Dream House Page 12
The last thing left to do is to free up the trapdoor in the floor. I use the same technique as the previous day—wedging myself between the wardrobe and the wall and pushing with my whole body. After a few minutes of struggling, I finally manage to get it out of the way.
I then pop quickly to the kitchen, where the clock reads 8:45 p.m., telling me that I’ve only got fifteen minutes left to get down there—to “our secret place”—and bring a conclusion to this elaborate plan.
I pick up the flashlight that I found in the Blooms’ bedroom from where I left it by the sink, but when I switch it on it starts flickering and its beam grows dimmer and dimmer until it’s just a vague glow. I unscrew the back and see with irritation that the batteries inside are caked with rust.
A quick rummage through the kitchen drawers looking for spares is no help, so I open the drawer that contains all the candles and matches and light one, sheltering the flame carefully with a cupped hand while I walk back to the room where I started.
As ready to go now as I suppose I ever will be, I place the candle on the floor next to the old trapdoor, grab hold of the handle with both hands, and heave up on it with all my strength. The thought that it might be locked crosses my mind for an instant, but I don’t give up and keep tugging until, to my relief, I feel something give, and it swings upwards.
I pick up the candle that will light my way and start walking down the narrow, irregular stairs which are revealed beneath the trapdoor, and which take me deeper and deeper under the ground.
The farther down I get, the less light from the bedroom reaches me. After a few minutes the stairs stop, and I finally reach a flat place. Before me in the flickering candlelight I see a narrow corridor stretching off into the darkness.
There’s no light apart from that of my candle. No sound other than my footsteps.
I set off walking, accompanied by a growing sensation of fear for my life, wondering as I go why in the world I’ve decided to do something this dangerous. I try to convince myself that it’s the right thing to do, that I need to do this in order to give a face to the person who has been watching me all this time.
I follow the tunnel. There are no side passages branching off, so I’m confident that I’m going in the right direction, and as I walk I observe the few details that the weak light of the candle permits me to see: the tunnel appears to be cave-like, hewn directly out of raw, damp stone. Its surface is uneven, and there are patches of mould growing here and there.
The strange burrow seems never to come to an end, so I decide to speed up my pace a little and focus my energies on getting to wherever it is I’m supposed to be, bracing myself for whatever I might be about to encounter.
Suddenly, the tunnel curves to the right and I see a faint glow coming from as far in the distance as my eye can make out. I start walking even faster, anxious now to know. Dozens of thoughts are buzzing about in my head but I push them all away, positive that once I reach the light—which is now growing stronger and stronger by the second—I’ll have the answer to everything.
And then there I am. Halfway along what feels like the longest tunnel in the world, it widens out into a small circular chamber where three tunnels meet, which I’m now standing in the middle of. I look back down the tunnel I’ve arrived from, and study the other two opening off at my sides. Unsure of what to do, I stand there, motionless.
The dark walls are lit by the countless flickering candles that somebody has placed on the ground, which create a dusky atmosphere. Between them are a blanket and some cushions.
My own small candle still in hand, I step onto the blanket in my white All Stars and gaze up at the ceiling, from which a heavy iron cross hangs, instantly bringing a sinister thought to mind.
Sacrifice.
Is that what this is all about?
A powerful desire to get out of there takes hold of me, urging me to escape from this dangerous, frightening place, but it’s too late—there are footsteps behind me.
I spin round so fast that my candle goes flying out of my hand and rolls away on the stone floor.
“Hey.”
As he speaks, Avery looks at me with a smile on his face. He’s carrying a basket, the same one I saw the day we shared our picnic. His hair is neatly brushed to one side, and he’s looking his best in a simple blue shirt and black jeans.
Has he done all this? Is he the one who’s been spying on me? Playing games?
Scaring me to death?
“What are you doing here?” I ask, upset at the thought.
Avery looks at me as if I’m making a fool of myself.
“I wanted to see you.”
“Why would you do all this? Why not just ask to see me?” I say, my voice rising.
“That’s not my style,” he jokes, and Akiko’s words about him instantly come to mind.
“So what are we doing here?”
“We’re going to have a nice dinner together.”
I fold my arms over my chest.
“I don’t have any food, and I’m not planning to go back to get any,” I say, still sceptical about his motives.
He points at the basket he’s just placed on the blanket.
“Good job I spent all day cooking, then,” he says.
I stare at him, challenging him to look me in the face, and, without breaking eye contact, he does. What I’ve gone through has been a real nightmare to me, but the smile on his face seems to say that it’s all just a silly game to him, and it’s driving me insane.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask once more.
“I’ve already told you,” he says, moving some cushions out of the way.
“Why did you have to be so mysterious about it?”
“I just wanted to surprise you. Now can you please sit down with me?” He reaches for my hand and gently drags me down next to him.
I feel my cheeks redden, but hold my emotions at arm’s length.
“You scared me. You have no idea how much.”
Avery looks at me, confusion and concern in his face. He pauses a moment before speaking, then says simply, “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to upset you.”
His words sound so sincere that I can’t help believing him, so with a baffled, resigned sigh I make myself comfortable on one of the many cushions dotted around.
He starts to unpack the food he’s prepared for us and serve it on paper plates, and I pour some water into a cup. While I study his movements, I suddenly remember that the last time we saw each other things didn’t go awfully well, and that I really ought to apologize to him, so I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
He’s so busy finding room on the blanket for all the food he’s cooked that he doesn’t raise his eyes but just shakes his head slightly and says, “Don’t worry about it.”
Even though he isn’t looking at me, I can hear the pain in his words, and a fresh wave of guilt at having laid into him the way I did washes over me. But I mustn’t let all that stop us from having a nice time, so I let it go.
We start eating the portions of mushroom risotto that he has carefully packed into mugs, and as I savour the taste of my first mouthful I can’t stop myself from asking, “Where did you learn to cook so well?”
He swallows.
“Growing up I had to learn by myself. Eventually.”
Yet again, Akiko’s words come to mind, and so I risk another question.
“Are you close to your parents?”
Avery takes his time answering, and I wonder if it might have been inappropriate to ask, but after a while he replies.
“I used to be.” He lets out a tense breath. “But over time my family fell apart.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” I say, but he stops me with a smile.
“Don’t apologize. It’s fine.” He takes another forkful of the risotto and continues. “Dad had always had problems with alcohol, ever since I was little. He could get violent at times. When I was eighteen, it just got so bad that I couldn’t stand it anymore.”
“But I couldn’t leave the house, because I didn’t want to leave my mum alone with him . . . among other things.”
I nod as he recounts these personal details.
“A few years ago, when I was twenty,” he goes on, “there was this huge fight in the house. I came home from university for the weekend and found my dad beating up my mum. Again. I walked into the room and I stood up to him. And after that, he never bothered us again.”
“Do you know where he is?” I ask.
“No—and honestly, I couldn’t care less. I’m just glad he’s leaving my mum alone,” he says, and he sounds completely honest.
Noticing that instead of eating my food, I’m just sitting there looking miserable, Avery attempts to bring a smile back to my face.
“You look lovely, by the way.”
“Thank you!” I exclaim, taking the collar of my dress between my fingers. I fake a silly smile, aware of the fact that it might well have been him who bought this pretty outfit for me.
Feeling the momentary tension between us fade, I start enjoying my food again. One after another, I try each of the dishes Avery has brought, expressing my amazement at his skill in the kitchen with a series of delighted Oooooh!s, and we chat away happily all through the night.
Considering that we’re in something that’s pretty much a cave, it’s surprisingly warm and cosy down here.
I love it. I’m having a wonderful time.
After a few hours of eating and laughing, I collapse against the wall. Avery joins me, sitting right next to me in the same position. Neither of us says a word; we both focus on the silence around us. Such a peaceful atmosphere—and in the creepiest place I’ve ever visited in my entire life. Almost unbelievable.
Unexpectedly, I feel Avery’s hand gently brushing my cheek before ending up behind my head. His lips are suddenly on mine, and I close my eyes and let all of my pent-up emotions pour out into what must be the best kiss I’ve ever given; soft, but overflowing with passion.
And when the kiss comes to an end, it takes me a while before I’m ready to let it go. I keep my eyes closed and feel Avery’s cheek against mine, hear his voice whispering into my ear.
“Happy birthday, Amethyst.”
DAY 22
WHAT?
I open my eyes and look around, perplexed: there’s nobody here—just me.
How is that possible? Where’s Avery? Was it all a dream?
No—no, it wasn’t!
Everything I felt was real. All of these candles around me, the food, the cushions. Everything here is real.
So where’s Avery?
Wondering why on earth he would leave me there like that, I get to my feet and stand at the centre of the chamber looking around me, anxiously waiting for him to come back.
I stand there for a long time.
But he’s gone.
When I realize that there’s absolutely no point in waiting any longer, I pick up one candle, blow out the others, and make my way back to the start of the tunnel which will take me to my bedroom.
Eventually I get to the stairs and start climbing, thinking gratefully that in a few minutes I should finally see the light again. When I do, and am finally back in the world above ground, I make sure to close the trapdoor over the hole. But I don’t bother pushing the wardrobe over it.
I take off my yellow dress, hang it carefully inside the wardrobe, climb into my pyjamas, and start getting ready to go to bed.
It’s 1:10 in the morning—time to get some sleep.
The sound of raindrops drumming on the window awakens me, yet makes me feel sleepy at the same time. I’m enjoying the warmth of the cosy blanket wrapped around me, which seems to be telling me to stay in bed and never get up. But the alarm clock is shouting that it’s already 10:45.
With my strength replenished and last night’s tiredness only a memory, I sit up in bed, look out the window at the blustery rainstorm which is thoroughly soaking the garden, and take a moment to think the situation through.
Right away I come up against a few things that still don’t quite make sense.
1) Avery organised a nice dinner for us, but I can’t really believe that it’s him who’s been playing these games with me;
2) When I read the note again, I notice with puzzlement that he called the tunnel “our secret place”—what does he mean by that?
3) Why would he think that it was my birthday? And most importantly, why go to such lengths to spend some time with me, only then to just vanish like that?
Even more confused than before, I eventually climb out of bed and, following what is by now my daily routine, I walk down the hall to the main part of the house for some late breakfast. There’s no milk left, so I drink a glass of water and toast some stale bread. As I’m spreading it with salted butter, I hear a thud coming from the living room.
I turn around: a book has fallen from the bookcase to the floor.
I walk over and pick it up—it’s Spiritual Relief. Is this some spirit’s way of communicating with me? Is there something in here I need to read?
I carry the book to the table, lay it open there, and wait for something to happen. But, predictably, nothing does.
I’m certain about the fact that someone is here, in the house. In fact, I’m 100 percent positive of it, and that might be the reason I can’t leave this place just yet.
All of a sudden, a thought crosses my mind—one so awful it takes my breath away.
I sit there, the book in front of me, mentally reviewing everything that has happened since I came to this house and focusing on the very beginning: the day I met the Blooms.
What if something bad has happened to Amabel and Marvin? What if they need my help? What if they were never alive to begin with?
My hands gripping the book, I take a deep breath, unsure of what my next move should be. I walk over to the bookshelf, ready to put the book back in place, but then another title on the shelf seizes my attention.
The Reverend Mansion.
I pick it up, not sure what to expect.
Opening the first page, I see the title again, followed by the name of the author, Nicholas Goodman, right above the date—1975.
On the following page is a picture of a house with a similar structure to that of the Blooms’, but a bit bigger and more cosmopolitan looking—the picture is dated 1923.
And as I leaf through the pages, I see more pictures of the same house over the years, from when it first changed hands and became the property of the first reverend of White Hills, Mr. Smith, through its first renovation about fifty years later, right up to photos in which it looks almost exactly as it does now that it belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Bloom.
There’s a chapter called “The Underground Path” which explains the reason for the tunnel under the house. As I start reading, I wonder to myself how I could possibly not have thought to ask Avery about it after spending so much time down there with him the previous night. Never mind—I’m too anxious to discover the answer to waste any more time wondering about last night, so I dedicate my attention to the words before me.
Apparently, the tunnel was dug at the same time the house was built at the request of its original owner. He seemingly had a slightly obsessive desire to be connected at all times with his beloved church, even when the weather—or some other mysterious, unspecified impediment—made it impossible to reach.
By the time Mr. Smith had managed to create a nice little community in White Hills, he’d become an influential, important man. And as he got richer and richer, there came a point where he decided to give something back to his village by opening right behind his delightful abode a hospital, the Smith Medical Centre, which was eventually converted into a private mansion—the same private mansion which is now Avery’s family home.
Once building work on the hospital was completed, Mr. Smith decided to dig further tunnels connecting a
ll three of the places which were most important to him, uniting them underneath the ground via a single, dark passageway.
After Mr. Smith’s death, a new owner moved into his property—Mr. Goodman, the author of this book and the next reverend of the village.
Mr. Goodman explains that as he was unable to afford to maintain the land the hospital was built on, he had to let it go up for sale. That was when Avery’s father bought it and decided to close up the passage under the ground.
The book ends with a section full of detailed before-and-after shots of the house, the hospital, and the church.
I put the book back where I found it and gaze out through the big French windows. The rain is still pouring down, and the bitter chill of the autumn weather is palpable, but the heat of the kiss that Avery and I shared keeps me warm inside.
I find myself staring at his window, my head bursting with questions about him.
About us.
But even though I’m tempted to flick my lights on and off so that we can meet, I don’t—I want to save that meeting, hold on to it so that I’ve got an excuse to see him again.
And I wait, hoping for him to make a move.
Not long after, it suddenly occurs to me that my mind has completely switched off. And that I’m sick and tired of always fighting to know more. So I sit there on that stiff couch and just wait for something to happen, hardly even moving.
I let the day and the night go by, gazing passively out of the window at the rain falling onto the grass.
DAY 23
THROUGH THE blanket covering my face, I hear a creaking noise, as though a door in the house were being opened.
I pull the blanket away from one half-opened eye to peek out at my surroundings, and immediately notice that I appear to be in my bedroom, and yet that it’s somehow not quite the same bedroom. I sit myself up and take a good look around me.