Girls of Brackenhill(87)

It should have been yellowed with age, dirty, curled at the edges, but it wasn’t. The card was bright white, seemingly untouched by time, the edges crisp, the writing still sharp. She ran a finger over the ink, half expecting it to bleed onto her skin. Hannah replaced the card on the floor instead of keeping it.

The second door, straight through, was closed tight. Hannah had to jiggle the handle, the doorjamb swollen with humidity. The door finally gave. The second room, too, was empty except for cobwebs. She studied the floor: dirt, no discernible footprints. Had no one been down here at all since she and Julia? Seemed impossible.

A second index card. She flipped it over. Blinked.





#2


Hannah sucked in a breath. Closed her eyes. Visualized the walk back with Stuart leading the way, watching those little handwritten index cards count down in perfect order their foolishness.

Now here was proof.

She was an adult; this was ridiculous.

The house seemed to sigh, something from deep within like bellows, the walls themselves exhaling, and the air shifted. Smelled different: stale and ripe now. Like a living thing.

Or. Something like death.

Hannah pushed through the third door, searching immediately for the white index card.





#5


Then the next:


#8


She pushed through door after door, straight from one side to the other, never using the doors on either side, just kept on in a straight line like Uncle Stuart had done on the way back out. And yet the cards were all out of order.

A simple, grown-up explanation: someone had been down in the basement and moved the cards in the past seventeen years. Plausible. But who would do that and why?

A test occurred to her. She exited number eight and entered number one.

Closed both doors and waited a moment. She heard it—or perhaps felt it—the moving of air, like the house was breathing.

With her eyes closed, Hannah pushed open the door she’d just come through. She opened her eyes and searched the floor, seeking the white square card.

Saw it lying on the floor: #11

She was back at the beginning. Or the end.

No. It was impossible. She turned and pushed open the opposite door, which should have led to number ten.





#2


Then the next room:


#8


She somehow had started over. Hannah tried to remember the initial order—eleven, two, five, eight. Her head swam, and she felt panic settle in her bones. Oh God, how was she going to get out?

Her synapses were misfiring, making her thoughts ping around like pinballs. She was desperate to get out. She didn’t care about anything: Julia, Wyatt, Huck, Virginia. She only cared about getting to the end, finding the end. Getting out of the castle, leaving Brackenhill behind, and then what?

She’d left Julia to die. Her life was never going to be the same.

How long had she been in the basement? It felt like hours. Days.

Hannah took a breath. In. Out. In. Out. If she ran from one side of the maze to the other, maybe she’d make it. She rushed through the doors, one after each other in a straight line, leaving them swinging open. Ran, her feet pounding on dirt, leaving footprints in the dust. The fifth room made an L shape; she turned the corner easily and pushed through the doors one after the other. Not bothering to look at the cards, just 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2.

The trick was to keep the doors open.

Finally, the #1 card fluttered at her feet. She looked up the steps to the door into the kitchen.

She should just let Alice kill her. Then at least Huck would think his fiancée was a good, moral person.

Maybe, just maybe, it was this fucking house.

She who lives here goes insane. Aunt Fae’s aunt. Aunt Fae. Hannah. Alice.

She belonged here now. There was no “after” for her anymore. Alice couldn’t kill Hannah, and she couldn’t go back to Virginia. She didn’t belong anywhere but Brackenhill. Not anymore.

As sure as the Beaverkill flowed southwest, you should never prune Juliet roses in the summer, and Brackenhill was haunted by ghosts—living and dead.





CHAPTER SIXTY

Now

The kitchen was dark. Brackenhill was dark.

Hannah crept upstairs. If she could hide and text Wyatt, maybe he would come arrest Alice. She didn’t dare make a phone call. Alice could be anywhere.

It was likely that Alice knew the storm-shelter tunnel led to the basement. She could be lying in wait. Hannah ascended the curved concrete steps. A nice thing about concrete: it was silent, her feet barely making a sound.

In the hallway, Hannah turned down the lantern and listened.

Hiss, hum from Uncle Stuart’s room.

Creak, click from somewhere in the belly of the house.

Please come BH, Hannah texted Wyatt.

Inching along the wall, Hannah ducked into the first room in the hall that wasn’t Uncle Stuart’s. It was Ruby’s.

The netting floated over the bed, ethereal and beautiful.

In the moonlight, the room seemed to glow. A rustle behind her, and Hannah spun one way, then the other.

A whisper.

A giggle.

The room seemed to echo with the spirits of little girls. The purple walls, the pink bedding. Tiny, quick footsteps across the plush carpeting.

The music box on the dresser spontaneously played a sluggish version of “Clair de Lune,” the ballerina spinning slowly, drunkenly.