The Secret Bedroom (7 page)

Lea shook her head and handed her dad a paper napkin from the plastic dispenser on the table. They were sitting in the small breakfast nook, sharp blades of morning sunlight jabbing through the dust-covered windows. “No, I know those sounds already,” Lea said, resting her chin on one hand, shielding her eyes from the invading sunlight with the other.

“We've got to get curtains up in here,” her mother said, squinting. “Lea, you want to trade places with me? You're looking right into the sun.”

“Maybe there's a squirrel or two up there,” her father suggested, lifting the cereal bowl to his mouth and tipping it to drink the remaining milk.

“You must've been so scared,” her mother said, struggling to remove a section from her grapefruit. “I mean, to have called the police.”

“Yeah, it was scary,” Lea said thoughtfully.

She had decided not to tell them about the blood pouring down the door. Mainly since there
was
no blood pouring down the door. Bad enough that Deena thought she was cracking up. She didn't want to get her parents all worried too.

“Could be squirrels. Or even a raccoon,” her father said, sipping his coffee. When he pulled the cup away, his mustache was soaked from it.

How can he stand that mustache? Lea wondered, watching him dab at it with the paper napkin.

“How could a raccoon get in there?” Lea asked.

“They're crafty,” her father replied. “They can get in anywhere they want. You ever look carefully at a raccoon's paws?”

“No,” Lea said, laughing.

“They're unbelievably dexterous.” He curled his big hand up and moved the fingers, a demonstration of a raccoon paw.

“Maybe it
was
a raccoon,” Lea said, taking a sip of orange juice. “Yuck. Pulp.” She made a sour face.

“I'm sorry,” her mother said quickly. “I know you hate pulp. I couldn't find the kind you like. The supermarket is different here.”

“That's okay,” Lea said. She gingerly took another sip.

“I'll take a look up there later,” Mr. Carson said. “But from now on, if you hear noises, just ignore ‘em, okay?” He smiled at her, his eyes dark above the red-brown mustache. “Don't panic. That's our motto, right?”

“Right,” Lea said, picturing the blood pouring down the door again.

What a dream!

“Time to get a move on,” her mother declared, glancing at the stove clock. “We're working on the downstairs bathroom today.” Both of Lea's parents jumped up and hurried from the room.

Lea lingered at the table, scooting her chair over to get out of the sunlight. “Don't panic,” she said out loud, mimicking her father.

“Easy for him to say.”

*  *  *

That night, hunched over her desk, making her way slowly through an endless chapter in her government text, Lea ignored the scraping, tapping sounds above her head.

The following night, lying in bed, thinking about Don Jacobs despite all her best intentions not to think about him, she forced herself to ignore the sounds again.

Thump thump thump.
Then back in the opposite direction:
thump thump thump.

Mr. Carson went up to the attic as he had promised and came back down with nothing to report. “I saw a few dust bunnies up there,” he said, smiling. “Maybe we've got very noisy dust bunnies.”

“But I heard the sounds again last night,” Lea protested. “Loud. Like drumbeats. Or footsteps.”

Her father scratched his head, wrinkling his face in thought. “Could be a loose shingle. I'm going to have the roof checked in a week or so.”

Lea buried herself in her homework, trying to concentrate the sounds away. Late at night, lying in bed, watching the dim moonlight filter in through the new curtains her mother had just put up, she thought she heard a voice up there, someone talking in a low tone right above her head.

Just ignore it, she instructed herself, and the sound did immediately disappear.

The next night she dreamed about the room above her head.

In the dream she was in bed, unable to sleep because of loud, persistent footsteps on the ceiling. She raised her eyes to the ceiling. The light fixture was shaking.
The whole room began shaking then from the force of the footsteps.

She dreamed that her bed started to slide across the room and she jumped up to run out in the hall in her pajamas. It was very cold in the hallway. She began to climb the ladder to the attic. She felt very afraid, not a daytime fear, but the type that sweeps over you, controls you completely, weakens your muscles, paralyzes your mind—the kind of fear that comes only with a dream.

The attic was dark and cool. When she clicked the light switch, it grew even darker. She crept up to the locked door. At this point Lea knew it was a dream. She wanted to wake up. She
tried
to wake up.

But she couldn't.

She couldn't escape from what was to happen next.

She heard a voice behind the locked door. It was a girl's voice, small and frightened, and sounding very far away.

Lea listened at the door, heard the voice, then started to pull away the heavy boards that blocked the doorway. To her surprise, the boards lifted off easily, as if they were cardboard, and floated away.

Lea hesitated, then placed her hand on the doorknob. It was burning hot!

She screamed and jerked her hand back in pain.

I want to wake up, she thought.

Please—let me out of this dream.

Almost against her will, her hand went back to the doorknob and, ignoring the searing heat, turned it and pushed the door open.

Lea peered into a small room. The light inside was
blindingly bright. Someone was in the room. But Lea couldn't see who. It was too bright. She had to shield her eyes.

Someone stepped forward, out of the light, a dark, faceless figure.

“Who are you?” Lea cried.

Without looking, she knew it was someone—or something—horrifying. Something hideous. Some creature bringing evil that was waiting to be unleashed.

“Who are you?” she repeated, raising her hands up as if to shield herself.

And the bright light faded. And the dark figure moved closer, came into focus.

“No!” Lea shrieked as she recognized the smiling figure looming before her.

It was Marci. Marci Hendryx.

Lea woke up. She sat straight up in bed, shaken, uncertain, bathed in cold perspiration.

She couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry.

This, her third week at Shadyside High, turned out to be a long week, a lonely week. Her parents busied themselves with fixing up the house and had little time for her. Deena had a new boyfriend, a tall, blond, skinny basketball player named Luke Appleman, and was spending all her time with him.

Lea had tried being friendly with Deena's friend Jade. But Jade was very popular and very busy, involved in a million clubs and with a million kids, and didn't seem to have much time for Lea.

Lea tried not to think about how lonely she was. But that was just about as easy as not thinking about Don Jacobs.

She had seen Don a couple of times during the week. Both times he was with Marci. Both times he gave Lea shy, apologetic glances before quickly turning back to Marci. Marci, of course, deliberately cut Lea both times, looking sharply away, an unpleasant scowl on her face.

Saturday night found Lea home alone again, her mom and dad at another party. She and Deena had plans to go to the movies at the Division Street Mall. But Luke called Deena at the last minute with two tickets to a rock concert at the big auditorium in Waynesbridge, and Deena, apologizing again and again, begged Lea to understand and went off to the concert.

Lea watched TV for a while, clicking the remote control, watching ten seconds of this and ten seconds of that, not really paying attention to any of it. She thought of doing homework, but decided that would be just too pitiful. She thought of going to the movie at the mall by herself, but that would be too embarrassing, especially since a lot of kids from Shadyside High were bound to be there.

Maybe I'll go rent a movie, she decided, clicking off the TV and pacing back and forth over the threadbare living-room carpet her parents hadn't replaced yet. She decided against it. By that time on a Saturday night all the good films would be rented.

Eventually, at a little after nine, she went up to her
room, planning to lie in bed and start the new historical novel her mother had taken out of the Shadyside library.

“Just what I need. An escape back to another century,” she told herself.

She had read only a few pages when the sounds began above her head.

Tap tap. Tap tap.

Thump thump scrape thump.

Trying to ignore them, she turned the page and kept reading.

But the sounds grew louder, more insistent, as if urging her to listen, forcing her to pay attention.

Again, she thought she heard a voice up there. Or voices. Talking quietly, languidly, as soft as a rush of wind.

But not the wind.

Definitely not the wind.

Lea put the book down and got to her feet, her eyes on the ceiling. The locked room, she realized, must be right above her room, right above her head.

Thump scrape thump.

The voices up there rose and then faded.

This is driving me crazy, Lea thought, her heart pounding.

She remembered her dream. So silly. Marci Hendryx trapped in the boarded-up room.

And the other dream, the dream with the blood pouring down the door, the dream that was so real.

She pinched her arm. Hard.

I'm awake. I'm not dreaming.

This is real life—not a dream.

And the sounds were still up there.

I'm going up, she decided.

As she pulled herself up the metal ladder and struggled to push the trapdoor away from the opening, she was surprised that she felt less frightened this time.

She felt only anger. And curiosity.

What was going on? Who—or what—was making the noise? And why? Just to drive her crazy?

Dad's probably right. It's probably just a roof shingle, she told herself, feeling around on the wall and turning on the yellow light.

Her own shadow jumped in front of her, startling her.

Don't panic.

Surveying the long, low attic, she carefully made her way over to the boarded-up door, walking slowly, deliberately, listening hard.

She stopped at the door and leaned forward. She held her breath.

Yes.

She could hear voices.

Too low to make out the words.

But someone was in there. A girl. It was a girl's voice.

Her dream came back to her.

I'm awake now, she thought. Awake. Awake.

Lea pressed her ear against the door. Then, picturing the flow of blood down the doorway, thought better of it and pulled her head back.

She could hear the voice, but she couldn't make out any of the words.

“Who's in there?” Lea cried, not recognizing her high-pitched voice. “Who's there?”

She waited for a reply.

The voice on the other side of the door stopped.

“I know you're in there. I heard you,” Lea called, too excited to be afraid.

Silence.

Even the wind outside seemed to stop its steady rush.

I'm going to solve this mystery once and for all, Lea decided.

But how?

“Are you in there?” she shouted.

Silence.

She raised both fists and pounded on the door.

“Are you in there? Can you hear me?”

She listened.

Silence.

Her heart was racing. Her eyes went out of focus, then focused again. She felt out of control. But there was nothing she could do about it.

She had to know who was walking around in there, talking, making those sounds.

Lea grabbed one of the two-by-fours and tugged at it. The heavy board wobbled in her hands.

It's loose, she realized. I can pull it right off.

She steadied herself and prepared to pull.

An earsplitting roar—the roar of a bomb blast—made her drop the board. She stood paralyzed by the deafening noise—just as enormous, pointed iron spikes shot out at her through the door.

L
ea fell back, and the pointed spikes missed their target. As she stared in horror, the spikes slid back into the door before completely disappearing.

But the roar continued, echoing deafeningly through the low attic. She examined herself, gasping for breath, her legs weak and trembling. “I'm okay,” she said out loud.

“Is this really happening?” she asked herself. “Is it real this time?”

She turned and ran to the trapdoor, jumping onto the ladder, nearly falling, finally steadying herself by grabbing the top rung with both hands.

Her heart pounding, Lea pulled the trapdoor over the opening and slid down the ladder onto the hall floor. She stood there for a long time, leaning against the cold metal, her eyes squeezed tight, trying to catch her breath, trying to stop her knees from shaking.