Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Asher moves in behind me and looks out the window at the backyard. Well, ‘yard’ is an understatement. It is more like the immensely vast property behind the house. He blinks and blows out a long breath. “Okay, that’s something.”
“Right?”
The world beyond the kitchen window is like an ink painting. First, there’s a long stretch of grass and a huge garden area fenced off to keep nibbling creatures from getting inside.
Then, beyond that, trees stand shoulder to shoulder on the back lawn, black trunks, black branches, the hint of leaves crashing quietly together in the sway of a gentle breeze.
And beyond the woods, the ground lifts into a gentle hill, and on its crown—stones. A ring of them. Not tall, not Stonehenge, but old. They look smooth from here, rounded by weather, half-swallowed by earth. The moon sits over them as if it chose the perfect backdrop to show off its glow.
He leans closer to the window. “Not everyone has a miniature Stonehenge in their backyard.”
True story. I stare at the stones, and even from here, I can sense that something is off. I hear them. I’m not sure if it’s an audible sound or if it’s more vibrational.
Either way, they are humming… like the piano.
I pull the window closed once more, and the lock slides into place with a gentle click.
Asher moves to the glass doors off the kitchen and unlatches the lock. He pulls them open with no issue and then steps back. The night is quiet, and he extends his sneaker toward the threshold.
When his foot doesn’t cross to the outside, I assume he’s run into the same force field resistance we encountered at the front door. He tries again from a different angle but gets nowhere. After a short time, he shrugs and closes the door. “Okay, house. I feel you.”
The joint at the hinge of my jaw cracks when I yawn.
“All right, well, if we’re here for the foreseeable future, we need to Goldilocks our way to the bedrooms. My buzz is gone, my mind is blown, and if we’re heading into more whacked and wild tomorrow, this girl needs to close her peepers for a few hours. ”
Asher grabs an apple out of the bowl on the counter and gestures for me to lead the way.
We leave the kitchen, and the house turns on ambient lights as we work our way back to the main staircase. As much as that should freak me out, it doesn’t.
Maybe my brain is fried beyond responding, but I feel like Asher’s right. The house seems grateful we’re here, and that feels strangely welcoming.
Either that or I’m being lulled into complacency and it’s going to kill me in my sleep.
I vote for door number one.
The staircase hums faintly underfoot as the two of us ascend to the second floor. At the top of the landing, the upper level reaches out both left and right. The long corridors seem to lead to dozens of rooms, but I’m too tired to be curious.
The wall sconces to our right illuminate like runway lights in the darkness. We take the hint and let the house lead our way. There are half a dozen doors alternating on either side of the hall.
Asher raps his knuckles on the first one. “Housekeeping.”
The bedroom is big, but still cozy. The bed is neatly made, topped with the kind of linens you want to flop into face-first. There’s a bay window with a deep window-seat stacked with a pile of pillows in colors that look like fall leaves.
A chenille throw lies over the back of a chair in the little reading nook, long and honey-colored, like the woman of the house might’ve draped it over herself while she read.
I run my fingers over the soft fabric and smile down at the leather-bound book and reading glasses left forgotten.
“Other than the groceries, this entire house feels like it’s a time-capsule. Everything seems frozen in the moment of the last time people lived here.”
“Yeah, it feels like whoever lives here, we missed them by five minutes. Only… given the stale air and musty smell when we first arrived, I think it was a lot longer than that.”
“Agreed. So, where do you think they went?”
“That’s the mystery, isn’t it?”
We move on down the hallway and find a bathroom with a clawfoot tub and a tray with a book on it. It looks very luxurious, and I run my fingers over the smooth, cool enamel. “Whoever lived here, they were big readers. There are books in every room.”
“And not just stacked on shelves,” Asher adds.
I pop my head into a small sewing room with an old Bernina machine that looks like it will sew through your finger bones if you offend it. Beside it, spools of thread are arranged in a gradient of color like a candy display.
We continue down the hall, and I stop in front of a full-length mirror. I don’t pay much attention at first, but when I walk by, my reflection catches.
I back up and take another look. The frame is old wood, hand-carved with little leaves and twisting vines, and stained in a dark mahogany. The silvering of the mirror has gone ever-so-slightly smoky at the edges, enough to lend everything a soft focus.
I stand in front of it. My image ripples a tiny bit, or maybe that’s my eyes. I raise my hand. My reflection raises hers. But it’s like there’s a half-second lag, like a livestream glitching.
The me in the mirror blinks after I do.
Smiles after I do.
It’s the same smile, just a breath behind.
“Okay.” Asher gently squeezes my shoulder. “That’s not unnerving at all.”
“No, not a bit.”
He tilts his head, catching a different angle. “Is it some weird trick glass?”
“I have no idea, and I’m too tired for any more mind-bendy moments.”
We cross the hall, peeking into the two bedrooms opposite the main bedroom.
Both are decorated in varying degrees of pink.
Each has a princess bed with a canopy, and sheer white drapes.
In the first one, there is an army of teddies and coloring books.
In the next, there are stuffed sock monkeys and what looks to be the complete collection of Percy Jackson novels.
The next bedroom is finished in gray and a pretty plum color. The princess bed has been replaced by a cool four-poster, and there is a matching dresser and desk. There are clothes stacked over the back of the desk chair.
I pick up a couple of the tops and check them out. “I dig some of this girl’s style choices.”
“Yeah, I guess you would. Um, Poppy…” Asher walks over from beside the bed and extends his hand, offering me a framed photo.
I can’t breathe.
My gaze dances from face to face, searching for some point of recognition.
There’s a man with chestnut-brown hair and laugh lines.
There’s a woman with blonde hair and blue eyes who looks too much like me not to be family.
The two smaller girls each have dark hair and hazel eyes like their dad, and then in the center—
My stomach drops, clean and sharp. It’s not a dramatic moment. It’s the opposite. It’s quiet, precise.
The girl standing in the center of the family is me.
Not someone who looks like me, but actually me.
Younger, of course, but it’s unmistakable. She has her honey-blonde hair in a loose braid, and a constellation of freckles across the top of her cheeks you only see in sunlight. The rose gold pendant she wears holds the script of a name that my fingers find at my throat.
“Poppy,” Asher whispers. “This is it.”
I nod because I can’t make words. My chest is a drum. My blood is loud in my ears. The me in the photo doesn’t have the same sad look I often see when I look in the mirror.
She looks content.
She looks like she belongs exactly where she is.
My eyes blur. I blink them clear, my hands bracketing the photo on either side. My fingertip hovers over the curve of my cheek in the picture.
Asher’s hand finds my shoulder, steady and warm. “We’re going to figure this out, baby girl. Whatever it is, we’ve got this.”
The certainty of his words makes something in me unclench. I don’t look away from the photograph. I don’t think I can. In the picture, I have a family. A mother. A father. And two younger sisters.
“Where are they, Ash? What happened to them?”
Asher backs me up until my butt bumps the bed. Then he climbs onto the mattress from the other side and lifts the puffy gray and purple comforter. “We’ll figure it out. I bet there are dozens of clues in this house. We’ll get some sleep and then we’ll dig in first thing.”
He tugs me to lie down, and then he covers me with the blanket. “Whoever Blue Eyes was, he was telling the truth. He knows who you are, and he gave you a gift—a starting point. Tomorrow, we’ll take it from there.”
I set the framed picture on the bedside table facing me and wriggle backward until Asher’s arm drapes over my hip.
“Hey, house, can you get the lights, please?” he asks. “We’ve had enough for one night.”
The lights in my childhood bedroom dim, and the hallway goes dark.
My heart physically aches, and I press my hand against my chest to hold myself together. Hot tears sting my eyes, and I clamp them tight against the pain. “I had a family, Asher. How did I lose them?”
Something jolts me from unconsciousness, and I suck in a panicked breath. For the first few moments of being awake, my heart pounds and my mind spins. Where am I? Not my bed. Not my room.
And then my reality catches up. Wait. Right.
This is my bed, and it is my room.
It feels like my brain is wrapped in cotton candy while anvils rain down inside my skull. I groan and roll out from under Asher’s arm. As comforting as his protective nature is, his arm is heavy, and could pin a person for eternity.
As quietly as possible, I slip out of bed.
Water. Tylenol. Maybe a priest. That’s the plan.
The house must sense my hangover vibes because the hallway lights come on but remain as a soft glow that doesn’t stab me in the eyes. “Thanks, house. Much appreciated.”
I walk barefoot down the hall to the washroom, surprised that a house this old doesn’t creak more.
I’m still half asleep and feel the alcohol in my veins but know things will be ten times worse tomorrow if I don’t get some water and painkillers into me.
I ease the door closed, empty my bladder, then check the medicine chest above the sink.
“Be kind to me, please, house.”
And it is. There’s a bottle of Advil on the top shelf and a Dixie Cup dispenser with cute pink cups on the vanity. I run the water cold, take the tablets, and refill my little cup a few times to wash them down.
“You okay, P?”
I open the washroom door to find Asher looking rumpled and concerned. He’s ditched his Jack Skellington costume and is standing in the hall in his boxers.
“Yeah, here, take these.”
“You’re an angel.”
I leave Asher to tend to his needs and start back up the hall toward my bedroom. I’ve only made it five feet when one soft piano note rings, clear as glass, from the parlor down below.
I freeze mid-step.
Asher pokes his head out of the open doorway. “That’s not creepy as fuck, is it?”
“Nope. Not at all.”
He lets out an exhausted sigh. “What’s the plan? Back to bed or investigate strange things that go bump in the night?”
That’s the question, isn’t it? My brain might be buzzing, but my body is just this side of being a total zombie. “The mysteries of Hallowind House have waited five years. They will still be here in the morning.”
Asher exhales, relief softening his shoulders. “Thank God. For a second I thought you were about to drag me on a scavenger hunt with three hours sleep.”
“Tempting. But no.”
He turns off the washroom light and then slings an arm around me as we head back to my room. “Good. Because you’re adorable, but you also look like roadkill.”
“Rude.”
“Just keeping it real.”
“Is any of this real?”
He grunts. “Hell if I know. This is your crazy train, Pops. I’m only along for the ride.”