Dream House (15 page)

But as I walk in front of the fridge to throw the milk carton into the rubbish and put the bowl in the sink, I notice something shocking that I would swear wasn't there ten minutes ago.

The
Who are you?
that I left on the fridge door a few days before—it's changed.

It now reads,
Who are you, Amethyst?

Unable to believe my eyes, I freeze in shock and the glass bowl slides from my limp fingers, smashing into smithereens when it hits the ground.

There's somebody here.

I can sense it.

I'm still not alone, after all.

I spin around, in search of some clue that might help me understand what I'm getting myself into this time, but everything is as peaceful and still as usual. I feel light-headed, so I throw myself down on the couch for a few minutes while I gather my thoughts.

Whoever left that message is in here with me—in the house. It must be somebody that knows me well enough to write my name, but then why ask who I am?

Confused by the question, I stand up, walk back over to the fridge, and, in the blink of an eye, slide away the letters that were creating my confusion into a jumble by the handle, leaving only
Amethyst
.

After changing the sentence, I stand there for a moment studying the room around me. I feel certain that I'm not alone—that there's a presence there with me. But I can't see who it is. And whatever it is, it's not alive.

Or at least, that's what I suppose.

I pull out a chair from under the dining table, move it over to the bookshelf, and climb up onto it to get
Spiritual Relief
again. It takes me a moment to find it, and when I do, it occurs to me that it's not exactly where I'd left it. Never mind. I get down off the chair and open the book as quickly as I can. Remembering that I'd skipped the chapter “Talk to the Spirit,” I flick through the pages with my thumb until I find it.

This section contains a description of the various ways to communicate with a spirit, a common one being through a Ouija board—also known as a “talking board”—which is supposed to act as a point of connection between the world of the living and the world of the dead. The book has a part which provides a detailed explanation of how to make your own: all you need is a flat surface bearing the letters of the alphabet, the numbers from 0 to 9, and the words “yes,” “no,” and “goodbye.” It says that an effective substitute for the planchette, the heart-shaped little pointer with wheels on the bottom which you're supposed to use to let the spirits talk, can be a small glass placed upside-down on the surface, so I take one from a cupboard in the kitchen and get to work on making my own Ouija board.

Remembering the old Bakelite telephone on the console table by the front door, I make a leap of imagination and pull open the little drawer in the table—and in fact, inside there are a pen and some large sheets of plain paper, which I grab. Following Ms. Bisset's instructions to the letter, I write down everything she says is needed and place it all on the kitchen table, with the upturned glass in the middle.

When I'm all set, I put my right index finger on top of the glass and ask out loud:

“Is there anybody here?”

I wait, but there's no sign of anything.

“Is there anybody here?” I repeat, this time sounding less afraid.

Feeling a slow dragging movement under my finger, I close my eyes for a second to try to hold my fear in, and then open them again to look at where the glass has ended up.

“Yes.”

At this point, I decide to come out with my main question right away. No more beating around the bush.

“Who are you?” I ask.

It takes about three seconds before the glass starts to move again, and as I watch, it changes position over the letters, first sliding across to Y, then to O.

And then to U.

And that's when I let it go. I take my finger away from it as soon as I have put the letters together.

It spells the word “you.”

Suddenly extremely frightened, I leave everything where it is, forgetting all about Vivien Bisset's warning to always end a session properly, and, despite knowing that no wall or lock would present an obstacle to a spirit, I run down the hall to my room.

As soon as I'm inside, I realize how dark it's already grown, and for some unknown reason I find myself opening the wardrobe door, climbing in, and closing myself inside as though it were the most natural thing in the world to be hiding in a cramped little space that smells of mothballs and lavender.

I try to keep as quiet as I can. Covering my mouth with one hand, I breathe slowly through my nose while the scene that I just experienced keeps replaying itself over and over in my head.

Feeling totally impotent and jumping in terror at each of the little noises that come from every corner of the house, I sit there in that dark space for a long time before eventually falling asleep.

“Through the wind and through the clouds, we will rise up from the ground. Over hills, above the trees, we will ride the breeze like bumblebees.”

I open my eyes and hear this strange ditty coming from somewhere within my room.

I push one of the wardrobe doors open slightly and peek cautiously though the narrow crack. Sitting there on the bed is a girl with long black hair, her back turned to me.

“Hand in hand, exploring the seven seas,” she sings, “you and I will forever be at our ease.”

Despite my efforts, the wardrobe door makes a loud creak as I push it open, but the girl, who seems somehow to be already aware of my presence, doesn't turn around and says, “You're safe. You can come out now.”

My eyes widen, as if she knows my secret—a secret that I still have to discover myself.

I open the doors to reveal myself, taking a better look as I do so at Akiko, who appears more serene than ever before, as if suddenly our roles had been reversed, turning me into the fearful little girl that she was the first time I met her.

“Did you know I was in here?” I ask.

She ignores the question and begins to sing her song again from the beginning.

“Why are you here?” I break in.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she answers, her eyes staring into mine. “This is
my
room.”

I don't reply but simply walk over and sit down next to her on the bed. She has pale green almond-shaped eyes, and her dark hair is straight but thick, framing an innocent-looking face. In her hands she's holding a wooden heart, and when I look up at the white wall in front of me I see that the heart-shaped painting which made such a nice contrast is no longer there, suggesting that the object in Akiko's hands is indeed the one that used to hang in that empty space.

“Did you make that?” I wonder aloud.

“
We
made it,” she says, moving her eyes from the object to me.

I feel my cheeks going red, unsure as to why but feeling a sense of embarrassment, as though I should remember about doing something
with
her, until she quickly adds, “Avery and I—don't you see?” She turns the wooden heart over, pointing at the letters painted on it.

I feel relieved to know that I am not part of all this, but at the same time I want to know more. Avery said that Akiko died not too long ago. Is she a ghost? Is she stuck here because of her connection with Avery? Maybe she doesn't want to leave him on his own?

I stretch out a hand and ask, “Could I take a look at it? It's very pretty.”

Akiko tightens her grip on the frame, as though it's too important for anybody else to hold, but then relents and hands it over to me.

I study the front once more, feeling the thick paint under my fingers. When I turn it over, I see the word “forever” written in marker pen in the same handwriting as the letters on the front. I must spend a moment too long examining it, because Akiko reaches over and snatches it out of my hands, slipping it into the safe little pocket on the front of her collared dress.

“So are you and this Avery close friends?” I ask, pretending not to know who she's talking about.

“Of course!” she answers defensively.

“Where did you meet?” I ask, despite already knowing the answer.

“He lives right there,” answers the little girl, pointing towards the wall behind my back.

“So
when
did you meet?”

She thinks for a moment before finally coming out with an answer.

“When I moved here—he was the only friend I had.”

“Don't you have many friends?”

She shakes her head, adding, “I only need one.” And then her face grows sad.

“The other kids are mean to me because I look different,” she continues, “but he's different too, so we understand each other.”

“What's different about him?” I ask, curious to know.

“Everything,” she says, staring at me as if that was the silliest question I could have asked. “He doesn't ask for anything, but he gives you everything.”

As I hear those words coming out of her mouth, I find myself completely agreeing with her. But at the same time I realize that it's a bit of a surreal kind of conversation to be having with a girl this little—one who can't be more than twelve years old at the most. She does seem much more mature than her age, especially in the way she expresses herself, but, at the same time, her youth shines through in the way she behaves.

I gaze at her long, pretty, silky hair flowing over the blanket as she stands up to gracefully place the heart back in the spot where it belongs.

“Do you like this boy, then?” I ask, feeling almost like a big sister.

“He's
very
special to me!” she exclaims, then brings her hands up to her face to hide the blush that instantly darkens her peachy cheeks. As soon as she has managed to conceal her emotions, she adds, “But we're just good friends.”

Tickled by the childlike intensity of her reaction, I nod, hiding an amused smile.

“He deserves someone to care about him. And I do,” she says, immediately covering her mouth, as if that last part wasn't supposed to have slipped out.

“What about his family?” I ask, surprised by her words.

In her eyes I can see the same sadness that I saw before on Avery's. She looks away, trying to hide it, but then says, “His parents don't care the way I do.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do!” she snaps.

I wake up from my dream in complete darkness, realizing that I'm still inside the wardrobe.

Alone.

I
OPEN THE
wardrobe door and glance over at the clock on the bedside table: 11:40 a.m. I have to remember to set the alarm or else I'm going to mess my sense of time up for good. Though it might already be a bit late for that, to be honest.

Stiff all over, I climb out of the cramped space my body has moulded itself to during the night, stretching as I walk down the hall to the main part of the house for some late breakfast. Or some early lunch.

I open the French country kitchen cabinet, reaching up as high as I can for the oatmeal that I noticed up there not too long ago. I cook it on the hob in a small pot, and as I do I let my imagination wander, trying to imagine where Alfred is right now, if he can see me from wherever that might be, if he's finally happy, if he found his family. I can have no sure answer to any of these questions, but I somehow
know
that he is at peace.

I can't even imagine how awful it must have been for him to be stuck here, in a world full of hate towards him. Hate which was undeserved, to say the least, and all because of a silly made-up story that no one even cared about anymore. Five long years with no one knowing what he was going through and no one to talk to and nobody to share his feelings with. Until I came into his life—or, I should probably say, his death. But why me? Why would I be able to see him? How did
I
—a perfect stranger—manage to help him so easily?

The focus of my thoughts suddenly switches to Avery and our last conversation, right before the fight. The fact that he was so mysterious about this whole situation suggests to me that he's hiding something. He knows something I don't—maybe something he doesn't want me to know about. But then why does he act the way he does when he's
with
me? Why open up to me, and be so . . . so
there
, if he's not really willing to help me? Could it be that he thought it was dangerous to mess about with the fragile threads between the two dimensions? Is there any chance that both Avery
and
the Blooms had always been aware of the gardener's presence—but were just too afraid to help him leave?

All of these hypotheses start appearing in my thoughts as though I've already made my mind up about what's happening, but at the same time, there are so many other things that still need an explanation. To start with an easy one, where are Amabel and Marvin? Did they
deliberately
leave me here alone? I can't believe they would do that; it wouldn't make any sense. And what is the story behind Akiko? Why does she keep appearing to me in my dreams? Is that even what they
are
? They certainly feel deeper and more real than dreams—almost as if they were visions or something.