by Micol Ostow
Mom’d got it together to stand up for herself enough so now there was a cheap-ass phone in the kitchen again, plugged in, just waiting, lurking-like, you know, in case there was ever some kind of emergency.
I picked it up to dial someone, just for something to do. I don’t even know who I was thinking I’d call—it’s not like I had this great crowd of friends back downstate, just waiting to hear how I was doing, you know?
’Course nothing can ever be easy with Dad. So even though there was a phone and it was plugged in, I guess we weren’t up-to-date on the bills, because when I picked up the receiver, all I heard was a shaky static that put my teeth on edge. It was as bad as nails on a chalkboard, or the whispers that sometimes come to me from inside my own messed-up head.
Faulty wiring: my brain. The phone. Tons of things in my life.
I slammed down the phone, but the whispers didn’t stop. There was still that rustling, like a fire burning somewhere. My skin felt real itchy, like it was suddenly the wrong size for my body. Sometimes that happens to me.
Anyway, I was feeling real bored, twitchy, buzzing from wanting to be distracted.
I needed to move.
SECONDS, MINUTES, HOURS, WEEKS later, I blinked, and I was there, at the top of the basement stairs.
And now I heard music. It was coming from below, full of static, like an out-of-range radio station.
The door, heavy and wooden and thick, was closed. When I reached for the handle, it resisted.
Amity and her locks. As the music swelled in my head, I slammed forward hard with all of my body weight, imagining the door splintering from its hinges, imagining me riding it like a sled, down the staircase, into the black. I saw this so clear I was sure, like completely certain it would happen, that I’d just go flying, riding that door like a magic carpet, empty hinges squeaking in my wake.
But the door didn’t break open.
Instead, I heard a click, like a key turning in a lock.
The doorknob twisted, and that basement door swung open.
IT WAS DARK DOWNSTAIRS, and then the music trailed off, so I was alone with my wet, raggedy breathing.
I reached out and groped along, moving forward best as I could in that thick darkness. The walls were damp and I smelled must, stone, and dirt, and underneath that, a spoiled smell, like rotting. That death-shroud, coffin feeling from the first night came back to me. I wiggled my fingers just to prove to myself that I could, that I was actually here, that I was real. That I was alive.
The wall moved.
I wiggled my fingers again, stronger now. My hand closed over a smooth, oval stone. It was big, like an egg that something prehistoric—something make-believe, I mean—would leave behind.
I wondered just for a minute if this was one of those times the counselors warned me about. A distortion, one of those time-space hiccups that swept me away from now, from all of the rest of the world.
The counselors don’t like those hiccups, what they do to me. What they mean for everyone else.
But there weren’t any counselors here right now. Just me.
Me and Amity.
I flexed my fingers and shoved my hand further, pushed that giant rock so it rattled, so it shifted a little in place.
Is there …
Is there something behind the wall? I rapped a fist against the rocks, but it was hard to hear an echo with the basement walls all mossy and damp. I clamped my fingers around the egg, twisting it, stretched as far up on my toes as I could go in that grave-like space.…
There was a scraping sound, and the little hitch of resistance coming undone. My stomach squeezed, excited-like.
Almost …
I heard a scream.
RAGE, THAT GREAT OLD FRIEND Of MINE, STABBED AT ME, HOT AND SHARP, in a way that I liked as much as I didn’t.
It rushed at me, so I snapped, all sudden, back to that real-Real place, the one where other people live, where the buzzing in my head is—mostly—dim enough that those screams—those screams!—could break through.
Abel.
Wasn’t Jules watching him?
I moved, reluctant first, then faster as the wails started building some serious steam, bounding up the basement stairs like a maniac. I thought if Abel was bawling about the crap in the bathroom pipes again, I’d slap him so hard his teeth rattled.
I thought: I’ll give him a real reason to cry.
But upstairs, the bathroom was empty, and the doors to the bedrooms were all closed. Confused, I took a minute to pinpoint where the noise—tapering down a little bit—was really coming from.
The river?
Yeah. The river. That kind of made sense for some reason, didn’t it?
I whipped back through the house, winding from the dining room to the kitchen, running up to the sink and leaning against it, searching, a little bit frantic, out the wide back window.
That was when the music started again.
It was broken and choppy, clouding up all the space in my head like a warning signal, or something stronger, even. And when I glanced down at the river, past the low, hilly slope of our backyard, it was running red.
Blood red.
“CONNOR.”
Rage needled me again (oh hey, buddy—how’s it goin’?), and wham!—there I was, back in the kitchen, the Concord River churning along, back to its normal, muddy-river-water color now.
And I knew it was normal, that color; I mean, I knew it was the way all of those regular, normal people saw the river when they looked at it. But buried down deep, I had this strong, solid feeling that actually the blood was the true part, the real-Real, if that makes any sense.
I don’t know. I guess it’s kind of confusing, where Amity ends and everything else begins.
But it made sense to me, that I’d be the only one to pick up on that, the only person to see the bloody water with my own two stupid eyes. It went along with most of what I’d come to know about myself, what I’d come to teach other people about who I truly am.
Even though the river was back to so-called “normal,” there was still, for sure, a flash of blazing blood red happening in the corner of my eyes. And when I turned toward it, toward the sound of my name, there was Jules, curls in crazy corkscrews down her shoulders, hands on her hips, looking maybe annoyed, maybe even something worse.
A trickle of blood ran from her nose.
“What happened?” I asked, and I could have meant a million different things.
“Abel went down to the boathouse,” she said. Her jaw was tight. “He wanted to check it out.”
She reached for an almost-used-up roll of paper towels on the counter. I pulled a sheet off for her, folded it into a square, and ran it under some water from the tap, that stinking sulfur smell hanging in the air between us. She tilted her head back and I stepped toward her, pressing the towel against the trail of blood oozing from her nose. Honestly, I was kind of mesmerized by it. I wanted to get closer to that red rivulet.
I liked it. Even though I didn’t like to see Jules hurt.
“And the screaming?” I asked.
She shook her head. “The door swung shut on him, caught his fingers pretty badly. I had to tape them up. Luckily, Dad had a first-aid kit down there.”
“So what happened to you?” I waved at her nose, like she needed a reminder.
She shrugged, uncomfortable. “That’s the weird thing. When I got to the boathouse, Abel was freaking out. Completely losing it. The door had closed on him, and when I asked about it, he went on and on about how it had closed on him on purpose.
“Like something deliberately closed his fingers in the door. Pinning him inside.”
She bit her lip, like she was waiting for me to burst out laughing, right in her face. But as she was speaking, that tinny, faraway music was building in my head again. And that shaking, live-wire feeling in my stomach was telling me:
Something had tried to hurt Abel.
She was right.
“CONNOR,”
&
nbsp; Jules said again, with more edge this time, and nasal, too, what with how the paper towel was pressed up against one nostril. The white square was blooming a watery pink that looked almost pretty—sort of delicate—in the afternoon light.
“Yeah?” I felt all clouded over again. Did she notice?
Of course she does. It’s Jules.
“God, what is with you these days?” she said. “You’re on another planet. More on another planet than usual,” she corrected herself. She tossed the wadded paper towel to the counter, where it sat, looking like a squashed, bled-out gerbil against the linoleum, and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“The door closed on Abel’s fingers on purpose. Is what you were saying.” My voice was dull, but I could still, you know, form the words, could repeat her story back to her.
She sighed. “Well, that’s what he said. And, obviously, I told him that was ridiculous.” She hunched her shoulders. “But here’s the thing.…”
My pulse began to hammer, like started to really whale against my ribs.
“When I went to open the door again, after I’d got in there, and had a look at Abel’s hand? The door wouldn’t open. Like Abel said. It wouldn’t go.”
“It was stuck.”
“I mean, yes, I’m sure that’s all it was, that it was stuck. Wood warps and all that. But, I’m telling you, Connor—” She lowered her voice, like whatever she was going to say was some huge secret and not just exactly something I already knew, something I was already feeling with every square inch of my body. “It didn’t feel like warped wood.” She shuddered. “It felt like there was someone—something—on the other side of the door, blocking it.
“Keeping us locked inside.”
She folded her arms across her chest, like a challenge.
I locked eyes with her, and my spine hummed.
Real, I thought. Real.
In my mind, I saw the Concord River, rushing, churning red.
THE GRUMBLE Of MOM’S BEATER SEDAN CHOKING TO A STOP IN THE DRIVEWAY snapped us both from our mini-trances.
“So, what about your nose anyway?” I asked while I fumbled with the dirty paper towel. I tossed it in the trash bin under the sink. A puff of rotten-fruit stench drifted up from the cabinet before it shut again, sealing up all the nasty, grimy bits of trash tight. Everything in this house stank like rot.
And I liked it.
“Dad heard Abel screaming, the door banging. He pulled on the door so when it opened, it swung back and hit me in the face. I’m telling myself it was an accident, although he didn’t bother to apologize.” She tapped her first finger against her nostrils real sensitive, tentative. “I think it’s stopped now. I’m fine.”
Anger surged through my limbs.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get outside in time,” I said, feeling honestly, truly sorry, because, I mean: who knows? Maybe I could have stopped Dad. Or maybe I could have done something to get the door open, get Abel out, before anything went haywire to begin with.
Yeah, I thought I could have found a way to get the door open. I thought that might be what all of that music, all of that echo in my chest might’ve meant. That I maybe had an in with … well, with Amity. Some kind of all-access pass.
But I’d been busy. Too busy to hear, to notice, down there in the cellar.
“What were you doing anyway?” Jules asked. Her voice got scratchy and kind of high-pitched. “And what the hell happened to your hands, Connor? Where were you?”
I looked down. My hands hung limp at my sides, like slabs of meat, like someone else’s body parts.
They were caked in dirt. Covered. Like I hadn’t been just scrabbling down in the basement’s stone walls, but had been knee-deep out by the riverbank, clawing at the earth like a wild animal or something.
I didn’t notice before, and I guess Jules was too focused on her nose to see it, either. I still had that huge, round stone in my hand. It looked like something from medieval times, from a castle, or maybe a fort. Some place strong and closed off, I mean.
“I got dirty” was all I could think to say.
“DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT IS?”
She meant the stone, obviously, from the way those little gold sparks in her eyes had caught on it, were scanning it all intense-like. She gnawed away on her lower lip.
“A rock.” Even though I definitely knew, definitely had a feeling, that it was more than that. Special, in some way. Meant for me.
She rolled her eyes and made that cute exasperated face she loved to give me. “Right, ten points, brain trust. But a rock, a stone that size—that shape … Where did you find it?”
“In the cellar.”
She shook her head like a little thrill had just passed over her body, and that made the hum of music slink back into my head for a second, too. “I knew it.”
“Yeah?”
“This place. After Dad bought it, I did a little research.” She looked down for a minute. “Maybe I should’ve said something to you. I don’t know why I didn’t.”
I didn’t know, either. That wasn’t like Jules, to keep something from me, you know? But I couldn’t dwell so much on that, not if I wanted to listen. And I had a feeling that what she was trying to say was important.
“I think the house has a history. This area does anyway.
Some people say there was this hideout, like an Underground Railroad for witches, back in the Salem days. And there were drawings, illustrations of what the … um, I guess they were the safe rooms? Pictures of what those places looked like.”
She took a deep breath. “They were lined in stone. Stones like that one. It makes sense. I had a feeling this place could be part of that story. Right location, and it’s definitely old enough. I think Amity was one of those underground safe houses, once.”
The tight, coffin-like feeling passed over me, even though it was broad daylight and we were standing in the kitchen, just as normal, as regular as could be. That sweet, rotten stink from the garbage can wafted by again, and for a second the entire room washed over red.
Then it was back to just me and Jules in the kitchen together, talking.
And the stone. My fingers were curled around it, pressing so hard the tips were bloodless white.
She was right again. I knew—I felt it, like a bug bite or a sting that you can’t just slap away. The same way she was right about what happened to her down in the boathouse, the house kind of … working against her. And now, with the history, a little window on to what Amity truly was, always had been.
Jules was right.
THE FRONT DOOR CREAKED OPEN and Jules shot me a look. We both listened to the footsteps, so bone-tired and timid they could only be Mom’s. She met us in the kitchen in her church outfit, a button-down flowered dress that had long sleeves and a skirt down to her ankles, even though it was sweltering today. Her cheeks were bright pink, but her eyes still had their usual flat, hollow look. She carried a battered-looking pocketbook made of fraying straw, and she sort of dropped it, heavy, onto the kitchen table, and sank into a chair right next to it.
“How was church?” Jules moved quick to pour Mom a glass of something cold from the fridge. She was always thoughtful that way, my sister.
“It was fine,” Mom said, but her eyes stayed trained on the tabletop, like she was maybe holding something back. “Where’s Abel?”
“He’s upstairs napping,” Jules said. “He, uh, hurt his hand. He’s okay, just resting. And you don’t look so fine.” She slid a glass of ice water down, leaving a wet streak along the wood, which Mom rubbed with the sleeve of her dress. “You don’t have a ‘fine’ face.”
Mom smiled weakly. “No, it was nice, really.” She took a long swallow from her water, then pressed the glass against her forehead, closing her eyes for a second. “I suppose … well, I’d thought of asking if some of the ladies on the board wanted to come by for coffee,” she clarified, getting to the point. “But there wasn’t … a chance.”
No one gave you the chance to ask is wh
at I thought she meant.
She flicked her eyes across the room, over the peeled linoleum counters and the water stains on the ceiling. This fixerupper wasn’t exactly there yet. And Dad wasn’t really big on unexpected guests.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” she admitted.
Jules nodded. “Maybe.” She pulled out a chair of her own and sank into it, leaning forward on her elbows like she was getting ready to share a secret. “Have you … Did you talk to anyone about this place? The history here? Have you heard any stories about Amity? Connor found something—”
I stepped up behind Jules, real fast, and kicked at her chair leg. She pitched forward and made a face. After a minute, she waved a hand at me from under the tabletop, like she got it, she understood to shut up about the stone. If Mom hadn’t seen it, hadn’t noticed it, then maybe she wasn’t supposed to.
“History?” Mom asked, like Jules was talking in a foreign language.
“There’s a rumor, I mean. About the Salem witches. Hiding here.”
Mom turned away, a sour look coming over her face. “Well, I never heard that,” she said, kind of righteous.
She was lying. I don’t know how I knew it, but she was. And she was lying badly.
“But you heard something, right?” I couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop myself from jumping in, gleeful and a little bit thrilled at the idea. “You heard something about this place?”
Mom heard the rumors. I heard the music. It drifted in now, from the riverbanks, slow and lazy, taking its time to get to me. Taking its time to whisper my name.
“There’s something about this house, right? There is,” I pressed, smiling.
Mom didn’t answer. But she didn’t need to.
Amity would answer me herself.
THAT NIGHT, I DREAMED, although what I saw—what revealed itself, I mean—felt less like a dream and more like a hallucination; some place that fell exactly halfway between what was really real, and what was … well, real to me.
