Don't Forget Me! (9 page)

“Forget themselves,” he replied. “One by one, one at a time, the people who live here forget everything. And then … then … they are forgotten too. Forgotten forever.”

I wanted to scream, but I held it in. I pictured Peter up in his room. Peter didn't remember me. He couldn't remember his own sister.

The reporter leaned closer, narrowing his cold eyes at me. “Has anything strange happened to you?”

My breath caught in my throat. “N-no,” I choked out. I didn't want to tell him.

I had to think. Had to figure this out.

He studied me. “Are you sure? Have you seen anything strange? Heard anything? Is anyone in your family acting weird?”

“No!” I cried. “No! Please—you have to leave!”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you,” the reporter said. “It's just a bunch of old newspaper stories. Probably not true.”

He stepped back, shifting his black raincoat on his shoulders. “I see I've upset you. I'll come back. I'll come back when your parents are home.”

I heard a noise and turned to the stairs. “Peter—is that you?”

Silence.

When I turned back, the reporter was gone.

I stood staring out at the street, trying to stop my head from spinning. My mind whirred with questions.

Was he telling the truth? Did those old articles explain what was happening to Peter?

Was it possible that I never hypnotized my brother? That Peter's strange behavior wasn't my fault at all? That it was all the house's fault?

Forget-Me House
…

I remembered Peter's desperate plea. “
Danielle, don't forget me. Please—don't forget me!
”

“One by one, the people who live here forget everything.”

The reporter's words repeated in my ears.

“They forget everything. Then they are forgotten too.”

“But that's
crazy
!” I muttered. “Crazy.” I realized my whole body was shaking. I turned back into the house and closed the front door behind me.

To my surprise, Peter stood right behind me.

“Get
out
!” he screamed. His eyes were wild. His red hair stood straight up. His body was tensed, as if ready to attack. “Get out! Get out of my house!”

I didn't have time to reply.

He leaped at me—and wrapped his hands around my throat.

“Get out! Get out!”

“Peter, no!” I shrieked. His hands tightened, cutting off my words.

“Peter, stop! You're choking me! I … can't … breathe….”

 

He opened his mouth in an animal growl. His fingers tightened around my throat.

I dropped to my knees, struggling to free myself. I wheezed as I struggled to take in air.

I grabbed his arms and tried to pull his hands off me. But he was suddenly so strong, so strong.

“Can't breathe!” I gasped. “Please!”

I staggered to my feet. Frantically grabbed him around the waist. And falling forward, stumbling, choking, I slammed him into the wall.

His hands slid off me. He uttered a startled cry.

I shoved him out of the way and burst out the front door. Sucking in breath after breath, I jumped off the front stoop and kept running. Down the front lawn, leaping over a coiled garden hose my dad had left there. Over the sidewalk, onto the street.

I ran. Not thinking. Not feeling anything. My throat aching, throbbing.

Peter … Peter … Peter …

His name repeated in my mind like some kind of terrifying chant. I couldn't stop it. I heard his name each time my shoes thudded on the pavement.

Peter … Peter … Peter …

My brother had become a wild animal. A wild animal in a rage.

Why was he suddenly so angry? Was it because of what the reporter had told me? Because he was forgetting everything? Losing himself?

Was Peter in a total rage because of what the house was doing to him?

I ran through an intersection without stopping, without seeing anything. I heard a car horn honk. I heard an angry shout.

“Danielle, you've got to think clearly,” I scolded myself. But how
could
I think clearly? My own brother didn't remember me. And now he had nearly strangled me.

I kept running.

I can't go home, I told myself. It isn't safe. It isn't safe with Peter there.

But I
have
to go back! I argued with myself. I'm in charge. I'm responsible for Peter. I can't just leave him there all alone, prowling around like a lost animal.

It was nearly dinnertime. My parents were on their way home. They would be back in an hour or two.

And then what?

How could I explain to them what had happened?

Would they blame me for Peter? Would they believe me about the reporter's story? Could they
do
anything to save my poor brother?

Without realizing it, I had run to Addie's house. I rang the bell and pounded on the door at the same time. “Addie, are you home? Addie—?” I called in a high, shrill voice.

After a few seconds, the door swung open. Addie gaped at me. “Danielle? What's wrong? You look horrible!”

“I—I—” I couldn't talk. I stumbled past her, into the front room. The TV was on. A local newscast.

Am I going to be on the news too? I suddenly wondered. Talking about how my poor brother went crazy because we live in
Forget-Me House
?

“Danielle—?” Addie placed a hand on my trembling shoulder. “What is it? It's cold out. You don't have a jacket or anything?”

I shook my head, still struggling to catch my breath. “I just ran,” I finally choked out. “I had to run. Peter!”

Addie narrowed her green eyes. “Peter?”

“Yeah,” I rushed on. “I don't think he was ever hypnotized. I think it's something else. Something much more scary.”

“Oh. Right. Peter!” Addie stared at me. “Is he still acting weird?”

I nodded. “He—he tried to choke me.”

She gasped. “Where are your parents? They're not back yet?”

I glanced at the clock above the TV. Nearly six. “Soon,” I said. “They should be home soon.”

“Do you want to wait here until they get back?” Addie asked.

I sighed. “I guess.” I dropped onto her couch. I shut my eyes and buried my head in my hands.

And saw them. The eerie, slime-covered kids in the basement. I saw their sad faces. Heard them chanting my brother's name. And suddenly I knew. I knew who they were.

They were the forgotten ones.

They were the victims of
Forget-Me House
.

And now the forgotten kids were calling for Peter.

I jumped to my feet and let out a shrill scream. “Nooooo!” And without even realizing it, I was running again. Out the door and down Addie's front yard.

I heard Addie calling to me. But I didn't stop or look back.

Once again I ran without seeing, my mind a blur. I ran the whole way home.

What would I find there?

Would my brother try to attack me again? Would he still be a wild, raging animal?

I fought back my fear. I knew I had no choice. I had to be there. I had to save Peter. I had to be home when Mom and Dad returned. To warn them. To explain to them.

As I turned the corner onto our block, I heard a sharp animal cry. A dog bark. Without slowing down, I turned and saw our neighbor's large gray German shepherd racing after me.

“No, boy! Go home! Go home!” I pleaded. Why was he acting like this?

And what was his name?

Why couldn't I remember his name?

Running hard, the big dog barked a warning, its tail wagging furiously. It caught up to me easily. And then it jumped in front of me.

I stumbled over it.

It leaped up, panting hard, pushing its paws against my waist.

I screamed at him, “Go home! Please—down! Get down!”

Then I realized the dog only wanted to play.

“Not now. Please—not now.” I grabbed its front paws and lowered them to the pavement. I petted the dog's head.

Why couldn't I remember its name?

“Not now, boy. Go home!”

I started running again, the dog yapping at my heels. I had the sudden hope that my parents' car would be in the driveway. Please, I thought, be there. Be home to help me. Maybe the three of us working together can do something to help Peter.

But … no car. The driveway stood empty. The front door to the house was wide-open, just as I'd left it when I ran from Peter.

My heart pounding, I started up the front lawn. And realized the dog was no longer at my feet. I turned and saw it at the curb. It gazed up at the house, uttering low, whimpering sounds. Its ears were down, tail between its legs, its whole body hunched, trembling.

It's terrified, I realized. The dog won't come up here. It's terrified.

Finally the dog lowered its gaze. It shook itself hard, and still whimpering, slinked away.

I had the sudden impulse to follow it. To run away. To find a place that was safe, a place that didn't make dogs tremble and cry.

But my brother was inside the house. And he was in trouble.

I had no choice.

I took a deep breath and went inside.

And as soon as I entered, I saw the basement door. Wide-open.

And I heard the whispered voices, harsh and raspy. The voices rising up from the basement.

But this time they weren't chanting my brother's name.

This time they were chanting my name, over and over.

“
Danielle … Danielle … Danielle …
”

I pressed my hands against my cheeks—and cried out in horror.

My face—it felt wet. Wet and sticky.

Frantically I clawed at the goo, tearing at it, pulling it, rubbing it off my face.

And all the while, the voices droned on: “
Danielle … Danielle … Danielle …
”

 

“Noooo!” A cry of terror escaped my throat as I pulled the last of the slime away. “You're not going to get me. You're not going to get Peter.”

Somehow I had to save Peter—if I wasn't already too late!

“Peter?” I choked out. My voice sounded tiny and hollow. I grabbed the banister and called up the front stairs. “Peter? Are you in your room?”

No reply.

I ran upstairs. Checked his room. Then mine. No sign of him.

“Peter?”

I hurried downstairs. I had no choice. A wave of cold dread swept over me as I approached the basement door.

The chanting had stopped. Silence now. A deep silence that rang in my ears.

It took all my strength to step into the stairwell and peer down to the basement. “Peter?”

I knew he was down there.

I knew I had to go down and bring him back upstairs.

“Peter, this is your sister. Danielle,” I called down. “I know you don't remember me. But this is Danielle. I'm coming down now. I'm coming to help you.”

I listened hard. No reply.

Then I heard a creaking sound. Very slow. A low grinding. Like a heavy door opening.

“Peter? Did you hear me? This is your sister. I'm coming down to help you.”

I took a deep, shuddering breath. I spotted the long metal flashlight on the top step. I picked it up. A good weapon. I hoped I wouldn't need to use it.

“Peter, here I come.”

My legs were shaking so badly, I had to take the stairs one at a time. I stopped every few steps and listened. Wind rattled the windowpanes at ground level. The only sound except for my shallow breaths.

Halfway down the stairs, I heard another creak. Then a soft, scraping sound. “Peter? Is that you? Can you hear me?”

No reply.

I forced myself down the rest of the way. Gripping the flashlight tightly in my right hand, I spun away from the stairs and gazed into the basement.

In the darkening evening light from the narrow windows above, I could see the clutter of junk, old furniture, stacks of old newspapers.

“Oh.” My mouth dropped open as I turned to the far wall, the wall across from the enormous, time-blackened furnace, and saw the scrawled words.