House of Secrets (8 page)

“Close the window!” Cordelia yelled.

Brendan leaned forward. “It can’t hurt us. It’s . . . what’s the word? Vegan?”

“
Herbivorous
. Seriously, Bren, close it.”

Brendan had another idea: He stuck his second and third fingers between his lips and whistled. It was one of those skills he was proud of that his sisters hated.

“Bren!”

“I just want to see if he’ll come closer!”

The sound aggravated the bat in the rafters. It dove for the window. Cordelia shrieked as it flew past her and darted outside. The Walker kids watched it zigzag through the mist, threading the trees—and then the dragonfly whipped out a long tongue and nabbed it.

Eleanor screamed as the dragonfly drew the bat into its mouth and started grinding it into digestible mush. The giant insect buzzed toward the house as it ate, its purple eyes focused on the Walkers like they were next.

Brendan slammed the window shut and they all ran from the attic, not stopping until they got to the kitchen with its comforting (if damaged) stainless steel appliances. Cordelia promptly opened all the shutters, locked all the windows, and turned to Brendan.

“Not exactly herbivorous,” said Cordelia.

“Where
are
we?” Eleanor asked. “Bugs aren’t supposed to eat bats! It’s the other way round!”

“Obviously it was different in dinosaur times,” said Brendan. “I think we were sent back to the prehistoric era.” He was reminded of those books Cordelia used to read to him when he was five—the ones with the tree house that traveled through time.

“I don’t know if dragonflies ever got
that
big,” Cordelia said. “I’m not sure where we are. . . .”

She stopped, noticing a black plastic corner peeking from under the fridge. Her cell. She pulled it out; it was scuffed but intact. It sprang to electronic life.

“Does it work?” Brendan asked.

Cordelia closed her eyes and made a wish, but when she opened them she saw what she expected. “No bars.”

“Let me see!” Eleanor grabbed the phone and tried Mom, but got CALL FAILED.

Brendan sighed. “That’s what you get for not having four-G.”

“Maybe the landline works,” Cordelia suggested. Brendan took the cordless white receiver off the wall. He looked at his sisters. They looked like they were about to crack, like they needed some good news. Brendan briefly considered faking a call to 911, so he could give them some hope, but before he could decide if that was a good idea, all the lights in the house went out.

“W
hat did you do?” Eleanor demanded. It wasn’t just the overhead lights; the LEDs on the microwave and stove were out too.

“Nothing!” Brendan said, putting the phone back in its cradle. Sunlight slanted through the curtains.

“I was worried this might happen,” said Cordelia. “We must’ve been running on a backup generator since the attack.”

“We have a backup generator?”

“We must have
something
—it’s probably in the basement. I don’t think there’s a ‘grid’ out here.”

“So let’s start it back up.”

“With what, Bren? Generators need fuel.”

“Maybe there are gas cans down there! Come on! We need to do
something
. Without power we’ll starve—”

“But what if there’s something
else
in the basement?” asked Eleanor.

“Like Mom and Dad,” said Cordelia. The Walkers looked at one another with a mixture of hope and fear, imaging the ways they could find their parents: safe and well . . . or laid out on the floor, cold.

“We need to be strong, not psych ourselves out,” said Brendan, trying to sound brave and unexpectedly pulling it off. “There’s gotta be a flashlight somewhere.” He rifled through kitchen drawers until he found a Maglite as thick as Eleanor’s arm. He tested it—it worked—and shone it on an unadorned door at the back of the room.

“Who’s going first?”

“You’ve got the flashlight,” said Eleanor.

Brendan reluctantly opened the door. Rickety wooden steps led down to a cool, cavernous basement that smelled of cedar and dust.

“Was this the part of the house that hung over the cliff?” Cordelia asked.

“I think so. I wonder if the barrels are still there.”

Brendan panned left and right so nothing could jump out at them. Cordelia jammed a shoe in the doorway so they couldn’t get locked in.

They went down the steps. Stacks of cans, a wheelbarrow, and a sledgehammer lay in one corner of the basement; a tent and power tools lay in another. Between them was a black box on six wheels, the size of a minifridge, pressed against the wall and plugged in.

“Is that it?” Brendan asked.

“I think so . . . ,” said Cordelia. She hopped on one leg, not wanting to let her single shoeless foot touch the floor, but when it did, she found it wasn’t so bad; the floor was worn-down wood, almost soft. Brendan read the yellow sign printed on the box: “‘BlackoutReady IPS Twelve Thousand.’ That sounds good.”

He illuminated the box’s control panel; it was completely dead. “Where does the gas go? Maybe there’s a manual.”

Brendan whipped around the flashlight, saw something on the floor—and screamed.

He was staring at a human hand.

B
rendan jumped, knocking over Cordelia and Eleanor. The flashlight hit the floor and rolled, coming to rest beside a rusted old sewing machine. The beam of light pointed to a mannequin on the floor in a half-finished Victorian dress. The mannequin was missing a hand.

“Nice one, Bren,” Cordelia said. She picked up the fake hand; it was made of wax.

“Yeah,” said Eleanor. “You’re freaking out over a dummy. At least Cordelia got scared of a real bat.”

“Whatever.” Brendan took the flashlight and refocused on the BlackoutReady, finding the instructions on top. He read aloud, “‘The generator will automatically begin recharging through the input plug when power returns.’” He groaned. “
If
power returns.”

“What are we gonna do?” Eleanor asked.

“Sit here and wait to get killed by witches or giant dragonflies. Whatever comes first.”

“Don’t say that! Deal?”

“I don’t think there’s anything we
can
do.”

“No!” Eleanor grabbed the flashlight and pointed it accusingly at her siblings. “We had a mission, remember? To find Mom and Dad!”

“That’s right, Nell. But we’ve checked the whole house, including the basement, and they aren’t here.”

“What about outside? We haven’t looked there yet.”

“That’s where the giant dragonflies are!”

“I don’t care what’s out there. We need to search for them while it’s still light out. You guys can stay here if you want.”

Eleanor stomped up the basement stairs. Brendan and Cordelia glanced at each other and rushed after her; she had the only light.

Back on the first floor, the Walkers opened all the shutters to let in enough light for them to see by. Then, in the kitchen, Brendan insisted on some self-defense measures before the group ventured out. He took a chef’s knife from the magnetic rack that was now on the floor, and he outfitted Cordelia with a steak knife and Eleanor with a barbecue fork. “Hold your weapon like a hammer,” he instructed, “with the blade pointed up.”

“I don’t have a blade,” protested Eleanor.

“Your fork, then. In a fight you can use your hand to deliver butt-end knife strikes—Nell, that’s not funny. Stand with your legs shoulder-width apart. Don’t you guys know anything? Ugh, forget it.”

Brendan led his sisters out of the kitchen, past the suit of armor that was knocked over in the hall. “Hold on.” He went back to the kitchen, grabbed some duct tape, and taped the breastplate around Cordelia. Then he put the helmet on and gave Eleanor the gauntlets, which were big enough to reach from her elbows to her wrists. Thus armed, looking better prepared for Halloween than for a fantastical forest, the Walker children opened the front door and stepped outside.

Brendan squinted in the light. The helmet hadn’t been such a good idea: the eye slits were meant for someone with farther-apart eyes. He tried to take it off, but it was stuck on his head. Cordelia tipped her head back and saw the tops of the trees, hundreds of feet up, against slivers of blue sky.

“Mom!” Eleanor called. “
Mommy!
Are you out here?”

“
Dad!
Hey, Dad, can you hear us?” Brendan said. “We’re safe! Kind of . . . ”

For a moment, the birds and bugs dipped into quiet . . . and then they started up again, filling the void as if the Walkers had never spoken. The children circled the house, sticking together, weapons drawn, calling out as they went. Brendan longed for anything familiar, even the stone angel. He noted the terrifying uniformity of the wilderness that surrounded them. Aside from the distant brook they had spotted through the attic window, there wasn’t anything to indicate direction. The only way to tell which way was which was by looking at the shadows of the trees.
And if we didn’t go back in time, who’s to say we’re not in some weird place where the sun rises in the west and sets in the east?

When the Walkers came back around to the front door, they were no closer to finding their parents, but their calls had attracted something else.

A wolf, eight feet from tail to snout, was sniffing the ground in front of their home.

T
he wolf raised its head, revealing scarred, matted fur and milky, rabid eyes. It growled, stretching the noise out like a fake smile, exposing double rows of wet, razor-sharp teeth. It took a step toward them.

“Bren!” Cordelia whispered. “What do we do?”

Brendan tried to remember what he’d been taught in Boy Scouts about animal attacks—you were supposed to not move, stay quiet, and be calm; the animal wouldn’t bother you if you didn’t bother it—but that seemed irrelevant under the gaze of this creature, which clearly intended to eat them. All he could do was tense his muscles and gulp. The wolf bent its head over Eleanor. It was six inches taller than her; it looked capable of swallowing her whole. The line of its mouth ran nearly all the way up its triangular head. Spittle gathered where its black lips were subsumed by fur.

The wolf sniffed Eleanor. Her breath came in tight jerks. Tears streamed down her face. The wolf opened its jaws. She closed her eyes, hyperventilating, smelling its meaty breath—