Hidden Pictures(39)

I yank the drawings off the refrigerator and the magnets clatter to the floor. The pages are limp with moisture and a little warm, like they’ve just come from an oven. I put them facedown on the counter so I won’t have to look at them.

Then I hurry around my cottage and lock both my windows. The night ahead will be warm and stuffy and possibly sleepless but after my discovery I’m not taking any chances. I roll back the rug and check the hatch in the floor—it’s still securely nailed shut. Then I drag my bed across the cottage and use it to barricade the door. If anyone tries to open it, the door will bang into the footboard and jolt me awake.

As I see it, there are three possible ways these drawings ended up on my refrigerator.

#1: The Maxwells. I know they have a key to my cottage. I suppose it’s possible that Ted or Caroline drew these pictures and then—while I was out having dinner with Russell—one of them entered my cottage and left the drawings on my refrigerator. But why? I can’t think of a single plausible reason for either one of them to do this. I’m responsible for the safety and welfare of their child. Why would they want to gaslight me, to make me feel like I’m going crazy?

#2: Teddy. Perhaps this sweet five-year-old child swiped a spare key from his parents, then sneaked out of his bedroom, crept across the backyard, and carried the drawings inside my cottage. But to believe this theory, you also have to believe that Teddy is some kind of magical artistic savant—that he’s gone from drawing stick figures to fully realistic three-dimensional illustrations with convincing light and shadow—all in a matter of days.

#3. Anya. I have no idea what happens in Teddy’s bedroom during Quiet Time—but what if Anya really is controlling him? Taking possession of his body and using his hand to draw these pictures? And then somehow “carrying” these finished drawings into my cottage?

I know, I know: It sounds crazy.

But when I look at all three theories? When I compare them to each other? The most impossible explanation seems like the most likely explanation.

And that night—while I’m tossing and turning in bed, struggling to fall asleep—I figure out a way to prove I’m right.





13


The next day at lunch, I head downstairs to the Maxwells’ basement and start opening boxes. The basement is filled with shipping cartons they’ve yet to unpack and I only have to open three before I find what I’m looking for. I knew the Maxwells would have a baby monitor, and to my delight it looks pretty state-of-the-art. The transmitter is an HD camera with infrared night vision and regular/wide-angle lenses. The receiver is a large screen about the size of a paperback book. I stash everything in a small shoebox and carry it upstairs. When I return to the kitchen, Teddy is waiting.

“What were you doing in the basement?”

“Just poking around,” I tell him. “Let’s get you some ravioli.”

I wait until he’s busy eating his lunch, and then I sneak upstairs to his bedroom and look for a place to hide the camera. I’ve realized that if I want to know where the pictures are coming from, I need to see where they’re coming from—I need to see inside his bedroom during Quiet Time.

But hiding the camera isn’t easy. It’s big, clunky, and difficult to conceal. Even worse, it has to be plugged into a power outlet. But I find a solution in Teddy’s mountain of stuffed animals—I bury the camera ever so carefully, so the lens peeks out between Snoopy and Winnie-the-Pooh. I make sure it’s plugged in and set to transmit, and then I kiss the cross that hangs from my neck, hoping to God Teddy won’t notice anything unusual.

I return to the kitchen and sit with Teddy while he finishes his lunch. He’s chatty this morning. He’s complaining about going to the barbershop—Teddy hates going to the barbershop, he says he wants to grow his hair long, like the Cowardly Lion—but I barely listen. I’m too nervous. I’m about to get answers to many of my questions, but I’m not sure I’m ready for them.

After what feels like hours, Teddy finishes his food and I send him upstairs for Quiet Time. Then I hurry into the den and plug in the receiver. Teddy’s bedroom is directly above me, so the audio and video are crystal clear. The camera is pointed toward his bed and I can see most of the floor—the two places where he’s most likely to sit and draw.

I hear the door to his bedroom open and close. Teddy enters the frame from the right, crosses over to his desk, and then grabs his sketchbook and pencil case. Then he leaps on top of his bed. I hear the soft thump of his mattress through the receiver and through the ceiling above my head, like it’s being broadcast in stereo.

Teddy sits with his back against the headboard, legs bent, using his knees to support the sketchbook. He arranges a row of pencils on the nightstand beside his bed. Then he removes a miniature pencil sharpener—the kind that collects the shavings in a clear plastic dome. He twists a pencil inside—skritch, skritch, skritch—then takes it out, examines the point, and decides it’s not sharp enough. He puts it back in—skritch, skritch—and then decides it’s ready.

I look away for an instant—just long enough to take a sip of water—and when I look back, the video is sputtering, freezing and skipping frames, like it can’t keep up with the audio. I can still hear the sharpening sounds but the video is frozen on an image of Teddy reaching for a pencil.