The Spite House(32)

Dess wished she had someone to talk to. She missed having friends, although she’d lost many of them well before she and her dad and Stacy had hit the road. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Her grief and depression just put distance between them, and the business of getting their futures together—applying for scholarships and financial aid, weighing whether to join the military, and in one case making postgraduation wedding plans—added to the gulf between them. Still, Dess wondered what they were up to. She wondered what they’d say about this house, about her life, about what she was going to eventually do with herself, because she couldn’t spend the rest of her life doing this, right? She’d have to get back to something close to normal someday, wouldn’t she?

Yeah, nah, she would say to them. Normal is out the window, and she’d have to leave it at that because she couldn’t tell them why. They might be right, though, about how long she could keep this up. She had no timeline set, but at some point, she’d have to see the rest of her family again. Her mother if no one else.

Thinking of her mother and the way they had left her behind, what she might be thinking of them, or worse, that she might not be thinking of them much at all, turned Dess’s stomach over. Why did she have to think of her mother tonight? She’d done well to keep memories and thoughts of her mom locked in a box in the corner of her mind that she’d only open about once a week at most, just often enough to keep it from hurting too bad when she did, and she always braced herself for it. She had practiced preventing thoughts of her mother from getting loose when she was already in her feelings, which was where she was tonight. She missed home, was frustrated about having no future in sight, and was, she could at last admit, afraid to fall asleep. Fear was an underrated emotion, she thought. It was the original alarm system. Tonight it was ringing several bells that called for her to stay alert, even if it meant keeping her eyes open until sunrise.

Beyond the darkness that sat in the room like a lazy fog, eating most of what little light tried to come in through the window, and beyond the too-close walls, particularly the wall opposite the bed, there was the fact that Stacy was sleeping in a separate room. It was the first time Dess or her father had let Stacy stay out of their sight for more than enough time to use the bathroom. This made Dess as anxious as anything else, and part of what kept her awake was the idea that she needed to be able to hear if Stacy called out to her, in case.

In case what?

She felt for the key-chain flashlight on her nightstand. When she found it, she turned it on, got out of bed, and walked to the adjoining door. The worst-case scenario that had just crossed her mind was worse than the idea of Stacy screaming for her big sister’s help in the dead of night.

Dess opened the door to the first room and was startled to see Stacy sitting at the edge of her bed, facing her. Stacy had her back to the door that led to the stairs. She clutched Miss Happy like she wanted to squeeze the breath out of the doll. Stacy lifted her head to face Dess, her eyes initially full of concern that looked out of place before a familiar relief came over her.

“Are you okay?” Dess said, remaining in the doorway. Before Stacy could answer, Dess added, “Why is it so cold in here?”

“I don’t know,” Stacy said.

“You want to come to my room?”

Stacy nodded.

“What’s wrong?” Dess said.

“I heard somebody.”

“What?”

“I heard a boy talking to me. He woke me up. He told me something bad.”

“Okay. Okay, let’s—”

“He said the house can make people disappear,” Stacy said, her voice quivering. “And then he said that was a secret, and since he told me a secret, I had to tell him mine. But I didn’t know what he was talking about. I told him that and he called me a liar and went over there.”

She turned and pointed toward the corner of the room by the door to the stairs. Dess’s flashlight was already bright enough to reveal that no one else was in the room, but she aimed the light at the corner nonetheless, as if doing so could draw something invisible out of hiding. Not that she’d be happy to see it, but being unable to see it while it was there would be worse.

Her mind repeated the information her eyes fed it. There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there.

“He’s still there,” Stacy said, her voice climbing a bit. “You have to believe me he’s there. And he said I better tell him, or he’ll get his sister to make me tell.”

It’s just her imagination, Dess thought, the words popping into her head. Stacy liked to read. She liked to create. She learned to make paper flowers and her own coloring books. She could make up stories to entertain herself. She was stunningly smart and intuitive and willful. And she was still a kid. Her mind could be more than she could corral. But that wasn’t the case now, Dess was sure of that. Stacy’s eyes told her so, as did the goose bumps on her arms, and the shivers making teeth clack.

“Come on,” Dess said, holding out her hand.

Stacy took it and asked, “Are we going to your room?”

“We’re going downstairs.”

“Dess, please, he’s—”

“I know. I don’t think you’re lying. But he’s just a little boy, right?”

“He’s mean, though,” Stacy said.