The Vanishing Game (6 page)

I peered into the farthest shadows and shone my tiny light around. It confirmed that Jack wasn't down here. In a way that was a relief. Even though I was anxious to find him, it would have been horrible if his situation was so desperate that he was forced to hide in this cellar. I just needed to see if he'd left a message for me in his secret hiding place.

I circled around the wooden steps, ready to slip beneath. My plan was thwarted by several boxes stacked under the
stairs. Holding the light between my teeth, I grabbed one and dragged it away as the car keys jiggled against my chin. The box was heavy, probably filled with books or something stupid like bricks. I grunted and slid it away, hoping the sound of cardboard scraping across cement didn't carry to the floor above. The blue light flitted like crazy as I worked to free the space under the stairs.

I climbed beneath, crouched down, and focused the light on the bottom step. It was the only one that was a solid wood box; the others above my head were nothing but boards. Staring at it, I realized that I'd forgotten to get a screwdriver. Prying the facing off would be nearly impossible, but I had to try anyway. I detached the LED and held it in my mouth as my fingers used one of the keys. It was awkward to reach under the steps, but I worked the key back and forth, trying to slide it between the boards. I was making a little progress when I heard something. I stopped to listen.

Feet stomped across the upper floor and someone screamed or laughed; I wasn't sure which. There were angry voices followed by a crash, as if someone had smashed another kitchen chair. The cellar door suddenly jerked open, and I clicked off my light. Instinct told me that being found by those edgy kids wouldn't be a good thing, but I didn't want to stay in an uncomfortable crouch under the stairs either. Especially not in the pitch black. The only light I could see was a little flicker, and I worried that the fire was spreading. Maybe the kids carried torches made from furniture legs.

They were silent now, and yet I doubted they were gone. Were they standing at the top of the stairs, looking down into the darkness the way I'd done ten minutes ago? Were they daring each other to enter the cellar in some sort of creepy game, or did they suspect I was here? I didn't move as my eyes focused on the slight flicker of shadowy grays from above.

Waiting, waiting … but who was up on the stairs? Despite the cold concrete sucking the warmth out of my body, my underarms were drenched and my face felt hot. Was it just my imagination trying to send me deeper off the high-dive of fear, or was someone up there actually waiting for me to move? I was making little breathy sounds, so I clamped my lips together and inhaled the dank cellar smell through my nose. My ears strained for any sound. I'd almost convinced myself that my imagination was taking me for a wild ride when there was a creak as someone took a step down.

Whoever was up there seemed to be listening. A new idea came to me, more terrifying than facing a whole pack of hostile brats. If they shut and locked the door, I'd be trapped down here. One thing I knew for sure about this place: there was only one way out. I was ready to leap from under the stairs and stage a confrontation using my little blue light until a new sound caught my ear. It was the slick slice of a switchblade gliding out of its handle. Since fifteen-year-old Beth had flicked her knife blade out so many times during the nights in our shared room, that sound was forever
cut into my memory. Change of plans. I stayed still. My legs and back began to ache, and I forgot about the hidden box.

Fear started to swell like a wave, and the dank cellar darkness became suffocating. I squeezed my eyes shut.

After the social worker left, the red-haired girl named Beth was told to take us upstairs. She showed us the two large bedrooms, each with three bunk beds: six to a room. They were spacious, with simple furniture, and had big windows. Coming downstairs after unpacking, we saw dinner was being served. Several kids gathered quietly on the benches beside the long dining room table. The last thing we'd eaten had been cereal for breakfast that morning, so we eyed the roast, gravy, and steamy mound of mashed potatoes with anticipation
.

“I imagine you're hungry,” Hazel Frey said. She looked like a grandmother, with bland features and a helmet of gray-brown hair. We nodded and she smiled in a cold way. “That's too bad then.”

I noticed that some of the children were looking at us with sorry eyes while others ignored everything but the food. “Come with me,” Hazel said, and we went with her to the door next to the stairs
.

She flipped a light switch, opened the door, and led us down. A single dim bulb above the stairs lit the way, and once we were at the bottom she pointed to an ugly quilt made of rough polyester squares
.

“Just so you know, there's something the children who come here need to learn before anything else. That's the Seale House rule. We have only one and it's this: don't do anything that bothers me. If you break my rule, you skip dinner and spend the night down here. So you can see what it's like, you get to try it out your first night here.”

Hazel turned and tromped up the stairs as we gaped after her. She slammed the door and locked it. The light went out, plunging us into darkness
.

I had tried so hard to forget the months we'd lived at Seale House. I told myself that some of the eerie occurrences inside these walls couldn't be real, but now as I crouched under the stairs, my ears and eyes straining against the relentless black, something happened that once again skewed my reality. There was a slight stirring of air at my back, as if caused by a movement in the dark. Someone or something inched in close behind me.

A chill tightened my scalp and the space under the stairs felt claustrophobic. For a few seconds I couldn't move, paralyzed by doubt and dread. My mind screamed:
It's not real!
But I could feel hot air ruffling the hair against my neck even as I sensed the skulking, nearly forgotten being from so long ago. Reason demanded that I reach behind me and prove nothing was there except empty space. And yet what if I touched something slimy or decomposing?

I shoved down a sob, frozen in place as the presence slowly sucked away my energy. Although the blood was roaring in my ears, I could still hear its breathing. Was it going to lunge and clamp the back of my neck in its jaws?

Forgetting the angry kids upstairs, now caring only about escape from this dungeon, I tumbled from beneath the steps. Seconds later a sharp pain seared my upper arm. I screamed
and bounded up the stairs, trailing a piercing wail behind me that sounded unearthly, even to my own ears.

At the top of the stairs there was a gray outline of the open doorway and someone standing there. As I came up, screaming like a demon, the guy staggered backward. I slammed into him and he landed on the floor, but I kept moving. The sun had vanished and the fire in the front room was burned down to embers, but compared to the inky black of the cellar, I could see well enough. Now that I'd stopped screaming, I could hear others running at me from different directions. I lunged into the shadows next to the staircase that led to the second floor. From my hiding place I could see a boy with a switchblade jump to his feet and turn in an anxious circle. There was a shiny glint from his knife as he stabbed at the dark.

His blade should have scared me, but I studied it with detachment. Compared to the thing down in the cellar it seemed harmless. My upper arm throbbed with pain, and my throat ached as I forced myself to breathe quietly. Over the hammering of my heart I heard a low rumble, and for an anxious second wondered if the beast was going to come charging up the stairs. A flash of lightning silvered the windows, and I realized it was only thunder. Another storm had arrived at Watertown.

Wind rattled the eaves as three other kids gathered around their friend. I heard guttural cursing and it seemed wise to slowly back up the stairs. The years melted away and I once again recalled the cautious code Noah had
taught me and Jack to help us avoid the creaky boards. I began counting silently to myself.
Four, five, six … move to the far left and step up. Seventeen, eighteen, back to the right with a giant step. Glance around the corner. If the way is clear, take the steps two at a time up to the landing
.

So far so good. Then I heard something from my past that pegged the needle on my already overstimulated anxiety meter.

“Jocey … ,” a low voice called as the boy ascended the stairs behind me. “Jocey, where are you?”

The smell of stale smoke filled the second floor. Both walls in the hallway were scorched, but one was burned through and part of the eaves had collapsed. Wind blew inside as I hurried past.

I slipped into the boys' bedroom, now empty except for a braided rug, a stool, and some cardboard boxes. As I silently closed the door an image came to mind of Noah and Jack motioning me to the window. Hurrying there, I glanced over to where the bunk beds had been.

Beautiful Dixon, who was seven, sat up. His pale curls were mussed from sleep, the covers pulled up to his chin. There was worry in his eyes
.

Across the room a boy huddled in a pile of blankets. He had the sallow face of a street kid who, in self-defense, had learned to keep his
back in a corner. His cold eyes showed a soul sickness and festering cruelty. His real name was Conner, but we called him Corner Boy
.

Until that moment, I'd forgotten about him. All my therapy sessions with good old Dr. Candlar, which had included many details about the Seale House kids, and I hadn't even thought to include Corner Boy. The part he'd played had nearly destroyed me—he was the reason I ended up running away from Seale House. Yet I hadn't remembered him until now. Were there other misplaced pieces of my past I'd also lost?

I forced back the memories and raised the narrow window blinds. Lightning flashed and thunder shivered the panes. My fingers flipped the old metal latch, but then I paused at the sound of muffled voices in the hallway. I still wasn't sure if that kid with the knife had really said my name. How could he know who I was? Even creepier, why had he decided to drag me into this ghoulish game of hide-and-seek?