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A night terror.
One that stays with me as I get out of bed and tiptoe to the armoire. Even though I know I’m being paranoid and ridiculous, I press my ear to one of the doors, listening for a hint of noise from within.
There’s nothing inside.
I know that.
To think otherwise would make me just as gullible as Wendy Davenport and any of the other people who believe the Book.
Yet fear tightens my chest as I tug the doors open just a crack. I tell myself it’s vigilance that makes me peer inside. Someone broke into the house last night, and it makes sense to make sure whoever it was hasn’t come back.
But I know the score.
I’m looking for Mister Shadow.
Inside the armoire, I see nothing but the dresses that still hang there, draped in darkness. They brighten once I throw the doors completely open, allowing them to be hit with the gray light coming through the bedroom windows.
The armoire is empty. Of course it is.
Even so, the nightmare lingers. Enough for me to decide to start my day, even though it’s barely dawn. In the shower, each groan of thecreaky pipes seems to signal Mister Shadow’s approach. Every time I close my eyes against the spray of water, I expect to open them and find him here.
What bothers me so much about the nightmare is that it didn’t seem like one. It had the feel of something experienced. Something real.
A memory.
Just like the one I had of me and my father painting in the kitchen.
But it can’t be.
I can’t remember something that never happened.
Which means it’s the Book I’m remembering. A sound theory, if my father hadn’t written it in first person. The reader sees everything only through his eyes, and I’ve readHouse of Horrorstoo many times to know my father never wrote such a scene.
I survive the shower unscathed, of course, and make my way downstairs. The slip of paper is still jammed in the front door. It’s the same with all the windows.
Nothing has been disturbed.
I’m all alone.
No one here but us chickens.
When Dane arrives at eight, I’m already on my third cup of coffee and twitchy from the caffeine. And suspicious. Deep down, I know Dane had no role in last night’s events. Yet seeing him enter Baneberry Hall without my having unlocked the gate or the front door reminds me of the section of missing wall and the cottage just beyond it. There’s also the record player to consider. No one else knew we had found it yesterday. Only me and Dane, who insisted on dragging it to the desk.
“Which cottage is yours?” I ask him. “The yellow one or the brown one?”
“Brown.”
Which means the one I saw last night belongs to the Ditmers. Dane’s sits on the other side of the road.
“Now I have a question,” he says, eyeing the coffee mug in my hand. “Is there more of that, and can I have it?”
“There’s half a pot with your name on it.”
When we go down to the kitchen, I pour a giant mug and hand it to Dane.
He takes a sip and says, “Why did you ask about my cottage? Were you planning on paying me a visit?”
I note the flirtation in his voice. It’s impossible to miss. This time, unlike on the night of my arrival, it’s not entirely surprising. Or unwanted. But his timing could definitely be better. I have more pressing issues.