the middle of the kitchen table: The Stars My Destination. Piper noticed there was a piece of paper being used as a bookmark. She flipped the book open and saw that the paper was Tower Motel stationery, folded in half. On it, neatly typed, were the words:
I know what you are and what you do. You have to stop. If you don’t, I will find a way to stop you.
“Take a look at this,” Piper said, handing the note over to Amy.
“Whoa,” Amy breathed.
“Hey!” Margot called through the open window at the other end of the trailer. “I hear a car coming up the driveway—you better get outta there!”
Amy tucked the folded piece of paper back into the old paperback, shoved it in the waistband of her shorts, and pulled her T-shirt over it. She climbed through the trailer window, Piper right behind her.
“Your grandma’s home, I think,” Margot said, voice low.
“Come on,” Amy said, “let’s go back to my room.”
—
Amy’s grandma was unloading bags of groceries from the back of her Oldsmobile when they got to the driveway. “Give me a hand, will you, girls?” she called out.
They each took a load into the kitchen.
“Grandma, did Fenton go away before Sylvie ran away or after?”
“Right before. I always told your grandfather that Fenton running off like that might have put the idea in Sylvie’s head. Made her think it was perfectly normal to go sneaking off for parts unknown in the middle of the night.”
“Do you know what happened to Fenton? Did you ever hear from him?”
“Hmm? No, no, we never did,” Grandma Charlotte said, stuffing a gallon of milk into the fridge. “Now, why don’t you girls go on upstairs? I’ll put these things away. Then we can make cookies. I got some of that dough in a tube—we just have to bake them.”
“Sure, Grandma, sounds great,” Amy said. “But one more thing…” She reached into her back pocket and pulled out the Polaroid.
Oh, no, Piper thought. Not the freaking ghost-dog picture again.
“What do you see, Gram?”
Grandma Charlotte stared down at the blurry picture for what felt like forever. At last, she recited:
“When Death comes knocking on your door,
you’ll think you’ve seen his face before.
When he comes creeping up your stairs,
you’ll know him from your dark nightmares.
If you hold up a mirror, you shall see
that he is you and you are he.”
Amy took a step back. “Way creepy, Gram.” Amy glanced at Piper and Margot and gave them a dramatic, my-kooky-old-grandma eye roll.
Grandma Charlotte smiled vaguely and went back to the groceries.
“Go on upstairs now, Sylvie. I’ll call you down when it’s time for cookies.”
Amy nodded, muttered, “It’s Amy, Gram,” and headed out of the kitchen, Piper and Margot behind her.
“Well, that was weird,” Margot said under her breath once they got to the stairs.
“Yeah, my grandma’s full of freaky little poems and rhymes. Stuff her mom taught her when she was a kid. But don’t you think that’s a little suspicious?” Amy whispered.
“The poem?” Piper said.
“No, dummy, the thing with Fenton! Fenton leaves—in such a hurry that he left all his crap behind—and then Sylvie takes off right after, and neither of them is ever heard from again?”
“It’s a little weird,” Piper admitted.
“But what does it mean?” asked Margot.
“I don’t know,” said Amy. “But it’s another piece of the puzzle.”
They got to Amy’s room and closed the door; Amy pushed the latch closed. She went to her desk, pulling the paperback sci-fi book out from under her shirt. Suddenly she froze, as her eyes fell on the typewriter.
“What the hell?” she whispered.
There was a piece of Tower Motel stationery rolled into the carriage of the old Royal De Luxe. A message had been neatly typed:
You found the suitcase and typewriter, but there are bigger things to find.
Keep looking.
Maybe, just maybe, you’ll find the truth.
“What is this?” Piper asked.
Amy’s eyes were huge. “Don’t you get it? It’s a note from Sylvie. From Sylvie’s ghost!”
“Wait, Sylvie’s dead?” Margot asked.
“I’m sure of it,” Amy said. “It’s got to be her ghost that’s been visiting me. Jason saw it, too, that day in the tower, remember? He saw someone in blue go in and never come out! And if she was still alive, if she really ran away, why would her suitcase be here?” Amy paused dramatically. “I think she planned on leaving that night, but someone stopped her!”
“Like who?” Piper asked.
“I don’t know,” Amy said. Her eyes were glittering with excitement. “But, obviously, she wants us to find out.”
1961
Alfred Hitchcock
Universal Studios
Hollywood, California
September 18, 1961
Dear Mr. Hitchcock,
I feel like an actress already. Playing different roles for different people. Sometimes I almost forget who the real me is.
Does that make any sense?
Do any of your big stars ever feel that way when they’re playing a role—that they get so caught up in pretending to be someone else they start to forget who they really are? I can’t imagine Janet Leigh or James Stewart getting lost like that. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe any one of us can get a little lost sometimes.
Sincerely yours,
Miss Sylvia A. Slater
The Tower Motel
328 Route 6
London, Vermont
Rose
Rose was awakened by a gunshot. Daddy’s rifle. She knew the sound by heart. Daddy had taught her and Sylvie to shoot, practicing with old tin cans on the fence out behind Fenton’s trailer.
She leapt out of bed, glancing at the clock; she’d overslept again. Sylvie’s bed was already neatly made.
Mama and Sylvie were sitting at the kitchen table, steaming bowls of oatmeal in front of them. Sylvie looked up, saw Rose, then shot Mama a worried glance. Mama pursed her lips.
“I heard a shot,” Rose said.
Mama nodded, eyes down on her oatmeal.
“What happened?” Rose asked, heart sinking into her stomach.
Mama sat up so that her back was as straight as the chair she sat in. “Honey, Lucy got worse. She wasn’t able to stand at all this morning.”
“No!” Rose said. Daddy wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t possibly shoot Lucy. Not without letting Rose say goodbye.
“She was in terrible pain,” Mama said.
“No!” Rose cried again, running out of the kitchen, through the front door, down the steps, across the yard, her robe flying out behind her like a cape. Fenton and Daddy were coming back toward the house. Daddy was carrying his Winchester rifle.
“How could you?” Rose screamed.
“Rose, the animal was suffering,” Daddy said.
“You could have called the vet! You could have woken me up!”
I could have fixe
d her. I could have gotten her to stand up and eat.
Daddy shook his head. “There was nothing either you or the best veterinarian in the world could have done for that old cow, Rose. Her time had come.”
“It’s not fair. You don’t get to decide!”
“It was the kindest—” Daddy began.
“You’re a murderer,” Rose spat.
Daddy looked at her but didn’t speak. His eyes looked hollow, sad. “I’m sorry,” he said at last, and walked past her, into the house.
“I hate you,” she called after him. “I hate everyone in this whole terrible family.”
Daddy didn’t so much as pause; he just kept right on walking, gun in his hands.
Rose started to head for Lucy’s pen, but Fenton grabbed her. “No,” he said. “It’s best if you don’t see her.” She shook him off and ran across the yard and to the fence.
There was her beautiful cow, a small round bullet hole right in the center of her forehead. Rose opened the gate and lay down beside Lucy, buried her face in the cow’s still-warm fur and cried.
She cried for what felt like hours, days. Flies came and landed on her and Lucy, and Rose flicked them away, used the sleeve of her robe to clean the blood from Lucy’s forehead.
She had lost her only true friend.
“I’m sorry, girl,” she cried. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“She had a good life,” Fenton said.
Rose turned around. Fenton was there behind her, leaning on the fence. Had he been there the whole time?
“If she’d been any other cow, she would have been made into hamburger years ago. Your daddy, he loved Lucy. You don’t know how hard it was for him to shoot her today. And you know what he wants to do? He wants to bury her in the back field. Dig a big old hole and have a real funeral. Send her off right.”
Rose kept her face buried in the cow’s warm chest, ran her hands over her ribs, her shoulder blade, down her bumpy spine.
“I should have been here,” Rose said. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
“Now, Rose, your dad didn’t want to upset you, that’s all. I think he still sees you as a little kid, fragile. You’re tougher than he knows, Rose.”
She lifted her head, nodded.
“Smarter, too,” Fenton said. “Your father—both your parents, really—they don’t give you enough credit.”
For a second, Rose was surprised. Then, she thought, Exactly. For once, someone had it right. “Thank you,” she said.
“In fact,” he said, “I bet there’s not a whole lot that goes on here that you don’t know about. I bet the things you know would surprise everyone.”
She nodded up at him. If only he knew the half of it. But then, feeling the need to prove herself, she said, “I know about Daddy.”
“What about him?” Fenton said.
“That there’s another lady he sees. Her name is Vivienne.”
Fenton blew out a breath. “You know about that, huh? Well, do us all a favor and don’t mention that one to either of your parents.”
“Mama knows already,” Rose said.
“Yeah, well, just ’cause she knows doesn’t mean she needs to be reminded, right?”
Rose nodded. She felt strangely powerful. The keeper of grown-up secrets.
“Hey,” Fenton said. “Seeing as how you’ve already missed the school bus, how about you come to the trailer for a cup of cocoa? Then I can give you a lift to school when you’re good and ready. How does that sound?”
Rose wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Okay,” she said, standing on rubbery legs. She followed Fenton past the swimming pool (closed down for the season), and across the grass to his blue-and-white trailer.
“Take a seat,” he said once they were inside. Rose sat at the little table while he moved around the small, efficient kitchen, heating milk, stirring in cocoa powder and sugar.
Clang, clang, clang, went the spoon in the saucepan. Maybe it was Rose’s imagination, but there was something odd about Fenton today. He seemed out of sorts. Nervous. He wasn’t quite looking her in the eye. She guessed he was just feeling bad about Lucy. Men had a hard time expressing emotion. She’d read that in an article in one of Sylvie’s magazines and believed it was true.
They were quiet a minute while Fenton worked at the stove. Rose looked around. Fenton’s trailer was always clean, but cluttered—paperback books, tools, and motorcycle parts covered every surface. In spite of the apparent chaos, Fenton always seemed to know where everything was.
“This what you’re reading?” Rose asked, picking up the paperback in front of her. There was a napkin stuck in it, being used as a bookmark.
The Stars My Destination, the cover said.
“Uh-huh,” Fenton said.
“Is it good?” Rose asked.
“Pretty good. People can teleport. It’s actually pretty interesting.”
“I wish I could teleport,” Rose said.
Fenton grinned at her. “Where would you go?” he asked.
“Anywhere,” she told him. “Anywhere but here.”
“I know the feeling,” Fenton said. He got two mugs down and carefully poured the cocoa into them. He put a cup right in front of her. She wrapped her hands around it, fingers soaking up the warmth.
“Do you?” Rose asked.
“Sure. I mean especially now, things being the way they are. The motel, the whole town, it’s all in pretty bad shape, right? You’ve gotta wonder if we all wouldn’t be better off someplace else.”
Rose nodded and took a sip of her cocoa. It was perfect: sweet and chocolaty and just what she needed.
“Sylvie wants to go to Hollywood,” Rose said. Her sister had covered her side of the bedroom with pictures of movie stars cut from magazines. Above her bed, she had a drawing Fenton had done for her of the Hollywood sign up in the hills.
Fenton nodded. “I know, and she will one day. I’m sure of it.”
Fenton drummed his fingers on the table. He took a sip of his cocoa, then pushed the cup away and reached into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. He shook one out and lit up, squinting at Rose through the smoke.
“Rose,” he said, “there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
His voice was as serious as serious gets. Was it about Lucy? About how crazy Rose had been acting? Maybe he was going to give her hell for ruining Sylvie’s birthday cake—everyone else already had. Maybe it was more about Daddy and Vivienne. About how her parents’ marriage was in rough shape, just like everything else around here.
Whatever Fenton was going to say, she was sure she didn’t want to hear it. She wanted to do the little-girl trick of sticking her fingers in her ears and singing loudly so she wouldn’t hear. But she wasn’t a little girl anymore.
“What?” Rose asked, setting down her mug. Suddenly the cocoa was so sweet it made her teeth ache.
Fenton took another drag of his cigarette. The smoke drifted out of his mouth like blue-gray fog.
“About what you saw last night.”
The words hit Rose right in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her.
“What I…saw?” she stammered once she had her breath back.
Fenton nodded, looked her right in the eye. “Out in the tower. After you followed your sister there.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Rose said, pushing herself up and away from the table. She backed up on shaky legs.
“Don’t play games,” he said, rising, stepping toward her. “This is serious. Do you know what could happen if people find out?”
“Find out?” Rose croaked, backing farther, feeling for the door behind her, remembering her sister, how she hadn’t been simply Sylvie anymore, but some sort of hideous monster—something with extra arms and wings.
What would happen if people found out?
And how was it that Fenton knew? Had he known all along, been in on her secret? Was he one of them, too? Another monster?
“Rose,” he said, “I need you to promise
me that you won’t tell. If you did…” His eyes flashed with a strange rage Rose hadn’t expected. They had a reddish glint in the dim light of the trailer.
“I have to go,” she said. She turned and pushed the door open, jumped down the steps, and started heading across the field.
“Wait!” Fenton called. “Don’t you want a ride to school?”
Rose didn’t answer. She ran back to the house and up the stairs, past her mother doing dishes in the kitchen.
She got to her bedroom and locked the door.
Fenton knew. Fenton was Sylvie’s protector. Had she turned him into a monster, too? Could mares do that? She couldn’t recall Oma ever mentioning it—but, then, she hadn’t known just how closely she should have been paying attention to Oma’s stories.
How far would Fenton go to keep Sylvie’s secret?
Rose flung herself down on her bed to think. She pulled the covers up over her head and shut her eyes as tight as she could, trying to bring on darkness.
At last, she knew what she had to do.
She rose from bed, went to Sylvie’s desk, and sat down in front of the typewriter. She carefully loaded in a sheet of clean, white motel stationery and began to type.
I know what you are and what you do. You have to stop. If you don’t, I will find a way to stop you.
Rose left the note there in Sylvie’s typewriter. Then she got herself washed and dressed and asked her mother if she could please drive her to school.
Rose
Rose avoided both Sylvie and Fenton when she got home from school that afternoon, sticking close to Mama, offering to do one chore after another: folding laundry, starching Daddy’s shirts, dusting the living room.
During dinner, Daddy asked Fenton to fix the lights in the motel sign down by the road. “One whole side is burned out. Can’t see the sign when you’re heading into town.”
“Not that it matters,” Mama mumbled in a voice so low Rose wondered if her father even heard it.
The Night Sister Page 16
