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“Nothing much,” I said before scooping Maggie from the couch. “Now let’s go for some ice cream. Three scoops for everyone. I think we’ve all earned it.”
•••
Considering everything Hibbs had told me that afternoon, I was surprised by how exhausted I felt when bedtime rolled around. I had assumed I’d be awake half the night, worrying about all I’d heard about the cemetery, Indigo Garson, the way Baneberry Hallremembers. Instead, I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow.
It didn’t last long.
At five minutes to midnight, I awoke to a strange sound.
Music.
Someone, somewhere, was singing.
A man. His voice soft and lilting. Drifting from a distant part of the house.
I looked to the other side of the bed to see if Jess had also been awakened by the music, but she remained fast asleep. Hoping she’d stay that way, I slid out of bed and crept out of the room.
The music was slightly louder in the hallway. Loud enough for me to recognize the song.
“You are sixteen, going on seventeen—”
The music was coming from upstairs, a fact I realized when I reached the other side of the hall. I could hear it echoing down the steps that led to my study. Accompanying the music was a chill strong enough to make me shiver.
“Baby, it’s time to think.”
I started up the stairs slowly, nervously. With each step, the song got louder and the chill got worse. At the top of the stairs, it had grown so cold that, had there been more light there, I’m certain I would have seen my breath.
“Better beware—”
When I opened the study door, the song practically boomed out of the room. Inside, it was pitch-black. The kind of darkness that gave one pause. And cold. So freezing that goose bumps formed on my bare skin.
“—be canny—”
I stepped into the study, hugging myself for warmth. I flicked the switch by the door, and light flooded the room.
“—and careful—”
Sitting on the desk, right where I had left it, was the record player. The album on top of it spun at full speed and at top volume.
“Baby, you’re on the—”
I plucked the needle from the record, and silence fell over the house like a wool blanket. The cold went away as well—an instant warming that swept through the room. Or so I thought. As I stood in that newfound silence and warmth, it occurred to me that it might have been my imagination.
Not the music.
That had been all too real.
The album still spun atop the turntable, its grooves catching light from the fixture overhead. I switched it off, not looking awayuntil the record came to a complete stop. I assumed it was Jess’s doing. That in a fit of insomnia she had made her way up here and listened to some music before getting tired.
The only excuse for the cold was that I’d somehow imagined it. Any other explanation—a draft, a gust of freezing air from the open window—seemed unlikely, if not downright impossible. Therefore it must have been my imagination, prompted by what Hibbs had told me earlier. Here was the irrational fear I’d been expecting, arriving a few hours late.
And that’s exactly what it was—irrational.
Houses didn’t remember things. The supernatural didn’t exist. I had no reason to fear this place.
By the time I returned to bed, I had convinced myself it was all in my head.
That everything was normal.