Don't Forget Me! (10 page)

Words at least a foot tall, scrawled in red paint. Still wet, dripping over the jagged, cracked stones.

DON'T FORGET ME.

Still wet. Just painted. Dark red paint. Red as blood.

DON'T FORGET ME.

And before I got over the shock of seeing that—I saw Peter.

I blinked once. Twice. Not quite believing.

Yes. Peter. In a doorway to a smaller room beyond the furnace.

Peter, bathed in a strange, silvery light. His back to me. His hair still on end. His shirt untucked over baggy jeans. Peter, not moving. Caught in the eerie light, standing so still in the tiny back room.

I opened my mouth to call to him. But no sound came out.

My cold, wet hand slid over the metal flashlight. I gripped it tighter. And took a trembling step toward him. And then another.

Stepping around the clutter of junk in the center of the room. The painted words, the dripping, bloodred words still in view at my side.

DON'T FORGET ME.

“Peter? Can you hear me?”

He didn't answer. Didn't move.

“I'm coming to help you. I am your sister. Danielle. Do you remember me? Do you?”

I stopped just outside the low doorway to the back room. And realized that Peter was leaning down into another opening. A dark opening. At first, I thought it was some kind of hole in the basement wall.

But as I blinked it into focus, I realized that Peter was standing in front of a tall trapdoor. A door that had raised up from the basement floor.

A door that led—where?

Leaning into the black opening, he took a step down.

“Nooooo!” I screeched. “Stop! Listen to me! Turn around! Peter, turn around!”

He froze. He didn't move.

I screamed again. I begged him to turn around.

And then, slowly … so slowly … he took a step back from the dark opening. He took a step back and then … slowly … bathed in the eerie light, turned to face me.

And as he turned, I uttered a sick cry. My stomach heaved. My knees buckled.

And I stared at him in horror.

Stared at the thick layer of mucus over his face. The clear gelatin that covered his hair, his face, his eyes!

His mouth!

The thick layer of goo glistened wetly under the silvery light.

And as I gaped in horror, unable to speak, unable to move, Peter opened his mouth. The gelatin bubbled over his mouth.

And I heard his muffled word!

“
Good-bye
.”

 

“Stop!” I screamed. “Where are you going? What are you doing?”

But he didn't seem to hear me.

The thick jelly bubbled over his mouth. His eyes stared out from behind the shimmering layer of goo.

Then he turned and stepped into the darkness.

“Stop! No—stop!” I pleaded. I took off, racing to him, my shoes sliding on the dusty, concrete floor.

He lowered himself into a black pit beyond the trapdoor.

As I ran, I reached out to him, stretched out my arms to grab him and pull him back.

But the trapdoor snapped shut with a thundering
bang
.

Dust flew up all around me.

I covered my eyes, waiting for it to settle. I could taste it in my mouth, feel it in my lungs.

Then, forcing my eyes open, I dropped to my knees. I reached for the door to pry it up. To open it and free my brother.

But the basement floor was solid and smooth. I couldn't see the door. I couldn't see any trace of a door.

Frantically I slid my hands over the floor, searching … searching.

“Peter, where are you? Where did you go?”

No door. No door. Not the tiniest crack in the floor. I uttered an angry cry. I slapped the floor with both fists, sending up another cloud of dust.

“Don't worry, Peter. I'll get you out of there,” I said, struggling to my feet.

As I ran to the stairs, I rubbed the thick dust from my hands onto my jeans. The floor seemed to tilt and sway beneath me. The walls spun wildly.

My brain whirring, I hurtled forward. Pulled myself up the groaning basement stairs. Into the kitchen.

I grabbed the phone off the wall.

I'll call the police. I'll call the fire department. They can open the trapdoor. They can get Peter out of there.

I raised my hand to dial 911. But I stopped as yellow light swept over the kitchen from outside.

Twin beams of yellow light. Headlights.

I heard the crunch of tires over gravel.

“Yes!” I ran to the back window. “Yes!”

Mom and Dad were home. “Yes!”

I tore open the kitchen door and ran out, screaming, waving both hands above my head wildly.

I leaped in front of the car. Into the wide rectangle of yellow light. “Mom! Dad! You've got to hurry! Help! You've got to help!”

I grabbed Mom's car door and tugged it open. “Hurry! Get out! There's no time!” I shrieked.

I saw their startled faces. I grabbed Mom's arm and started to pull her out of the car. But her seat belt was still attached. She let out a cry of protest.

The driver's door swung open, and Dad climbed out, frowning at me, his eyes darting from me to the house. “What's wrong? Danielle, what is it?” he cried.

“No time!” I wailed. “No time to explain! Hurry!”

Mom finally unsnapped her seat belt. She slid out of the car and stood unsteadily in front of me. “What's all the screaming? Is—is something wrong in the house?”

I grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the kitchen door. “It's Peter!” I cried. “He—he's in the basement. I mean—”

“Peter?” Dad squinted at me.

“Please! We have to hurry!” I shrieked. “Peter went down a trapdoor. It's a long story—but he's been acting so strange. Ever since you left! Come on! We have to go down there! Why are you just
standing
there?”

They stood side by side now, both staring hard at me.

“Danielle,
who
is in the basement?” Mom asked finally.

“Peter!” I screamed frantically.

“But
who
is Peter?” Dad asked.

“Huh?” My mouth dropped open. “Peter! My brother! What is
wrong
with you two? Hurry! We've got to get him out!”

They didn't move. Just stood there staring with such worried expressions on their faces.

Finally Dad came over and put his hands gently on my shoulders. “Danielle, please—calm down,” he said. “What is this all about?”

“You know you don't have a brother,” Mom said softly. “You know there's no one in our family named Peter.”

 

“Have you gone crazy?” I shrieked. “Of course I have a brother! Have you both gone totally crazy?”

Dad tightened his hold on my shoulders. “Danielle, please,” he whispered. “Let's go in the house and talk about this quietly.”

Mom sighed. “Your father and I have had a very long trip.”

“But, Peter—!” I protested. “He's in the basement. We can't just leave him there.”

Mom sighed again. “I knew we shouldn't have left her alone,” she said to Dad.

Dad kept his eyes locked on mine. He shook his head. “Danielle, you used to make up imaginary friends when you were little. But you're fifteen now.”

I pulled free from his grip. “I'm
not
making Peter up!” I cried. “I'm not! He's my brother! He's your
son
!”

Mom shut her eyes and held her hands over her ears. “Please stop it. Please. I have a splitting headache.”

“Can't we go inside and talk about this calmly?” Dad pleaded. “We'll sit down and have a cup of tea, and—”

“
How can I be calm
?” I wailed. “Peter is in horrible trouble—and you don't even remember him! Your own son! Your own son!”

I grabbed Dad's hands and pulled him toward the house. “Come down to the basement. I'll show you.”

Walking with me, Dad slipped his arm around my shoulder. “It'll be okay, Danielle,” he said softly. I saw him glance at Mom. “You can show us the basement later. Okay?”

He pressed his palm against my forehead. “Hmmm. It feels hot. I think you might have a fever. That would explain—”

“NO!” I shrieked. “I'm not sick! And I'm not crazy! You've
got
to remember Peter. You've got to!”

They led me into the house. They took me up to my room and forced a thermometer into my mouth. I didn't have any fever.

But they insisted I get into bed. Dad went downstairs to call Dr. Ross.

Mom kept clearing her throat tensely, crossing and uncrossing her arms, sighing loudly. All the while, she gaped at me as if I was some kind of alien from another planet.

I changed into my pajamas and sat on the edge of my bed. “I know what's happening here,” I told her. “Peter is real. But you've forgotten him. Because this is
Forget-Me House
.”

Mom narrowed her eyes at me. “Excuse me? This is
what?
”

“
Forget-Me House
,” I repeated. “A man came here. He told me—”

“Someone was here?” Mom interrupted.

I nodded. “And he told me this would happen.”

Mom sighed for the hundredth time. “I don't understand. A strange man came here? And he said you would start to imagine you had a brother?”

“I'm not imagining!” I cried. And then I totally lost it. I jumped to my feet. I grabbed Mom by the shoulders, and I started to shake her. “Listen to me! Listen to me! You've got to listen to me!”

Mom's eyes bulged in shock, in fear. “Danielle, stop! Let go!” she pleaded.

I heard footsteps. Dad rushed into the room. He uttered a startled cry. Then he pulled me off Mom. He wrapped his arm around my waist and guided me firmly back to my bed.

“Sit down, Danielle,” he ordered. “Sit down and take a deep breath. Do I have to take you to the hospital?”

“She—she
attacked
me!” Mom whimpered, rubbing her shoulders. And then she added, “Like a wild animal.”

“Dr. Ross will see us tomorrow,” Dad told me. He stood between Mom and me, breathing hard, hands on his waist. He stood tensed, as if ready to protect Mom from another attack.

“She's completely out of control,” Mom said, shaking her head. The tears in her eyes began to run down her cheeks.

“I—I'm sorry,” I told her. “I didn't mean to hurt you. I only …” My voice trailed off.

They're not going to listen to me, I realized. They're not going to believe me.

They think I've gone crazy or something.

They really don't remember Peter.

What can I do?

I've got to wait, I decided. I've got to wait until everyone is calmer. Then I can sit down quietly with them and explain. Explain about the house. Explain what that reporter told me about this place.

I hunched myself on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tightly in my lap. My hair fell over my face, but I made no attempt to push it back.

“Sorry, Mom,” I repeated. “Sorry I've been acting so insane. But we really need to talk. About Peter and about this house.”

Mom and Dad exchanged glances.

“Of course, we'll talk,” Dad said, sounding really forced and phony. “We'll talk about everything. You know, moving into a new house can be very, very stressful.”

I wanted to argue with him, but I bit my tongue.

Mom wiped the tears off her cheeks. She suddenly appeared so tired, so old. “Let's discuss the whole thing in the morning,” she said. She pressed her fingers against her temples. “When we're all calm and rested, and I don't have this splitting headache.”

“Okay,” I agreed.

“Yes, first thing in the morning,” Dad added, nodding eagerly. “I know you'll feel a lot better about everything after a good night's sleep.”

No, I won't!
That's what I wanted to say. Instead, I murmured, “Yeah. Okay.”

Mom started toward the door, then turned back to me. She forced a smile to her face. “Tell you what,” she said. “I'll make your favorite—blueberry pancakes—for breakfast. How does that sound?”