The Writing Retreat(50)

How could they possibly know what anger was?

It’s why Lamia had come to her. Her and not them.

“So do you promise to stop?” Abigail’s desperate doe eyes filled with tears.

Oh, good lord. Jillian’s remembered voice, amused and disgusted. If she were there, she’d throw her head back and laugh.

“I’m sorry.” Daphne made herself look contrite, like a dog who knows she’s been naughty. “I promise, I’ll stop.”





Chapter 18




That night I woke suddenly. I turned on my side, drifting through dreams like a boat casting off, until I heard it again.

Footsteps.

Slow and steady, they creaked as they came closer. I had a wild feeling of déjà vu: the dream with Wren. But this was real. I turned on my lamp. Blinking against the light, I listened to the sounds continue past my room. I slipped out of bed and cracked open the door. Someone was at the end of the hall, stepping around the corner.

The déjà vu only got stronger as I followed. Heart pounding, I crept down the hall and turned onto the landing. No one was there. I walked closer towards the banister. The same moonlight poured in through the front windows. I glanced nervously behind me, then forced myself to keep going until my hands grasped the railing.

There. Someone was going down the stairs, almost at the bottom. A figure in leggings and a dark sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. At the bottom they turned down the hall that led to the parlor, library, and kitchen.

It felt like some kind of sign that my dream had started the same way. Or maybe an invitation? Whatever was happening, I needed to find out. I hurried down the steps. In the hall, the figure—it had to be a she—was about twenty feet ahead of me. She passed the parlor, then the library. Her walk was slow and processional.

She entered the kitchen, heading straight to the door to the basement. I slowed by the butcher block as she opened it and flipped on the light. The tip of her nose poked out of her purple hoodie as she started down the stairs.

Wren’s sweatshirt—but this figure was too short to be Wren.

Shoving away the fear, I ran to the stairwell.

“Hey.” My voice was groggy and I cleared my throat. “Hey, wait.”

The figure halted, one hand on the wooden bannister. Her nails were pink. I knew those nails.

“Poppy?” I said.

She turned around slowly.

I braced myself for a horrific sight: her face half–eaten away or her eyes glowing red.

But it was just her. Her large, walnut-colored eyes peered at me. And yet… it was like she didn’t see me. It was like she was looking through me, like I didn’t exist.

“What are you doing?” I ran down a few steps to clutch her arm. It felt reassuringly warm and solid in my grip.

She jerked away, and I gripped her harder to keep her from falling backwards.

“Poppy, it’s me,” I said. “Wake up.”

She shrank away from me. Blinking, she looked around, young and scared.

“Where are we?” she asked in a thick voice.

“The steps to the basement.” I shivered from the cold air rushing up past us.

“What?” Her shoulders were hunched.

“I think you’re sleepwalking. You were, I mean.”

“What?” She squinted, confused like an animal who’d been disturbed in her burrow.

“I followed you down here…” Seeing the look of incomprehension, I sighed. “Never mind. Let’s just get you back upstairs, okay?”

“Okay.” She followed me closely, and I felt suddenly protective of her. Gripping Poppy’s hand, I led her back upstairs to her room. She went straight to her bed and climbed into it. In the dim moonlight from the windows, I saw Wren’s sleeping figure.

I shut the door gently and went back to my room. Something still felt off. Feeling silly, I peeked in the wardrobe, under the bed, and even behind the shower curtain in the bathroom.

Just to be sure.

The last thing I saw before drifting off was Poppy’s enormous eyes staring through me like I was a ghost.





Chapter 19




“Oh my god.” Poppy’s mouth hung open, showing a chewed lump of muffin. “Are you serious right now? Like, is this a joke?”

“No joke.” I felt suddenly defensive at Poppy’s disbelieving stare, as if she was accusing me of making it up. And as Poppy, Keira, and I breakfasted in the cheerful light of day, it did seem rather unlikely.

“You must’ve been so freaked out.” Keira watched me.

“It was pretty creepy.” I tried to smile. “And then I felt bad for waking you up. Well, half woke. You were pretty out of it. But I remembered after that you’re not supposed to wake a sleepwalker.”

“Wow.” Poppy looked thoughtful and played with the cord of another of Wren’s hoodies. They were apparently exchanging clothes now. “You know what? I used to sleepwalk a lot as a kid. And actually”—her eyes widened—“I think I used to go down to the basement!”

“Yikes.” Keira shook her head. “Your poor parents.”

“Right?” Poppy raked a hand through her wavy hair. “I haven’t thought about this in so long. My parents would hear me on the stairs and find me just standing down there in the dark. It freaked all of us out. They were even going to take me to a specialist because they were worried I’d hurt myself or wander outside or something. But then after a few weeks it just stopped.”