by Lynn Moon
“No, but it won’t be long until they leave me too.”
The police officer nodded again.
“Unfortunately, the window curtains in the study came down when I tried to open them. But I found some great old pictures of my dad and uncle when they were little kids. Would you like to see ‘em?”
“No, thank you,” the other officer said, smiling. “Enjoy gathering your treasures. Please bring keys next time so we’re not called.”
“Certainly,” I replied.
Watching the police drive away, I wasn’t sure how to feel. Yes, I did own this filthy house—but owning this place didn’t stop the nagging feeling that I wasn’t supposed to be here.
Quinton helped me straighten up the den while his father ran to a nearby hardware store. By dinnertime, the locks were changed, the broken pane replaced, the den somewhat straightened up, and the car loaded with old things I wanted to keep.
“We’d better get going,” his father said. I locked up.
“I’m starved,” Quinton added as he closed the car door.
“Me too,” I replied.
“Are you comfortable back there with all those boxes?” his father asked.
“As long as no bugs crawl out, I’m good.”
“Then let’s go eat.” As his father started the car, an older man waved his arms in the air. Is he flagging us down?
“I’ll see what he wants,” Quinton said, jumping out.
After a few minutes, Quinton returned, his eyes wide.
“What’d he want?” I asked.
“You’re not going to believe this, Musetta,” he said.
“What?”
“You own another house just down around the corner.”
CHAPTER 20
WE DROVE BY THE SMALL house that the neighbor said belonged to my family. This place looked occupied. A white car in the driveway was my first clue. We stared from across the street. I refused to get out. To me, this place was home to a ghost from my past. A dangerous ghost. I didn’t want to be here.
“Let’s go.” I sat back and locked my eyes on Quinton’s father. He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “I don’t like this place,” I whispered.
“Do you remember it?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not really. But I don’t like it here. Please, may we go?”
“What if Charlie and Hunter are in there?” Quinton asked.
Again, I shook my head. “They’re not.”
“How do you know?” Quinton asked.
I didn’t answer.
Before I could stop him, Quinton jumped from the car. “I’m going to knock on the door.”
Quinton’s father glanced back at me before he too jumped out. Not proud of just sitting there, I slowly opened the door. Stepping out, my heart pounded. Something was wrong. Deep down inside, I knew that I was not supposed to be here. I was not supposed to be at this house. But how do I know that?
By the time I crossed the street, Quinton had already rung the bell. A petite woman about my mom’s age opened the door. She looked familiar. Searching through my deepest memories, I just couldn’t place her. After answering only a few of Quinton’s questions, she paused. When our eyes met, her hands trembled and a frown creased her face. As her eyes narrowed, her head shook as if she was suddenly denying everything she believed to be true. It was as if the actual foundation of her reality had been shattered. She practically slammed the door in Quinton’s face.
Searching my brain for answers, I watched as the woman peeked out between the curtains and stared directly at me.
“I think she knows you,” Quinton’s father said when we got back to the car.
“I think I know her, too,” I whispered. But from where, I couldn’t say. “What did you ask her?”
“If she knew your family,” Quinton replied. “She said no. That she rented the place from a rental company.”
“Maybe your father or grandparents bought the place as an investment,” Quinton’s father added.
“No,” I replied. “I know her from somewhere.”
“Well, we can’t answer these questions right now. I need to get you two home, and we still have to eat,” he said.
***
My mom thanked Quinton’s father for keeping me busy while I was grounded. Although she knew we were going to Salt Lake City, I could tell she was concerned that we’d come home later than expected. Once his father explained we’d lost track of time, she seemed a little better. Maybe we should have called her. A mental note for next time, perhaps. The old framed photos seemed to make her happy. Although surprised about the two houses, she looked forward to exploring them with me.
Lying in bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about the strange woman living in the second house. Why does she look so familiar? Where did I meet her before? When did I meet her?
Suddenly, the old pictures in the attic dresser grabbed my thoughts. Why didn’t I bring them downstairs? Climbing the attic stairs, Charlie flashed before my eyes. My heart ached for my missing friends. Not knowing if they were alive tormented me. At times, I hurt so much it felt like I had the flu. Clicking on the attic light, my eyes scanned the room. Katrina must have cleaned. No more dust. The two storage closets, now closed, appeared ominous, as if hiding a monster or some other evil creature.
Mom had the builders nail the secret doors shut. No way could my uncle sneak in. They checked all the walls and guaranteed us that they found them all. I wasn’t so sure. Pushing back my fear, I opened the small door to the hidden room. With no moonlight, the room hovered between dark shadows and a pitch-black void. I listened for anything—breathing, movement, a heartbeat. Nothing; all quiet.
With only a small flashlight, I stared into the drawer. Hundreds of old photos, all mixed together, stared back at me. Sitting on the cot, I pulled out several. Most of them were of me when I was little. It was hard to tell if they were me with my father or me with my uncle. Then I thought about the second baby in the portrait. Maybe these were of her and not me. Maybe these were both her and me.
Staring into the shadows, my mind flung me back to my father’s funeral. The feel of his face against my fist. The white rubbery sheen that covered his skin. The plain aroma of nothingness. I rubbed my hand, wanting the sensation to go away. It didn’t seem real when I hit him. It was more like punching a stuffed baby doll. Maybe that was what happened to us when we died. We became stuffed baby dolls.
Digging down between the old pictures, I pulled out several more. Resting the flashlight in my lap, I tried to study the faces. My dad with my mom way before I was ever born. My dad as a young child. Me on a tricycle. Then I froze. The next picture pushed me into the depth of panic.
“This is her!”
Although many years younger, the woman in this picture was definitely the one I saw this afternoon at the front door. Next to her stood either my dad or my uncle and a little girl that looked a lot like me. But it couldn’t be me. Without really studying their faces, it was hard to tell the boys apart. Flipping the picture over, I read off the names—Berty, Betty, and Rosetta—March 23rd. Seven years ago.
“Rosetta?” I said. My mom used that name. She said my twin sister that died was named Rosetta. We even visited her gravesite in town. And that name—Betty. Betty . . . I know that name.
Holding the pictures against my chest, I stood. My mind whirled, desperate to connect the dots.
“How do I know that name? Betty,” I whispered as I closed the secret door behind me.
“Musetta!” my mother’s voice rang through the attic. “What are you doing up here in the middle of the night?”
“I . . .”
“Honestly?” Grabbing my arm, she pushed me toward the stairs. “Downstairs, now! Get back to bed. Are you crazy coming up here? And in the middle of the night. We still haven’t found all the hidden doors yet. Now get to your room and lock your door!”
“Sorry,” I said, walking to my room, cuddling the old photos. “I wasn’t thinking—”
&nb
sp; “Obviously!” she scolded. “I agree with that. Now, goodnight.”
After closing my bedroom door, I rested my forehead against the cool wood. Taking in a deeper breath, my heart pounded. I had to calm down. Retracing my thoughts back to before my mother scared me to death, I glanced down at the photos in my hand. Couldn’t see a thing. I must have forgotten to turn on my light when I got out of bed. Sitting on my bed, I reached over and clicked on my bedside lamp. Again, I studied the young woman in the photo.
“I know this person,” I said. “How do I know her?”
“Because,” a deep voice escaped from the shadows. “She’s your mother.”
***
With my head pounding as if it would explode, I could barely open my eyes. Rubbing the back of my head didn’t help. Feeling the warm stickiness, I knew that my head was bleeding. No cot or bed to rest on this time. Instead, a hard, cold floor pushed against my swollen joints. That jerk of an uncle must have hit me over the head . . . again.
“Hello?” I said, somewhere between a whisper and soft voice.
“Musetta?”
“Charlie? Is that you? Are you here? Is Hunter with you?”
“I’m here,” Hunter said. He didn’t sound so good.
“Are you hurt?” I asked.
“We both are,” Charlie replied. “Hold on. I’ll come to you.”
“What?”
“Hold on a second,” she repeated.
What sounded like wooden crates scraped against the floor. A couple of times, Charlie moaned or whispered “Ouch.”
“Where are we?” I asked.
Feeling her touch, I grabbed onto her hand, pulling her close. We both cried.
Sniffling, she replied, “In a basement. At least, we think it’s a basement. It’s too dark to tell.”
“Where’s Hunter?”
“Can you walk?” she asked.
“My head’s bleeding. That creep hit me again.”
“Again?”
“Yes. I keep waking up with a bad headache. The man’s crazy.”
Charlie helped me to stand up. With the room spinning, it wasn’t easy to walk. Clinging to her for support, we inched across the room. I couldn’t see my friend’s face, and I was right next to her.
“Here,” she said. “Sit down.”
Dropping to my knees, I felt around. “Hunter?”
“I’m here,” he whispered.
“I think he’s hurt real bad,” Charlie said. “He doesn’t say much anymore.”
“Why can’t we see anything?” I asked.
“No windows,” she replied. “There’s stairs over there, but the door’s locked.”
“How do you eat?”
“Your uncle brings us food. There’s a bathroom in the corner. Just a toilet and sink, but it’s better than nothing.”
“No light?”
“He must have taken the bulbs,” she answered.
“Jerk!” I hollered. “What a freakin’ jerk.”
“How’s Quinton?” Charlie asked.
“Worried about you. We found two houses in Salt Lake that my family owns. One’s a terrible mess. In the other one, we met a woman named Betty.”
“You’ve been busy,” she said.
“Trying to keep busy,” I replied. “We found your bloody shirt in the hills behind my house. What happened?”
“I’m not real sure,” she said. “It happened so fast. One minute I was between you and Quinton and the next, someone grabbed me and pulled me into another hidden passageway.”
“Another one?” I asked.
“Your house is full of ‘em, Musetta. I yelled out to Quinton, but your uncle had his nasty hand over my face.”
“Did he hurt you?” I asked.
“No. But he took me to a hidden room in the attic.”
“Found that place too,” I said.
“We stayed in that room for a long time. We he finally dragged me out of the house, I was surprised no one saw us. I kicked and screamed and tried to get away, but he kept putting a rag over my mouth. When he pulled me toward that old dirt road that’s in the woods behind your house, I panicked. He was taking me to an old truck. I screamed and tried to run. But he caught me.”
“Charlie, I think we saw that truck and heard you scream,” I replied, my heart pounding.
“I only got out one good one before he slapped that rag over my mouth again.”
“We almost found you!”
“I know I hit my head against the trees several times. Maybe that’s where the blood came from. Anyway, when he finally grabbed onto me, my shirt ripped. Pretty embarrassing getting abducted half naked.”
“Did he give you something else to wear?”
She replied, “A dirty old sweatshirt.”
“Gross.”
“It stunk. Before he pushed me into his truck, he crammed a dirty rag into my face. Smelled nasty. That’s all I remember until I woke up down here.”
“I need to look at Hunter. Are you sure there are no windows in this place?”
“I’m sure. I’ve searched this whole room. I think it’s a basement of an old house.”
“Great. But a basement where?”
“Don’t know,” she replied.
“What happened to Hunter?”
She said, “Hunter told me that he was trying to catch up with you when he was hit from behind. Someone hit him on the head. When they got here, Hunter tried to fight back. But your uncle pushed him down the stairs. He hit the ground hard. I think he broke something in his arm or shoulder. I’m really scared for him.”
Feeling nauseous, I leaned over and rested my head in her lap. “I need to see Hunter. Make sure he’s okay.”
“He’s sleeping now. Maybe you should sleep too,” she said. “We found blankets.”
Lying in the darkness between my friends felt good and bad at the same time. I was excited to have finally found them. But also terrified that Hunter was hurt and that we were locked up. Maybe once I rested a little, I could find a way for us to escape. Maybe.
***
A bright light jolted me awake. Before I could react, Charlie nudged me.
“He’s back,” she whispered.
The stairs lit up from above. Two feet, attached to two legs, slowly stepped down. My heart pounded as I stared at the man who looked exactly like my father.
“Food,” he whispered.
We didn’t say a word.
Not leaving the stairs, he sat three bags on the bottom step, along with three cups.
“Hamburgers, fries, and a soda. Something you can relate to,” he said.
“Uncle Berty,” I yelled. “Why are you doing this?”
“Rosetta, you shouldn’t talk to your father like that,” he said. “Your mother would disapprove.”
My mother would disapprove? I wanted to see my friends, but our side of the room or basement remained dark. “Give us some light down here.”
“Eat and sleep,” he said as he climbed back up the stairs.
When the door closed, I cringed as metal hit metal. He locked us in. I wanted to scream.
“What a creep!” I yelled. I had to calm down. I didn’t need my head bleeding all over the place. “This isn’t my grandparents’ basement. I’d recognize it. I’ll bet we’re in one of the houses in Salt Lake City.”
Charlie crawled across the floor to get our food and drinks. “It’s safe to eat. We’ve been eating his food for days and it doesn’t make us sick. I don’t believe he’s drugging us.”
“I wonder if he’ll rape me.”
“If he tries,” she said, “fight him.”
“Oh, believe me, I will.”
“Hunter?” Charlie whispered. “You’ve gotta eat.”
Hunter only moaned.
“I’m worried,” she said. “He’s eating less and less each day.”
“I need to eat, too. I’m shaking,” I said. “Then I’ll help Hunter.”
The food tasted great. I inhaled the burger. I couldn’t seem to ge
t the food into my stomach fast enough. Although the fries were cold, they were the best fries I’d ever had. Licking my fingers, I wanted more.
“Maybe you can get him to eat,” she said, cramming some wrappers into a bag.
“I’ll try.” I scooted next to him. “Hunter, you’ve gotta eat.”
I felt for his head and chest. Holding the burger, I guided the food to his lips. Before he took a bite, his hand gently cupped my cheek. I rested my head against his touch. Engulfed in his warmth, I grew stronger. More determined to save us.
“Hunter,” I said, leaning down. “You have to eat. For me, please.”
“Musetta?” he whispered.
“I’m here.”
“I missed you,” he whispered.
“I missed you, too.”
“I love you, Musetta,” he said.
Leaning in a little closer, I replied, “I love you, too.”
As our lips touched, a sensation I never knew existed swam through me. Now invigorated, my body and soul transformed. I had a purpose. A real reason to escape from this prison, this Hell-hole. I had to rescue Hunter.
“Hunter,” I said, only inches from his face. “Please eat.”
“Hand it to me,” he said.
Placing the burger into his hands, I helped him take a bite.
“Little bites,” I whispered. “We don’t need you choking. Charlie, can you help him while I search for a way out?”
When she touched my shoulder, I guided Charlie’s hands. As she helped him eat, it was my time to get serious. Standing up, my head pounded. I couldn’t let that stop me. Not now. Taking a step, my knees banged into several large crates.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I asked.
“If you’re facing the stairs, it’s to your right. It’s almost under the stairs,” Charlie replied.
“Got it.”
Knowing the path to the stairs was clear, I walked slowly. When my foot bumped into the bottom step, I felt my way to the bathroom. Charlie was right—it was tiny. Just a toilet and sink. Allowing the hot water to flow, I sat on the toilet wondering if our lives were over. At least the jerk gave us some toilet paper. Washing my hands in the hot water helped me to reorganize my thoughts. The type of door at the top of the stairs would determine how and if we could escape. If made from wood, we could break it down. If made of metal, we were trapped.
