Dead Voices

by Katherine Arden

  Mr. Voland had settled down at one of the dining room tables—with a view through the archway to the stairs. Sometimes he wrote in a little notebook, but mostly he stared through the archway. Once Ollie lifted her head from the chess game, after she’d just checkmated a distracted Coco, to see him watching the three of them.

  “Do you play chess?” Ollie asked Mr. Voland.

  “You can play, if you want,” Coco chimed in. She was always hunting for new opponents.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Voland. “I play.” He smiled at them both. “I like games. But I fear I’d be too much for you. Enjoy your fun.”

  Coco looked like she wanted to challenge Mr. Voland to a chess duel then and there. But before she could say anything, Ollie’s dad made an entrance from the kitchen with a huge plate piled high with graham crackers, chocolate, and marshmallows.

  “S’mores!” cried Coco, distracted.

  “Hm,” said Ollie’s dad, “you three can’t possibly be hungry after all that candy.” He cast an eye on the floor, which was scattered with wrappers.

  “Dad—” said Ollie.

  “But I’ll leave this here anyway,” her dad went on, depositing the platter by the fire. “Keep it safe for me?”

  “No worries there,” said Brian, and they all gathered around the fire. Making s’mores was always fun. Carefully, they skewered their marshmallows. Ollie and Coco laughed at Brian, who could never manage to toast a marshmallow without catching it on fire. “It’s fine,” Brian insisted. “Catching it on fire cooks it just as well.” To illustrate, he sandwiched his blackened marshmallow between slabs of graham cracker and chocolate and took a giant bite. Ollie and Coco, still laughing, hurried to toast theirs too.

  They ate until they couldn’t eat any more. S’mores took their minds off things. But eventually they put the last of the graham crackers and chocolate aside. When the fun stopped, the twilight seemed to rush in.

  The light outside was blue-violet, and somewhere beyond the mountains the sun sank. The day shuddered to a gray and strange close.

  Ollie’s dad and Ms. Zintner had been in and out all afternoon, messing with the generator, checking on the fire. If they’d seen anything strange, they hadn’t said. And it didn’t seem like they had. Mr. Adler was just as cheerful as usual. It was only Ollie, Brian, Coco, and Mr. Voland who seemed to have noticed anything wrong.

  Even though Mr. Voland had carefully nursed the fire along, the lodge kept getting colder.

  “Why is it so cold?” Ollie asked Mr. Voland. All that afternoon, when he wasn’t feeding the fire, he’d barely taken his eyes off the lobby stairwell. She was pretty sure the other grown-ups were annoyed with him. He hadn’t offered to help bring in firewood, and he wasn’t hunting for ghosts, like he said he meant to. But Ollie thought he was doing something. He was keeping watch.

  “A cold spot is a sure sign of supernatural activity,” Mr. Voland replied. “I suspect that a thermometer would show the room reading at a much warmer temperature than it feels.”

  “What can we do?” Ollie asked.

  “Stay together,” said Mr. Voland. “Keep the fire burning. And hope the night holds answers as well as danger.” He put another log on the sullen flames.

  Ollie hoped so too. She touched her watch. It had been silent for hours now. But she hoped it wasn’t done telling her things. She hoped she’d talk to her mom that night. She felt a little thrill of excitement at the thought.

  “Ollie!” called her dad from the kitchen.

  Ollie, a little reluctantly, left Mr. Voland and the fireplace. With its small windows, the kitchen was even darker than the dining room. Her dad was working by the light of a battery-powered lamp, slathering peanut butter and jelly on bread. “Grab the mayonnaise jar,” he told her, “and throw us together some ham sandwiches. I’m sorry we’re stuck eating cold sandwiches two nights running, but the propane’s not working—we can’t use the stove. At least there’s plenty of dry goods.” He tweaked one of Ollie’s curls. “Can’t live on s’mores.”

  Actually, Ollie wasn’t too hungry—she’d eaten a lot of s’mores. But she picked up a spreader and a piece of bread anyway. Making food with her dad was familiar; it made her feel better. Her dad loved to feed people. Mr. Wilson had left him in charge of the cooking. Which made sense, Ollie thought with pride. Her dad was a much better cook.

  Ollie spread mayonnaise on bread, laid down neat slices of ham. As she did, she looked around the kitchen. It had big, new metal counters, metal sinks. A giant gas range with eight burners. She wished they could light the stove and have soup. But that wasn’t working either.

  In the corner, Ollie caught sight of a skinny door. The knob was dented. It was hard to see it in the shadows.

  “Where does that door go?” Ollie asked, pointing.

  “Sam says it goes to the basement,” said her dad. “But it’s full of rusty nails and old axes and other sharp things—maybe hold off on exploring until tomorrow?”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice,” said Ollie with feeling. No way was she going into a moldy old basement.

  They finished their sandwiches and took them out to the others, along with chips and apples and oranges. Ms. Zintner was trying to boil water in a pot awkwardly hung over the fire, but it didn’t work. Ollie caught herself thinking, My mom would have known what to do, but she tried to quash the thought. It wasn’t Ms. Zintner’s fault that they couldn’t boil water. The fire didn’t get that hot. It stayed low and sullen and smoky, and the smoke, instead of going straight up, crept sideways into their eyes.

  * * *

  —

  “Dad, do you think the storm will stop tomorrow?” Ollie asked after they’d finished eating their sandwiches. It was inky, snow-filled night by then. A couple of the battery-powered lamps had already died, and none of the fresh batteries could get them to light again. All eight people in the lodge had drawn in close around the fire, staying in its hoop of light and warmth. Ollie was sitting on a blanket next to her dad’s chair, leaning her head on his knee like a little kid. Even her dad looked tired now. He had been joking and singing all that long afternoon as the lodge got colder and colder. He’d kept them all laughing. But now there were purple pouches under his eyes.

  “I don’t know, Ollie-pop,” he said simply. “I’ve never seen a storm like this. But it’ll be okay. The storm has to stop eventually. We have walls and a roof and blankets and plenty of food and firewood. We’ll be all right.”

  Ollie said, “Dad—have you ever believed in ghosts?”

  Her dad frowned down at her, pulling at a splinter that had lodged itself in his thumb. Ollie wished she hadn’t asked. He’d been worried that day too. Worried about different things. About keeping her and Brian and Coco fed and warm and not scared.

  Her dad said seriously, “I believe in memory. I believe in remembering someone you love so well that it becomes kind of like a ghost. You remember someone so hard that it feels like they’re in the next room, just around the corner, that they could walk in any minute. But the kind of ghosts that Mr. Voland says he’s looking for? The ghosts that walk up and down, like Jacob Marley in A Christmas Carol? No. I don’t believe in ghosts like that. You have to decide what you believe, Ollie-pop. That’s part of growing up. But . . .” He bent down and whispered in her ear. “I wouldn’t listen too much to Mr. Voland. Dead people, they’re gone. They’ve left us, except for the part of them that we carry around forever.”

  Ollie only nodded once. “Okay,” she said very softly. They both stared into the glowing coals of the feeble fire. “I love you.”

  Gently, her dad stroked her hair as they watched the fire sputter and sink low in the darkness.

  * * *

  —

  More of the battery-powered lamps had gone out. They were down to two. The small fire made the shadows dance along the walls of the dining room. Coco tried not to watch the
shadows. She kept expecting to see a human figure there, a long arm pointing.

  Coco really didn’t want it to get dark.

  “Hey, Coco,” said her mom. “Can you help me straighten up these blankets?”

  Coco went over. Her mom was rearranging the piles of pillows and comforters so that everyone would have a spot to sleep, as near to the fire as they could get. Ollie, Coco, and Brian, plus Coco’s mom and Mr. Adler, would be on the dining room side of the fire. Mr. Voland and the Wilsons would be on the lobby side.

  “How are you doing, sweetie?” her mom asked as Coco shook out blankets. “Here, let’s put you three kids a bit closer to the fire.” Her mom smiled crookedly. “Some vacation, huh?”

  “Mom, I’m scared,” Coco said. She didn’t want to admit it to Ollie or Brian. She wanted to be brave for them, because they were being brave for her. They were joking with Ollie’s dad and keeping an eye on the staircase without saying anything about being afraid. But she could admit it to her mother.

  “There’s nothing to be scared of,” said her mom, smoothing the corner of a blanket. “It might not be the most fun because it’s so chilly in here and we’re kind of stuck. But there’s nothing to be scared of.”

  “We saw a ghost in the hallway upstairs,” Coco said in a small voice.

  Her mother pressed her lips together. “The imagination is a very powerful thing, sweetheart,” she said. She shot Mr. Voland an annoyed look. “It might have been a mistake to let you go ghost hunting.”

  “But—why is it so cold, and why is everything breaking?” Coco demanded. “We did see a ghost. I—I think all this is the ghost’s fault.”

  “Things are breaking because of the snowstorm,” said her mom more gently, putting aside the last blanket. “And you are safe. Roger and I—we won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Coco felt better. But only a little.

  “Like Roger said,” Coco’s mom went on, “we have plenty of supplies. We’ll be okay until the storm stops.”

  Coco wanted to believe it. They were all together. Five grown-ups. It wasn’t like the last time, when she and Ollie and Brian had been all alone, and lost and running.

  But she was still afraid.

  * * *

  —

  The second-to-last battery-powered lamp went out, and Ollie’s dad said, still with his determined cheerfulness, “Well, I think that’s probably our signal to go to bed.”

  Despite the fire, it was so cold in the dining hall that they all breathed out plumes like dragons in the frosty air.

  Mr. Voland said, “I think I will sit up awhile longer.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Ollie’s dad.

  They went to the downstairs bathroom to brush their teeth. On their way back, Ollie murmured to Mr. Voland, “What happens now?”

  “Try and get some rest,” he said. “Don’t sleep—stay alert. I’ll get you when it’s time.”

  Ollie nodded. The shadows pressed in while they settled under their covers. The fire threw flickering shadows across the walls and ceiling of the dining room.

  Ollie, Brian, and Coco settled in side by side, wrapped tightly in blankets. When they were settled, Brian said, whispering, “Ollie, I still don’t think this talking-to-ghosts thing is a good idea.”

  “Do you have a better idea?” Ollie asked. “We can trust Mr. Voland. He broke the mirror for me, and he’s been keeping watch all day. I think we’d be in real trouble if it weren’t for him!”

  “Maybe so,” conceded Brian. “But still. It doesn’t feel right. Dead people—they’re gone. We aren’t meant to talk to them.”

  Brian, Coco remembered, was Catholic. It came out at odd moments.

  Ollie rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling, jaw set. “Stay in bed if you don’t want to help,” she said.

  “I never said—” Brian began.

  “Cut it out,” whispered Coco. “We’re about to have a pretty darn rough night, it seems like. It won’t help if you two are arguing over this. We have to watch each other’s backs. And, Brian, I don’t really like this either, but I can’t think of a better way. Ollie, Brian is trying to help us. Even if he doesn’t agree with you, that’s no reason to be mean.”

  There was a small silence. Then, “Sorry,” Brian whispered.

  “I’m sorry too,” said Ollie.

  No one said anything else. Somewhere out of sight, the bird clock whistled the hour. Side by side, they lay on their backs and watched the firelight fade from gold to red as the fire burned low.

  9

  OLLIE LAY STIFF and open-eyed on her hard bed of blankets. There was the smell of new carpet under her head. Her dad had turned the last battery-powered lamp off to save it from just dying on them. Ollie had worn her hoodie to bed, along with her beanie, a long-sleeved shirt, flannel pants, and long, thick socks. Even under the blankets, all that was barely enough to keep her warm.

  The fire burned a sullen dark red. Ollie lay still, watching the slow waltz of the red light across the ceiling of the dining room.

  She couldn’t sleep. She felt like every single one of her nerves was strung as tight as the lines of the storm-wrapped ski lifts outside. She was waiting. Listening. Beside her she could feel her friends, as tense and as open-eyed as she was. For a while they heard the murmur of the adults’ voices; once, Ollie’s dad laughed softly.

  But slowly the adults went off to bed; their voices dropped away. Then it was only silence that filled the lobby and the dining room of Hemlock Lodge. Silence except for the sound of the storm. It was so strange, Ollie thought vaguely, how the storm could sound just like a person. Now, for example, the wind sounded like a soft, steady whimpering, going on and on and on, like a human voice circling Hemlock Lodge, looking for a way in.

  And then Ollie must have fallen asleep, even though she’d told Mr. Voland she wouldn’t. Because now she realized that the whimpering wasn’t the wind at all. It was a girl in a long white nightgown, crouching in a corner of the dining room, her arms wrapped about her skinny knees, crying.

  In her dream, Ollie got up and went to the girl. All around them, Hemlock Lodge wasn’t a newly renovated ski lodge anymore. It was a ruin. Ollie saw holes in the wall; her feet crunched on broken glass. The splintery floor snagged on her socks. In her dream, she shook with cold.

  “Why are you crying?” Ollie asked the girl in the corner.

  The girl lifted her face. Ollie couldn’t suppress a shudder at the bloodless skin, the nose black with frostbite.

  “I want to go home,” said the girl.

  Ollie knelt down beside her. “Where is your home?” she asked.

  The girl gnawed on her lower lip. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I can’t remember. But it’s somewhere. It has to be somewhere, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s somewhere,” said Ollie soothingly. “I’ll help you find it.”

  The girl made a strange, broken sound, halfway between a laugh and a whimpering sob. “How?” she demanded. “Home’s not here. There’s nothing but dark here. I can’t get out!” The girl’s voice rose suddenly to a scream. “I can’t get out! I can’t leave until I find my bones. But they’re nowhere.”

  Ollie was desperate to stop the girl’s sobbing. “No,” she said, stammering. “No, don’t cry. I’ll help you get out. I’ll help. I’ll help you find your bones.”

  The girl stared at Ollie with huge eyes as black as dead coals, and she laughed, a low, terrible sound. “Help me?” she whispered, with freezing scorn. “You help me? How? You’re trapped just as much as me.”

  “No,” Ollie started to say. “No I’m not—”

  But the girl had leaped to her feet. “Trapped!” she screamed. Her mouth fell open; her teeth and tongue were blackened. “Trapped, trapped, trapped! You dummy! You’ll stay here forever, until you’re old bones just like me!”

  She
whirled and sprinted across the dining room, her nightgown a spot of white in the gloom. Ollie clambered to her feet and tried to follow. But she found her way blocked. A woman, dressed all in black, stood in front of her.

  “Where do you think you’re going, missy?” A bony hand closed on Ollie’s arm.

  Ollie tried to scream and lurched awake, gasping. For a few racing breaths, she did not know where she was. Then she remembered. She was lying in a bed made of blankets. Dining room. Hemlock Lodge. Mountain. Storm. Ghosts.

  Mom.

  With that, Ollie’s head cleared. She was so tired of nightmares. She sat up slowly.

  Mr. Voland was still sitting at his table a good distance from the hearth, just at the edge of the farthest reach of the firelight. The low scarlet coals of the fire threw strange shadows over his face, and reddened his skin. Everything was completely still. Ollie wondered how long she’d slept. She could hear her dad snoring faintly. Ms. Zintner slept curled up, an arm over her head.

  Mr. Voland saw Ollie awake, put a finger to his lips, and beckoned, wordless.

  Ollie nodded and turned to shake Brian and Coco. They sat up, not talking, rubbing their faces sleepily. They were going to have to be as quiet as they possibly could, to not wake anyone up, Ollie thought. Be quiet, she mouthed at her friends, then got up and went to Mr. Voland.

  “Has anything happened?” she breathed.

  Mr. Voland didn’t say anything in reply. Instead he cupped a hand over his ear and put a finger over his lips at the same time. Hush and listen, he was saying. Brian and Coco had followed Ollie across to where Mr. Voland waited.

  Now they listened.

  The lodge was still, except—what was that? It sounded like the wind. The storm wind crying around Hemlock Lodge, just like it had been doing all day.

  But in Ollie’s dream, the noise hadn’t been the wind. It had been a ghost girl with frostbite on her face, crying in a corner. It sounded like someone was crying now. Like someone upstairs and out of sight was crying. She looked at Brian and Coco, saw them thinking the same thing.