Towering

by Alex Flinn

  I went to the window and looked down. The lawn in question was at least three feet deep in snow. Did that mean I had to shovel the path?

  Or, more important, what if the old lady was crazy?

  It was a fair question. Danielle’s diary made it sound that way. Also, why would she even let me stay? Obviously, she’d been doing okay until now. What if she was a whack job who would murder me in my sleep? What if she’d murdered Danielle?

  I fumbled for my cell and, absent anyone else who cared, tried to text my mother.

  No bars. Still.

  I tried again.

  Nothing. Maybe I could go to town or somewhere today, to try and see if it worked. Doubtful. Besides, who did I want to speak to? This place was like one of those novels we read in English class, where people were out on the moors with no one around anywhere and nothing to do but read. You know, like two hundred years ago.

  Speaking of which . . . I took out the novel I was supposed to be reading for my online school class, Wuthering Heights. I’d tried several times to start it on the train, but it was just too boring, so boring I kept falling asleep. I started again. The chapters where Lockwood arrives at the house he’s renting but first stops to meet his landlord were still the same, still boring. No surprises until I came to a part that made me sit upright.

  My fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand!

  The intense horror of nightmare came over me; I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed,

  “Let me in—let me in!”

  Impossible. It was what had happened last night, exactly what had happened. Now, I dimly recalled that Lockwood in the story had done as I had, gone into a bedroom and found an old diary. But I hadn’t read this part. I was sure.

  Or had I?

  No time to think! My thoughts were interrupted by a knocking on my door, not a desperate knocking like last night, but a calm, businesslike knocking and a chipper voice.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead! Everyone must wake sometime!”

  It was Mrs. Greenwood. I looked down, found myself still in jeans and a T-shirt from last night. Would she think I was lazy, lock me in a room?

  “Are you dressed? I made biscuits!”

  I shrugged. No need to prolong the inevitable. “Sure.” I opened the door.

  The old lady standing there looked nothing like the one I’d met last night. This one could have been in a commercial for Hallmark cards or stuffing or something, a sweet, blue-eyed old lady in a red dress and white apron. She held a tray with what looked like a Denny’s Grand Slam on it: eggs, bacon, and biscuits. She smiled. She had dimples and all her teeth.

  “I let you sleep in. You must have been tired from your journey.” She placed the tray on a small table with a ruffled cloth. “Oh, it’s so nice to have someone to cook for. It’s been years.”

  She gave no sign of having met me the night before, much less having yelled at me. In fact, she said, “I see you found your room all right then?”

  “Of course. This looks great.” So weird.

  “Well, don’t expect room service every day. This is a special occasion. You can’t stay in bed all the time, or soon, you’ll find you can’t get up. I know.”

  She must mean when her daughter disappeared, that she’d been depressed.

  “Dig in.” She spied the book on the bed. “Wuthering Heights! Do you like gothic novels?”

  Being male, no. “I just started it. It’s for school.” This was sooo weird. Had last night been all a dream? But then, how had I gotten in this room, in this bed? Had I been here all the time? Was something wrong with me, even more than I’d imagined?

  “When you’ve read a bit more, we can have a nice, long talk about it. And if you enjoy it, I have Jane Eyre and The Woman in White.”

  “That’s great.” I’d given up on thinking about this.

  “Oh, forgive my babbling. It’s just so nice to have someone to talk to. I’ll let you eat and then, perhaps later, you can help me shovel the walk.”

  This was part of the deal, I knew. My mother had said I’d help around the house. I didn’t mind that, but I was weirded out. Mrs. Greenwood gestured toward the tray, urging me to eat more, then left.

  As soon as she was gone, I dove for the book. I kept reading. It was long-lost Cathy at the window, and then, as with last night (Had it been a dream?), Lockwood’s cries woke his host, Heathcliff. Heathcliff ran into the room, scolded Lockwood, and then, after Lockwood left, Heathcliff rushed to the window, screaming, “Come in! Come in! Cathy, do come. Oh, do—once more!”

  Just as Mrs. Greenwood had.

  Clearly, it had all been a dream, a dream born from reading Wuthering Heights while half asleep. The only thing was, I didn’t remember reading it.

  Whatever.

  I realized I was hungry, really hungry. I hadn’t eaten anything on the train, and I couldn’t remember what I’d eaten before that either. In fact, the past few weeks were sort of a blur. So I wolfed down the breakfast, hoping that food would replace doubt as central in my mind. It almost did. Almost.

  In fact, the food was delicious. It had been a long time since I’d really enjoyed food or anything else, but Mrs. Greenwood’s biscuits might have broken the barrier. Maybe coming here hadn’t been a bad idea. At least, I was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt that she wasn’t crazy, hadn’t killed her daughter, and hadn’t creeped me out last night. I mean, did crazy people make biscuits like this?

  After I finished breakfast, I walked to the window and opened it to see if the cell phone service was any better (or existed) there. It wasn’t, but the view was pretty. The snow had finally finished falling, and the sky was bright, reflecting blue on the white. I stared at the vast, snowy lawn.

  Maybe my mother had been right. For once. It was a new start, a new place, decent food, a friendly old lady who knew nothing about me. I could be anything, anyone I wanted. I could be better.

  Then, I noticed something weird. On the lawn, below the room next to mine, were footprints. Footprints barely hidden in the snow. Even though it had been snowing all night, I could make them out as if they’d been made only hours, not days, earlier.

  I opened the window to see something else, the walkway leading to the door where I’d come in. I’d agreed to shovel the walk, and even from a distance, I could tell it was completely blank, white. I’d come in after midnight. That meant the footprints under the window had been made even later.

  Through the trees, I heard a sound. At first, I thought it was birds, or the tinkling of a wind chime. It was so blank and white and empty here, I bet you could hear noises from miles away. But, as I listened, the sound put itself together in my mind, and I recognized it.

  A human voice.

  Singing.

  Then, the wind shifted, and the voice was gone.

  5

  Wyatt

  After it became obvious I wasn’t going to find service no matter how many times I raised the phone in the air, I decided to get dressed and go downstairs. I took my plate with me and hunted for the kitchen.

  Mrs. Greenwood was there. “Did you enjoy your breakfast?” She was cleaning up after what looked like a baking project. At least, there was a big bowl and flour scattered on the counter and a delicious cinnamony smell coming from the oven. “Wyatt?”

  “What? Oh, breakfast was great.” Normally, I resented this type of meaningless, extraneous question when it came from my mother. She didn’t actually want to know how my breakfast was, after all, just wanted to force me to talk. But Mrs. Greenwood hadn’t cooked for anyone in years, and really did want my opinion about the biscuits. And, more to the point, I wanted to interrogate her about 1) cell phone service; 2) internet; and 3) the possibility of going to town and seeing some people, even if those people would probably be backwoods hicks. So I said, “Best biscuits I ever had.”

  She beamed, so I laid it on thicker. I’d actually been good at that. “Is that pie I smell? App
le?”

  “Actually, it’s apfelkuchen. Apple cake. My mother’s recipe. It’s so nice to have someone to cook and bake for. There’s been no one since . . .”

  She broke off, but I filled in. “Since Danielle.”

  “I am sorry.” She picked up the mixing bowl and began to fill it with water. The faucet was old, and it stuck a little. “You came here to get away from your problems, but instead, you’re stuck with an old lady and her long-dead ghosts.” She began to scrub the bowl a bit too hard with a brush.

  So she assumed Danielle was dead too, then. I surprised myself by saying, “No, it’s okay. I know how hard it is. See, my best friend died last month.”

  It was the first time I’d said the words. Back home, everyone knew Tyler was dead. I didn’t have to tell anyone, even if they didn’t say anything.

  She started to reach for my hand, to say she was sorry. I decided that was enough reality TV stuff for one day, so I said, “You need me to shovel the walk?”

  “Has it finished snowing? No use starting if it hasn’t.”

  I glanced out at the lawn, at the white walkway. “I think it’s done for now, at least.”

  She wiped out the clean bowl. “The shovel is in the garage. I’ll show you.” She gestured for me to follow her.

  I said, “Um, so does anyone live around here?”

  She turned back, surprised. “Oh, there’s a farmhouse about half a mile away. Josh, the boy who picked you up. Nice family. They own the hardware store in town.”

  “Nothing closer?”

  “Oh, no. The McNeills were on the other side, but they left years ago.”

  “I thought I heard . . .” I stopped. Obviously, I was wrong.

  “What is it, dear?”

  “Oh, nothing. I was just wondering if I’d be able to use my cell phone. And internet.”

  “Oh, yes, your mother hired a man to hook up the . . . um . . .”

  “Wi-Fi?”

  “Yes. So you can take your classes on the computer. But I’m afraid you’ll need to go to town to use your telephone. Of course, I have that phone.” She pointed to a yellow phone with one of those old dials. “We’re quite isolated here in the mountains, so I have it, for emergencies.”

  “Quite isolated here” sounded like something a man in a horror movie would say—right before he started swinging the machete. But Mrs. Greenwood was opening the oven. The room filled with heat and even more cinnamon. She removed a straw from a little broom to test her cake for doneness.

  “Some people like it, though,” she continued. “They think they’re getting away from it all.”

  Or it just gives them more time to think about their problems.

  “In any case, you can take my car to town sometimes, to do the shopping.”

  I let out a breath and realized I’d been holding it. I’d been worrying that she didn’t even have a car or that the crazy lady who’d locked Danielle in the house wouldn’t let me out either, and it would be like this movie I saw on TV once, Misery, where a woman holds a guy hostage in her house all winter long, and hobbles his feet so he can’t walk, and no one even knows he’s missing.

  But, then again, maybe the diary didn’t exist either. I hadn’t looked at it today, after all. If everything else last night was a dream, maybe that was too.

  But when I finished the walk and went up to my room, I found it right where I’d dreamed I’d hidden it.

  The first pages said just what I remembered too. Since I had nothing else to do and was more than a little curious, I turned to the next entry.

  6

  Danielle’s Diary

  Today, I talked Mom into letting me walk to Old Lady McNeill’s house a mile down the road for milk and eggs. Mom was baking a cake and she ran out. Big fun. But you’ll see what happened . . .

  This is the first sunny day in a week, and I feel like a flower that has been kept in a closet, starving for light. I promised I wouldn’t be gone long, and I took Ginger our lab, who can’t walk far because she’s old and puffy. Still, as we started down the hill, I broke into a run. Free of Mom!! I was free of Mom!

  And then, I tripped over a root and fell to the ground, scraping my hands and knees. I lay there, struggling, in pain, smelling the wet dirt around me and thinking how stupid I was. I’ve lived here my whole life, know every rock and root, including the one I’d tripped on. How could I fall?

  Thinking back, I wonder if it was MEANT to happen.

  When I tried to pull myself up on the trunk of that same malevolent old tree, I found that not only had I scraped my leg—I’d also twisted it somehow. In my paranoid mind, it felt broken. I couldn’t walk at all. I contemplated my situation—could I send Ginger back to tell Mom somehow? Considering she wasn’t actually like dogs in movies who did that, probably not. As I thought about this, Ginger began to bark. I looked up to see what she was barking at.

  It was a man. Or, really, a guy around my own age, the very same guy I’d seen outside our house a week ago. The one Mom had seen fit to imprison me for looking at. He was about ten feet away, but he walked closer.

  I tried to push myself up. Competing instincts warred with each other. A stranger on a deserted road could be a rapist or a serial killer or both. Yet, I knew I couldn’t run and, what’s more, I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Not only has it been weeks since I’ve seen anyone but my mother—it may have been YEARS since I’ve seen anyone new. No one new comes to Slakkill. Why would they? Everyone has been here forever. And don’t they say you’re most likely to get murdered by someone you know?

  Of course, it didn’t hurt that this guy was gorgeous. As he came closer, I could see that he was tall with white-blond hair that glowed in the morning light. His walk, too, was different than anything I’d ever seen. People in Slakkill walked quickly and with hunched shoulders, as if they were cringing from the constant cold or just weighed down by their pointless lives. The only exceptions were the jocks, who walked with a swagger that revealed they didn’t realize they were someday going to end up as beer-bellied car salesmen, like their dads. This guy had neither. He looked open. And, did I mention cute?

  Even Ginger must have noticed because she stopped barking as he approached. In fact, she trotted up to him and licked his hand like she knew him.

  “Hey, girl.” He petted her head.

  “That dog would kill you soon as look at you,” I joked.

  “I can see she’s very protective.” He laughed. His eyes were the brightest blue I’d ever seen, the color of the ice-blue mint cough drops Mom used to give me when I had a cold. He held his hand out. “Can I help you?”

  I started to take it then hesitated. I knew nothing about this guy. Yet, what choice did I have? I was injured, stranded someplace where a car passed maybe every few hours. Mom was inside, probably watching General Hospital. Did I refuse his offer and try to crawl to safety? Even Ginger, my supposed line of defense, was now happily sniffing the guy’s very cute butt.

  “I’m not going to abduct you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  But wouldn’t he say that even if he was?

  “You just looked like you could use some help. I could go away and call the volunteer fire fighters, and they’d be here in an hour or so. It’s just, the situation has sort of a romantic quality, like the novels girls like—a fair young maiden takes a tumble and a handsome young man comes to her rescue.”

  I said, “You consider yourself handsome, do you?”

  “Is there any question.” He grinned. “Can I help you up?”

  I tried one last time to push myself up, then winced. I decided to take a chance. “Yes, please.”

  I grasped his hand. It felt hard, calloused, a man’s hand. But when I tried to stand, I yelped in pain.

  “You probably shouldn’t put weight on it,” he said, and then, before I could protest (even if I would have), he scooped me up in his arms and started to carry me away.

  “Wait. Where are you taking me?”

  “Just my car
.”

  “Your car?” I saw an old blue Pinto parked by the roadside. Visions of abduction once again began dancing in my head.

  He laughed. “Nothing like that. I have some crutches in the back from when I sprained my ankle last month. Should be able to adjust them to fit, and then, I can take you wherever you want to go. Do you live there?”

  He pointed to our house, which looked suddenly really old and dirty. Obviously, I should have let him drive me up the driveway, but I knew Mom would freak if I came home in a strange car with a strange guy. The way she’d been acting lately, she’d probably lock me in my room forever. Also, I didn’t want the day to be over so quickly.

  “Um, yes, but I’m supposed to go buy eggs from our neighbor, Mrs. McNeill. That’s where I was going. My mother called and told her to expect me. She’s probably waiting outside.”

  That wasn’t true. Mom wasn’t friendly with Mrs. McNeill. They’d fought when the McNeill goats had gotten out and terrorized my mother’s precious garden, and now, she only let me buy eggs when she didn’t feel like going to town. But I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have him think someone was expecting me.

  “Okay, Mrs. McNeill it is.” He managed to open the car’s passenger door and lowered me to the seat. “Just a sec.”

  He walked around to the trunk and took out not only the crutches but an ace bandage. “Look what I found. Can I put it on you?”

  “Um, shouldn’t I know your name first?”

  “Oh, sorry. It’s Zach. You can put it on yourself, if you want. I just thought—”

  “No, it’s okay. The name was all I wanted. I’m Danielle, by the way. But everyone calls me Dani.”

  “Nice to meet you, Danielle.” He knelt beside me and drew my foot up to his bended knee. He pushed my pant leg up, and when he touched my skin, a cold spark ran through me. I shivered.