Dream House (16 page)

When I've finished eating, I clean up and put everything back where it belongs, then go over to the entrance hall and squint through the peephole, unable to shake the feeling that somebody is watching me all the time. But there's nobody there—as I expected. I grab my shoes—a pair of worn-out white All Stars I've used so much that they look far older than they actually are—and as I put them on I remember how much I used to like going for walks. Long ones. I didn't have to be with anyone else; being on my own was never a problem for me.

And then one specific memory comes back to me.

I am strolling up a hill. It's quite steep, and I'm alone. Once I reach the top, the breathtaking view of White Hills spread out below me makes me feel more alive than ever before. I vividly remember the mosaic of fields, with just a few cottages dotted here and there, and the contrast they make with the jumble of pretty old buildings clustered together around the little square at the centre of the village.

The fog is blurring the colours of the twilight, blending the rich blues and the pale pinks wonderfully, and a few houses already have their lights on while others have got a fire burning, as the smoke emerging from their chimneys shows. But hardly anybody ever actually spends any time up here, and all the rest of them miss out on seeing this amazing view.

Snapping out of my daydream, I come back to my senses, realising that my body must have somehow made its way to the front gate by itself.

Stepping forward and ready to leave the house for the first time in weeks, I suddenly hear a ripping noise under one of my feet. I peer down at the source of the sound, bewildered to find that there appears to be a note stuck under the sole. I lift my foot so that I can collect the two pieces I've accidentally torn apart and crouch down on the path.

Placing them together on the ground next to each other, I read:

Under the ground, beneath the house,

you will scamper like a mouse.

We will cheer, that I can bet,

to a night you'll never forget.

A few blank lines, and then:

21st of October. 9:00 p.m.

Our secret place.

I read the note over and over again, the weird little rhyme making me feel increasingly uncomfortable. Then, on an impulse, I turn the note over—and instantly regret that I have. In the centre, my name has been written with the same black pen as the rest of the message.

I try to get my head around this sinister clue, wondering first of all how it got here in the first place, and secondly who would have left such a mysterious thing for me—and then I remember something.

The song Akiko was singing, sitting on her bed last night.

This is the same kind of poem, except that the words are different. Could she be behind this? What does this note mean?

I analyse each word, starting at the beginning. The first line seems to hint that there's something underneath this house—what she calls “our secret place.” If it weren't for my name written on the back of the piece of paper, I would presume that it was meant for somebody else, but it's obviously no coincidence. Our secret place . . . where would that be? The place I've seen Akiko most is in the bedroom, if I'm not mistaken—maybe there's something in there?

I move on to the second line, trying to understand why we would be cheering, and the only thing that I can possibly think of is that it might be Akiko's birthday.

I struggle to remember if there were any specific dates in the family album that I found in the Blooms' bedroom, but I just can't remember, no matter how hard I try.

All of a sudden I realise that I must have zoned out for a while, as the soft light of the sun has now grown so dim that it's left me in almost complete darkness again. I feel the coldness in the air, freezing the tip of my nose. Picking up the two halves of the note from the path, I grasp them in my hand while I walk inside, back into that warm yet desolate home.

Without wasting any time, I go directly to the master bedroom, still illuminated by the last faint light of evening coming through the French doors. I rush over to the bed, checking underneath to find the box still where I left it. I remove the lid and take out the album, opening it at the second page, at the very same picture of Akiko blowing on those colourful little candles. I check for any clues, but the only number I can see is the date, 1996, on the first page, right under the title. Nothing else.

Aware of the fact that there's something more pressing that I need to take care of right now, I carefully put the album back in place, just like the last time I was in here.

I look around, and my eye is drawn to the trapdoor in the ceiling which leads to the attic. It would be so easy to climb up there and get the answers I need, but at the same time, a voice in my head keeps telling me to look for the “secret place” instead, as though that might reveal what this mystery is all about.

Feeling as though someone's eyes are on me all the time and unable to help myself from constantly peering about me, I tiptoe out of the bedroom.

When I get back to my bedroom, the words “beneath” and “secret” keep going round in my head. I immediately check under the bed, but there's absolutely nothing—not even dust.

I start taking a better look at the desk in search of clues, and accidentally knock a glass full of marbles and pencils to the floor. The small glass spheres mostly settle in the same spot at the centre of the worn rug, so I get down on my knees to collect them all, feeling as though this might be the sign I was waiting for. I slide the rug away, hoping to discover something that might remotely resemble an opening to an underground floor, but there's nothing there at all—the wooden floor is perfectly solid and there's absolutely nothing peculiar about it.

I slump dejectedly down to the floor with my back against the wall. And that's when I see it: one single marble, over there by the wardrobe, far away from all the others.

I crawl over to that side of the room and pick it up. I stare at it for a second, thinking about what you'd be able to hide under a wardrobe this gigantic.

Climbing to my feet, I squeeze myself into the gap between the side of the huge piece of furniture and the wall and push with all my might, using my body as a lever.

After I've given it a couple of shoves and am starting to feel my strength failing, I stop, and with delight find that I've managed to move it enough to reveal a semicircular trapdoor with an iron handle attached to the edge in the floor.

Despite my excitement about my discovery, though, I'm absolutely exhausted—my forehead is burning and my face is dripping with sweat.

Deciding to be cautious, I lie down to rest for a minute, but, overwhelmed by fatigue and wrapped in the warm embrace of the soft blanket, I can't stop myself from falling into a deep, deep sleep.

T
HE NEXT
morning, I wake up earlier than usual.

Yesterday evening, I didn't manage to take a proper look at that opening in the floor, still half covered by the massive wardrobe—but in the light of day I'm almost thankful that I didn't decide to go down there at night.

I slip a hand inside the front pocket of my jeans, where I put the sinister note for safekeeping. Its choice of words makes it sound so much
creepier
that it needs to be. If someone wants to meet me, why be so mysterious about it?

Whoever left this for me obviously already knew where to find me. Could it be another ghost? Could it be the same person who wrote to me using the magnetic letters on the fridge?

At the thought of this last possibility, a shiver runs down my back.

I stand up and, after giving myself a quick once-over in the mirror, head towards the kitchen.

My name is still there, crookedly spelled out across the shiny door of the fridge, and I'm reminded once again of the weird feeling I get every time I try to loosen up and lower my guard.

I grasp the handle and pull it open. There's not much left inside, but my eyes immediately alight upon something that wasn't there the last time I looked: a fluffy cupcake with just one pink candle in the middle, right at the centre of the rack.

A word comes to mind—“celebrate.”

Is this some kind of game? Because I'm not finding it amusing.

I grab the tiny cake and place it on top of the dining table. There's a good chance that the same person who left me the note also put this cupcake in the fridge for me to see, so I scrutinise it carefully. I no longer even bother looking around the room to see if anybody's there—the fear that's been dogging me for the last few days is finally turning into anger, and I'm feeling increasingly eager to find out who's behind all of this.

In the hope of finding some kind of clue inside it, I start poking away at the cake until I've reduced it to nothing more than a pile of crumbs—but crumbs are all that remain.

Instantly overcome with guilt, I clean up the mess I've made and collect the shards of the broken bowl from where I left them on the floor the other day.

In desperate need of some energy, I prepare my usual breakfast, and when I'm done eating I head towards the other part of the house, tempted for a second to enter the Blooms' bedroom but then opting for the bathroom instead.

I turn on the hot water in the shower and wait a few minutes until the air is thick with warm steam, then take off my clothes and climb right into the stream.

I try as hard as I can to forget about everything—to disconnect and just enjoy the pleasure of relaxing for a while. But something's stopping me.

Why am I still here?

That's the question I keep asking. If the excuse I'd been giving myself—and everybody else—for being here was working for the first few days, after all that's happened I'm not sure it's still valid. Is it really wise to stay in this wonderful yet strangely creepy house when the Blooms seem not to care enough about me to come back, and the house itself seems to want me out of here?

What if, maybe, there's something more?

That's what I probably keep telling myself—that there's something to
know
, something it's up to me to figure out.

There's a sudden flash of lightning, bright enough to penetrate my closed eyelids. I blink them open and see another flash through the little window behind me, followed by a rumble of thunder. Bad weather on the way.

Placing my right foot on the rim of the bathtub, I reach up with both hands to grab the pole that holds the shower curtain and hoist myself upwards to face the window, which would otherwise be too high for me to see through.

I stare out at the backyard, almost missing Alfred's presence. Although it scared me at the beginning, it actually managed to make me feel
safer
and
less
lonely once I knew about his situation.

But now I'm alone, and all I can do is gaze over at Avery's unlit window wondering if he's home and what he might be doing.

My eyes begin to wander from the window to the rest of the house around it. So well does the building match the forbidding colour of the approaching dark clouds that it's almost invisible against them, giving it an unnervingly spectral appearance.

Tired of balancing there on the edge of the tub, I step down, wrap a big, white bath towel around myself, grab my clothes, and make my way to the opposite side of the house—my bedroom.

I reach backwards and push the door shut behind me, too incredulous at what I find there in front of me to even bother turning round while I do it: a dress that I've never seen before is hanging from one of the flower-shaped knobs of the old wooden wardrobe.

Keeping my distance, as though it might be alive and ready to attack, I examine it thoroughly.

It's a wonderful midi dress in pale yellow, with a straight hem and scalloped three-quarters sleeves. A matching white scalloped collar decorates the neckline ever so gently, while a row of small white buttons runs down to the part where the skirt starts to flare out at the waist. On the right side of the bodice there's a small pocket, from which the corner of a note protrudes.

Still standing by the door with my hand gripping the handle, I feel unsure about what I should do next: leave the room, or shut myself inside?

Deciding on the spur of the moment to ignore my fears, I pick a third option and walk slowly over towards the dress, luxuriating in its old-fashioned beauty.

I stretch out my right hand in order to take the note hidden by the fabric of the pocket, and as I do, a loud crash of thunder makes me jump so violently that I bring my other hand to my heart to check that it's still beating and to try to calm myself down.

When my heartbeat returns to normal—or at least close enough—I open my right hand and read the crumpled note.

Amethyst.

That's all it says.

I look back at the dress, feeling more confused than ever, and totally unable to comprehend why someone would play games like this with me.