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I stand in the driveway, hugging myself against the evening chill as Chief Alcott finishes her sweep of Baneberry Hall. I called her immediately after finding Buster and met her at the front gate. All the reporters had disbursed for the night, thank God. Had they stayed, they would have seen me unlocking the gate with trembling hands, pale as a ghost.
Upon her arrival, Chief Alcott checked the outside of the house first, circling it with a flashlight swept back and forth across the exterior walls. Now she’s inside, checking the windows. I see her from the driveway—a dark figure framed in an eyelike window on the third floor.
When she’s done, she steps onto the porch and says, “There’s no sign of a break-in.”
It’s exactly what I don’t want to hear. Something that pointed to forced entry—say, a broken window—would be a much better alternative to the reality I now face. Which is that there’s no rational explanation for the record player turning on, or the sudden reappearance of Buster.
“Are you sure what you think happened actually, you know, happened?” she asks.
I hug myself tighter. “You think I’m making this up?”
“I didn’t say that,” the chief replies. “But I’m not discounting the possibility that your imagination is running a little wild right now. It wouldn’t surprise me, considering what you found in the kitchen the other day. That would make anyone jumpy.”
“I know what I saw,” I say. “And I know what I heard.”
“Maggie, I looked everywhere. There’s absolutely no way an intruder could have gotten inside this house.”
“What if—” I try to stop myself, knowing it will sound absurd. But it’s too late. The words are already rolling off my tongue. “What if it’s not an intruder?”
Chief Alcott squints at me. “What else can it be?”
“What if the things my father wrote were true?”
This time I can’t even try to stop what I am saying. The words surprise even me. Chief Alcott appears less surprised than angry. I notice her nostrils flare.
“You’re telling me you now think Baneberry Hall is haunted?”
“I’m telling you that something deeply weird is happening here,” I say. “I’m not lying to you.”
At first, I think I sound just like my father did in the later chapters ofHouse of Horrors. Confused and scared and borderline crazy from sleep deprivation. But then it hits me—a realization as disorienting as a sucker punch.
I sound like the me my father wrote about.
I’ve become the Maggie from the Book.
“I like you, Maggie,” Chief Alcott says. “You seem smart. Good head on your shoulders. That’s why I’m giving you the chance to stop this now and not take it any further.”
“Stop what?”
“Doing the same thing your father did,” the chief says. “He hurt this town. He hurt the Ditmers. And I’m certain he killed Petra Ditmer. He got away with it because he told that stupid ghost story of his and enough people were distracted by it. Including me. But I won’t let you do the same thing. Now that we’re on to what he did, I won’t have you muddying the waters again with stories about this house being haunted. I refuse to let you write a fucking sequel.”
She storms to her cruiser and is gone seconds later, the car’s taillights glowing an angry red as they disappear down the hill.
I follow her down the long, winding driveway and lock the gate, wondering if that alone is enough to keep whatever the hell is going on from continuing to happen. I hope so, even though I doubt it. Right now, the Book is more real than it’s ever been.
And I don’t want to relive it.
I don’t want to be that scared girl my father wrote about.
When I return to the house, the only other preventative measure I can think of is to march to the third floor, grab the record player, and carry it onto the front lawn. I then fetch the sledgehammer from the nearby pile of equipment. I lift it onto my shoulder, my triceps quivering from the strain.
Then, with a mighty swing, I bring the sledgehammer down and smash the record player into pieces.
JULY 8
Day 13