She misses living in a place where there aren’t any monsters, for God’s sake. A place where the city limits don’t strip away your memory.
At least Julie’s coming over today. Claire peels herself away from the wall and finishes buttoning up her plaid white-and-blue overall dress in the living room. Then she slips out onto the porch to wait.
Grammy acted weird when Claire mentioned she was visiting Julie as she helped walk Grammy into her room for her nap. “Not Audrey?” Grammy said, and when Claire shook her head, Grammy frowned like she didn’t approve. Claire can’t get the approval of anyone, it seems.
The sea breeze is up today, and it makes the shade of the porch almost pleasant. At two o’clock exactly, a bright red Mustang pulls into the driveway. Julie waves from the driver’s seat, and Claire jumps up and runs over to the car.
“Hey!” Julie waves again as Claire climbs in. “Why were you waiting outside? It’s so hot.”
“It’s hotter inside,” Claire says. “Grammy doesn’t have AC.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Julie rolls her eyes and sets the car’s air-conditioning to high. “There you go. So you’re nice and cool.”
Claire smiles and repositions the vents so that they’re blowing on her face. She’s glad to be out of Grammy’s house and away from her mother’s phone call. She hopes she can forget her family today, even if it’s just for a little while.
Julie backs out of the driveway. Some riotous, angry music plays on the stereo. Claire doesn’t recognize it, but she doesn’t want to admit she doesn’t recognize it.
“Thanks for picking me up,” Claire says.
“It’s all good. It’s not like it’s that far away.” Julie turns down an unfamiliar street. Trees arch overhead like the ceiling of a cathedral.
“Oh, then I could have ridden my bike,” Claire says.
“No way. It’s too hot for that.” Julie picks up speed and the trees zip by, concealing flashes of houses. She drums her fingers against the steering wheel, nodding to the beat of the music. Even though they aren’t talking, the silence is companionable, and Claire feels more comfortable than she does with Audrey. Being in the car with Julie feels natural. It’s not that way with Audrey.
“Here we are!” Julie slows down and pulls into a long driveway. The trees clear out, revealing a large, neatly manicured lawn. The house itself is huge, a hundred-year-old mansion with big gaping windows and stairs leading up to the door. A palm tree grows in front, and Claire feels a sudden rock of dizziness when she sees it. That palm tree is familiar.
No—the entire house is familiar.
“This is going to sound crazy,” Claire says. “But I swear I’ve seen your house before.”
“Really?” Julie pulls her car around to a detached garage. Claire cranes her neck around so she can keep looking at the house. Seeing it from the side, she doesn’t get any flicker of recognition. It’s only from the front, when she’s looking at it head-on.
“Yeah. Like I’ve seen a photograph of it somewhere.”
“Weird.” Julie pulls into the garage and shuts off the engine. There are spaces for two other cars, although only one is full. Claire isn’t sure what kind of car it is, but it’s small and sleek and looks expensive.
“Yeah, I don’t want to sound like some creepy stalker or something—”
“You don’t.” Julie laughs. “Maybe my house is famous and I just don’t know it.”
They climb out of the car. Claire squints down the driveway, sifting through her memories, trying to figure out where she’s seen the house.
“It’s just from the front,” Claire says. “Isn’t that weird?”
“Weirder things have happened,” Julie says. “I have a summer job as a monster catcher.”
And then Claire’s thoughts click into place. She has seen the house as a photograph—a black-and-white photograph, hanging on her bedroom wall. Sudek Mansion, 1890.
Did this sprawling house used to belong to her family? If it did, it was well before even her grandmother’s time.
“Come on, we can go in through the side,” Julie says. “It leads into the kitchen, so we’re guaranteed not to see my mom.”
Claire follows Julie through a garden shriveled by the heat and up to a screen door. Julie unlocks it and they go inside, into the kitchen. All the lights are turned off. The house has a warm, lived-in quality, despite the luxuriance of the furniture and decorations. They head toward the stairs. Claire takes everything in, the framed artwork on the walls, the expensive-looking antique chairs, the chandelier hanging above the staircase.
“I know where I’ve seen your house before,” Claire blurts out when she can’t stand it anymore.
“What?” Julie glances over at her. They’re on the second floor, walking on a Persian rug that runs the length of the hallway. “Where?”
“You promise you won’t think I’m some crazed stalker?”
Julie laughs. “No! Here, we’re going up into the attic.” She grabs a cord dangling from the ceiling and pulls. Steps unfold like magic.
“There’s a picture of it in my bedroom,” Claire says. “My bedroom at Grammy’s house, I mean. She’s had it for years.” She pauses. “It’s labeled Sudek Mansion.”
Julie locks the ladder in place and turns around to face her. Claire flushes with embarrassment, and for a moment she’s certain Julie’s going to kick her out, tell her she needs to go hang out with Audrey Duchesne, because Audrey Duchesne is the kind of freakishly normal friend that Claire deserves.
“That,” Julie says, “is very odd.”
“I’m sorry,” Claire says.
“No, you’re fine!” Julie grabs the railings of the ladder and pulls herself up two steps. She glances over her shoulder at Claire and grins. “I’m not going to hold you responsible for your grandma’s creepiness.”
“It’s an old picture,” Claire says. “Like, taken with one of those Victorian cameras where you have to stand still for a long time.”
“Well, that was when the house was built, the Victorian era.” She laughs. “You think your family used to live in my house? Like a hundred years ago?”
“I don’t know. It would be weird, right?”
“Totally weird. Here, come on up! I promise I won’t bite.”
“Your room’s in the attic?” Claire follows Julie up the ladder. It’s a rickety thing, and it shakes with each step.
“Nah.” Julie’s already disappeared through the hatchway, and her voice floats down as if from heaven. “This is just my movie room.”
“You have a movie room?” This is more impressive than a bedroom, even a bedroom in an attic. Claire scrambles the rest of the way up. When she pokes her head up out through of the attic’s floor, she finds herself surrounded by treasure.
“Holy crap,” she says, before she can stop herself.
Julie just laughs and reaches out a hand to help pull Claire up. The room is filled with stuff. Boxes and old dress forms, shelves of books and knickknacks, a three-foot-tall dollhouse that, Claire realizes, is a replica of Julie’s house. Most of the old stuff has been cleared to the sides, though, making an empty space in the center of the room with a threadbare couch and a big-screen TV.
“I got that for Christmas along with the SNES,” Julie says, pointing at the TV. “My dad likes to buy me stuff to make up for working all the time. Anyway, they meant for me to put it in my room so they could watch the news or whatever, but I put it up here instead.” She grins. “I was already driving them crazy wanting to watch movies all the time.”
“This is awesome,” Claire says. She turns around in place, taking everything in. One of the old bookshelves has been dragged over next to the TV—Claire can see the trail left in the thin coating of dust on the floor—and a handful of VHS tapes are stacked on the top shelf along with a pile of game cartridges. “It’s like my dream room. You could just watch movies all day and no one would bother you.”
“Yeah, and the video store has some great stuff,
too. Frank—he’s the manager—he’s got fantastic taste. We should go there sometime. Frank is the coolest person in town.”
Cooler than you? Claire thinks, although she doesn’t say it out loud. Way too embarrassing.
Julie pulls the game controllers off the shelf, unwinds the cords, and plugs them in. She hands one to Claire. “Which game do you want to play?”
Claire studies the games, then promptly answers “Mortal Kombat,” since she’s actually played it before, with Josh, and she doesn’t think she sucks too badly at it.
The cords are just long enough to reach the couch, and Julie and Claire sit side by side and select their characters. Claire goes with Sonya Blade, the way she always does with Josh (she likes playing as a girl). Julie chooses Sub-Zero. The pounding of electronic drums, a digitized voice announcing Fight!, and the game begins. Playing takes most of Claire’s concentration, and she winds up mashing the buttons down half the time, hoping for the best. Julie beats her in the second round with a flurry of ice.
“This is harder than I remember,” Claire says. “I mean, I haven’t played it much, so—”
“All I do is play it,” Julie says, laughing. She saves their game and tucks herself in the corner of the couch so that she’s facing Claire. “Honestly, I want to hear more about the Sudek Mansion.”
“There’s not much to say.” Claire sets her controller down next to Julie’s. “I mean, it’s just a label on the picture. I have no idea why it’s on there.”
“Huh.” Julie leans back in the couch, her expression thoughtful. “My dad always told me my great-whatever-grandfather built this place, but he could have been making it up.”
“I asked my grandma about it once,” Claire says. “When I was a little kid. The picture used to be kind of like the centerpiece of the living room—”
“Even weirder,” Julie says. “I mean, no offense.”
“No, it is weird! I remember asking her why she didn’t live in that house anymore and she started yelling at me not to ask questions.” Claire shakes her head. “That’s Grammy, though.”
Julie gives a crooked smile. “I guess we’re connected, then. It was destiny for me to take the job at Mrs. Sudek’s, and for you to come into the Pirate’s Den when I was there with Lawrence.”
“It was fate,” Claire says gravely.
Julie laughs. “Exactly. Fate.” She pauses. “Fated to become friends.”
“Exactly.”
Their conversation falls away, and this time the silence isn’t quite so companionable, although Claire wouldn’t call it awkward either. Julie looks down at her lap, her hair falling in dark tangles over her face. Claire looks over at the shelf of movies. She sees Alien, Reservoir Dogs, Evil Dead II, and others she doesn’t recognize.
“Why do you have so many tapes?” she asks, grateful for a question to fill the emptiness. “Isn’t there a limit at your video store?”
Julie lifts her head, her eyes bright. “There is, but Frank lets me borrow anything for as long as I want. He’s even given me a couple of movies out of the store’s stock.” She jumps off the couch and goes over to the shelf. “Like Alien, that was the first one I begged him for. I’ve been obsessed since I saw it on TV when I was nine.”
“You got to watch Alien when you were a kid?” Claire’s own mother enforces a strict PG-only rule, and as far as she knows, her dad gets no say in the matter.
“My parents didn’t pay any attention. It doesn’t have any sex, so they didn’t care.” She grins. “We can watch it if you want. It’s pretty much my favorite movie of all time. I can just—relate to it, you know? What with the monsters in this town.” She sighs. “Not that our monsters are that dangerous.”
Claire squirms a little at the thought that someone might relate to a monster movie because they have real monsters in their backyard. She’s still creeped out over the conversation with her mother, the way she just passed over any mention of the monsters. “I probably can’t right now,” Claire says. “I have to be back to my grandma’s in an hour and a half.” Julie looks so disappointed at this revelation that Claire says, “Maybe next time, though. I want to see it.”
“Awesome!” They smile at each other across the room. Then Julie looks away. “We’ve still got time to kill, though.”
Claire looks around, taking in the surroundings. “You’ve got a lot of cool stuff up here. Like that dollhouse.”
“Oh God,” Julie says. “The dollhouse.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Claire asks, smiling.
“Nothing, I guess, it’s just creepy to have a copy of your house inside your house.” She glances over at Claire. “To be honest, I didn’t even know we had it until I moved my TV up here.”
“Really?”
Julie nods. “Most of this stuff has been here for ages. I’m not sure my parents even packed it up. Might’ve been my grandparents.”
Claire stands up and walks over to the dollhouse to investigate. She’s read too many books with mysterious dollhouses to not do it.
“Ooh,” Julie calls out from the couch. “Girl detective.”
Claire blushes, glancing over at her. “I’m just curious.”
“No, you’re fine! I think it’s adorable. I used to love reading the Nancy Drew books when I was younger.”
Claire gets hung up on the word adorable for some reason.
“Let me know what you find,” Julie says. “I haven’t really looked at that thing at all.”
Claire pushes away boxes so she can kneel in front of the dollhouse. Julie’s right; it’s very old, the wood distorted from damp or age. The whole thing is fuzzed over with a layer of dust. She peers into one of the miniature windows.
“See anything?” Julie calls, making her way across the attic.
“Not really.” Claire feels around on the side of the dollhouse for a latch to open it. Julie crouches beside her, head cocked.
“I wonder who made it,” she says.
Claire’s fingers brush across the latch, but it won’t open. She peers over at it. Rusted shut.
“Do you mind if I try to get this open?” she says.
“Go for it.” Julie settles herself on top of a box labeled Xmas Decorations in thick black marker. “Maybe there’ll be a thousand bucks in there or something.”
Claire laughs and tugs at the lock with her finger. The metal crumbles into red powder and the latch springs up in a plume of dust. She yelps in surprise and scooches backward; Julie steadies her.
“Hey, careful,” she says.
Claire coughs, waves the dust away. She pushes the dollhouse open the rest of the way.
It’s full of shoeboxes.
“Okay, thank God,” Julie says. “Because if it was a little miniature version of us in there, I was going to scream.”
Claire laughs. “Nothing that exciting, I guess.”
Julie pulls out one of the boxes and opens it, revealing stacks of loose photographs. Most of them look like they’re from the fifties or sixties—lots of women in big bouffant hairdos, with ugly makeup and uglier clothes.
“Oh God, is that my dad?” Julie squeals and holds up a school picture of a dark-haired boy in thick horn-rimmed glasses, glowering at the camera. “It totally is!”
“He seems grumpy,” Claire says.
“He is grumpy.” Julie throws the photo back in the box. “I wonder why these got shoved in there.” She pulls out a few more shoeboxes, all of them filled with similar pictures. Nothing as old as the Sudek Mansion picture, though.
It occurs to Claire that part of her thought the dollhouse might explain the picture. It seems old enough, its painted interiors faded with age, its miniature gas lamps dark. She isn’t sure why she cares, but the insistence is there, gnawing at the edges of her thoughts, the way the monsters are always gnawing at the edges of her thoughts, hiding themselves in her periphery. There’s a connection somewhere in this room—between Grammy and this house, her family and Julie’s family, even between her and Julie. She can a
lmost feel it, a faint pulse on the air, dragging her away from the room’s center.
Julie’s still digging through the pictures of her family, laughing softly to herself. Claire pulls out another box—not a shoebox, something older and half-decayed, the brittle cardboard splitting at the seams.
That pulse on the air surges. Claire feels the atoms in her body jumping around. Just for a second, and then it’s gone, and Claire is sure it’s her imagination.
She pulls out the old box. It’s full of documents as thin as dead leaves, neat typewritten letters marching across the page. A date across the top: December 12, 1920. Isn’t that the year Grammy was born? But the documents don’t say anything about the Sudeks. Claire sets the box aside, peers deeper inside the dollhouse.
Her blood rushes in her ears, and she thinks she hears a ringing in the distance, a low constant tone like a phone that’s been left off the hook. There’s one last box inside the dollhouse’s dusty shadows. The ringing grows louder. It’s all she can hear.
Her fingers graze something slick and cool, like polished wood.
The ringing stops. Claire can breathe again.
She tugs on the box, but it doesn’t move; it seems to be wedged into the lower floor of the dollhouse. She pulls harder. There’s a pause, a moment of held breath, and then the container lurches free and Claire goes toppling backward over the attic floor. A stack of cardboard boxes tips and crashes, stirring up a cloud of dust.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” Julie drops the photographs she was studying and kneels at Claire’s side. “Wow, that was inside the dollhouse?”
“Apparently.” Claire looks down at her prize, a simple rectangle carved out of a rich dark wood, shining in the lights. Now that it’s out in the open, Claire can’t imagine how it fit.
“Well, open it up!” Julie sits back and crosses her legs.
Claire takes a deep breath. Her fingers tingle when she touches the box, little bursts of static electricity shooting up her arms. She lifts up the lid.
At first, she doesn’t know what she’s seeing. It looks like a storm cloud has been caught and stuffed inside a coffin. But then, slowly, details emerge: seams and piping and ribbons. It’s a dress.
Forget This Ever Happened Page 6
