Her mom didn’t talk to her, wouldn’t even look at her, for the rest of the day—not even a kiss at bedtime—and Cassie went to bed unloved and alone.
And then the power went off again.
She lay frightened and alone in the dark, listening to her mom moving around by flashlight, singing to Niall to shush his crying. Then her mom had gone to bed and everything was quiet and dark. Cassie must have slept too, because when she opened her eyes the moon had moved around and its light was coming through the window onto her pillow. But it didn’t shine on her bedroom. It shone on a kitchen with an iron stove and a flagstone floor, and a candle flickering darkly on a shelf. She could smell its wax.
There was a bag and two bricks on the table, and through Cassie’s earbuds, loose and tangled on her pillow, she heard a whispering voice.
“… Nanny make it all better … ”
Even as she watched, the latch on the kitchen door began to lift.
She had to wake her mom. But she knew her mom wouldn’t believe her.
As the door began to open, Cassie slipped from her bed and hurried along the hallway. Behind her in the dark she could hear the sound of Nanny Candle’s buttoned boots on the stone floor. Hear the sound of Nanny Candle picking up the bag and the bricks. Noiselessly, Cassie crept into her mom’s room. If she hid Niall, Nanny Candle wouldn’t be able to find him. She could keep him safe.
The baby was asleep in the crib. He didn’t so much as stir as she lifted him out. He smelled of warmth and milk, and cookies and vanilla, and his hair was soft like down. She could feel it against her face. Why had she never done this before? She wrapped his blanket around him and carried him to the back door. There was a place to hide there—under the back steps. Nanny Candle wouldn’t find them there.
Cassie carried him out into the cool dark and crouched with him under the steps. Held him to her. But he began to stir.
“Shh … ,” she said urgently. “She’ll hear you … ”
But the baby began to make small waking sounds.
“No, no, no,” she said quickly. There was a rising panic in her voice. “No, no, don’t cry. Don’t cry, or she’ll find you.”
She could hear the sound of Nanny Candle coming.
As Niall began to cry, Cassie folded the corner of the blanket over his mouth and held it there, pressed it down.
“Ssshh … Ssshh … ,” she whispered, over and over again, rocking him in her arms until finally, he made no sound at all.
The boy blinked.
He was only then aware again of the platform and the lantern on the ground—because all that had as good as stopped while the old man was talking. He’d been watching Cassie, wanting to tell her not to fold the blanket over Niall’s face. But slowly the world became real and dark around him.
“That was a horrible story,” he said.
“Do you think so?” the old man answered cheerfully.
He reached into his raincoat pocket and brought out a biscuit, bent down, and held it out to the dog. The boy could see the little black nose, all shining and wet in the light of the lantern, the pink tongue, and the white teeth.
“He’s a lovely little dog, is Toby,” said the old man. “Goes everywhere with me, he does, he’s my little shadow. You want to give him a biscuit?” he chirruped. “He’ll be your friend for life if you give him a biscuit.”
But the boy could still see the blanket and the baby’s face.
The man reached into his pocket and handed him a small piece of broken biscuit.
“I keep them in my pocket,” he said. “Because I know he likes a biscuit, but then, who doesn’t like a biscuit?”
Shaking the image away, the boy took the biscuit and offered it to the little dog. He could feel his breath and warm tongue against his fingers. The biscuit made him think of the smell of the pet shop on the main street—all vanilla bones and bird meal.
“We haven’t got a dog,” he said. “My mom’s allergic.”
“Well, you go on,” said the man. “You make as much of a fuss of him as you want and it will help pass the time for you. He’ll like it too. Look at him, happy as happy.”
The boy rubbed the dog’s back, and the dog wagged his tail. He looked up at the boy for more each time he stopped. Then he hoovered up the last of the crumbs and cocked his head—all bright eyed and hopeful for more.
“It wasn’t real,” the boy said. “That story wasn’t real.”
He didn’t know why he’d said that. Maybe because in some way it had felt—still felt—real. As though there was a girl named Cassie, was a candle and a bag of bricks.
The man looked amused—like an elderly uncle who’d told a joke. He pursed his lips.
“What’s real is what we believe,” he said. “It’s like lies—if you believe it when you tell it, it’s not a lie, is it? You might be mistaken, but that doesn’t make it a lie. Something can be in a story and still be real—if you believe it.”
“Well, I don’t,” the boy said. “And I don’t want to hear another one, thank you very much.”
The man smiled a friendly smile, took out a big colored handkerchief, and blew his nose noisily, then wiped his mouth on the hankie and put it away.
“I’m glad I came along,” he said brightly. “Couldn’t have you sit here all on your own in the dark, could we?”
The boy looked along the platform at the light of the lamps and the rails diminishing into that darkness.
“What time does the train come, do you know?”
“Depends what they’re doing,” the man said thoughtfully. “If they’re doing ballast or tamping, it will be one thing, and if they’re putting in a new rail it’ll be another.”
“Yeah, well, when’s it come?”
“Like I said, it depends what they’re doing. You should listen.”
“I was listening,” the boy said.
“No,” the man said. “Listen—not to me, to the rails. You can always hear when a train’s coming long before you see it. The rails start hissing—and that’s the train, see? If you put a penny on the track the hissing will jump it off before the train comes. You should listen to the rails,” he said, pointing with the leash toward the track. “That’s what we used to do. That’s the way you know when a train’s coming.”
“It’s going to come soon, though, isn’t it?”
“Oh, there’s always a train going to come soon,” the man said. “That’s why you have to listen to the rails. “ ’Cause there’s a train coming, and a train coming … ”
His voice trailed off.
“… And a train coming—
TO GET YOU!”
He lurched toward the boy, and the boy was up and off the bench.
“What the—”
But the man wasn’t looking at him; he was laughing at his joke, patting the scruffy little dog.
“We made him jump, didn’t we, Toby? Made him jump for real. ‘Train coming to get you,’ we said.”
He looked up at the boy, his face creased in mirth.
“Stupid … !” the boy said.
“Well, there’s no need for language,” the man said, his face suddenly falling. “It was just a little joke.”
“Well, it wasn’t funny,” the boy said sharply.
“Well, I don’t know,” the old man said, his voice and face all offended. “Come along here to keep you company, make sure you don’t come to any harm, and that’s what I get in return—language. I don’t know at all.”
“I’m sorry,” the boy said. “You just made me jump.”
“I was trying to make you laugh!” the man answered.
He looked around him, still offended.
“I’m sorry,” the boy said again.
“Well,” the man said.
He took out the handkerchief again, wiped his mouth, and put it away. Then he looked up into the boy’s face.
“You sit down,” he said in a conciliatory way.
The boy sat down.
The little dog rested his
head on the boy’s knee. The boy could feel his warmth through his jeans. He stroked his ears.
“It’s the dark, isn’t it?” said the old man, and it seemed to the boy that there was kindness in his voice, as though perhaps he knew that that joke hadn’t been the right thing to play. “You don’t like the dark much, do you, son? Well, none of us like the dark very much, that’s why we have lights.” He tapped the lantern with his foot. “Wouldn’t go anywhere without my light. Tell you what. I’ll tell you a story about lights. Nice, bright lights.”
“I don’t want a story,” the boy said.
The man looked at him and smiled again.
“Course you do,” he said. “We all like a nice little story about lights.”
And it happened again, the platform fading and the sound of the old man’s voice becoming something else—not a story, but a real girl in a real hall by a real front door.
Jess’s mom was wearing perfume and a burgundy-red dress, and the shoes she said didn’t fit but looked nice.
“You’ll be okay on your own, won’t you?” she asked as she buttoned her coat. “It’s not as though Dad and me go out that often, is it? And it is a Halloween party.”
“I’ll be fine,” said Jess. “Really. I’ve got stuff to do for Friday anyway.”
She didn’t like it when her mom fussed.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to put something in the microwave for you?”
“No, I’ll be fine,” said Jess again. “Go on, you have a good time.”
“And you won’t wait up, will you?” said her mom, checking her hair in the mirror. “It’ll be late before we’re back.”
Her dad gave Jess a kiss and picked up the car keys.
“If you get bored, don’t chew the furniture,” he said.
They closed the front door.
Jess stood for a moment, then wandered into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on. She leaned against the countertop, looking at her reflection in the patio doors while she waited for the water to boil. It was dark outside, and the glass of the doors was like a black mirror. She couldn’t see the little yard at all, only her reflection with the cupboards behind her and the kettle on the side.
She didn’t like being on her own—never had. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the house; it was the emptiness of being on her own in it that she didn’t like.
She didn’t like being alone.
She didn’t like the idea of Halloween either—what was put in a grave was meant to stay there. She didn’t like thinking about what might come out of one—not that anything ever could.
All the tricking and treating was over for the night and the little boys and little girls, costumed and carrying flashlights, had been given candy and were back home now, safe indoors. No one else was going to come knocking, which was just how Jess wanted it.
The water boiled. She made herself a drink, then brought her mom’s sewing machine in from the front room and set it up on the table. Pulling the fabric and things she needed from her schoolbag, she spread them all out. When she was done, she sat down with her earbuds in and began cutting out paper patterns and pinning them to the cloth. As she worked she’d glance up and see her reflection looking back at her from the black mirror of the patio doors—like another girl working at another table, the kitchen light pulled low.
Every now and again the security light in the yard outside flicked on, but there was never anything there. It did it all the time. Her dad said it was the branches of next door’s tree getting in the way, so he’d cut them right back, but the light still came on. It only took a cat, he said. The light flooded the yard, and when it did Jess couldn’t see herself in the glass anymore, only the garbage can and the washing line, and the high back wall with the door that opened onto the alley where the garages were.
It was an unforgiving light.
The colors it made were too bright, the shadows too black—as sharp-edged as any razor. It looked all wrong—like a photograph of the yard, not the real thing. It hung there for a moment behind the patio doors, all bright and sharp, and then the light would go out with a little pik noise. Everything would fade into darkness, and there would be her reflection again in the black mirror, cloth and scissors in hand, staring back at her as she looked out.
That light made the house feel even more empty. Made her feel even more alone.
Once or twice, the kitchen light gave a little flicker, as though the bulb or the power was about to go, and she’d pause what she was doing and look up at it. But then the flickering would stop.
For a long while she was engrossed in what she was doing—cutting and pinning, trying to feed the cloth through the machine without breaking the needle on the pins. But then something made her look up. All she could hear was the music in her ears. She pulled one of the earbuds out and listened—perhaps it had been the phone, and she’d missed it. The house was quiet, just the sounds of the fridge and the boiler humming. But as she looked back down at the table, she caught sight of her reflection, and just for a moment, no more than a blink of an eye, she thought she saw something move behind it—something that drew itself away, backward into the dark. She felt her heart skip a beat, and in the same moment the security light flicked on with its hard white light—but the yard was empty; even the door at the back was shut.
She sat staring, her eyes fixed on the sharp black shadows and the false bright colors, not sure at all what she could have seen.
Then pik. The light went out.
Unsettled now, she took her other earbud out and sat looking at the black of the glass—at her reflection staring impassively back at her as though it knew something that she didn’t. She was almost certain she’d seen a movement. Wondering if it might have been something on the side behind her, she turned around, and as she did all the lights in the house flickered once and went out. The fridge shuddered to a halt and she was left in complete darkness. Everything that made a sound had stopped. Even the heat. She sat for a moment in the silence waiting for it all to come back on again, but it didn’t.
It was so quiet. So dark.
She craned her head to see up, on top of the cupboards. Even the little light on the Internet modem had gone out.
There was a small flashlight kept in the silverware drawer behind her. She pushed her chair back and fumbled in the darkness until she found it. When she turned it on, it gave out a thin little light, barely enough to see her hand by. The batteries were almost done. She shook it hard, but it didn’t make a difference. The flashlight just seemed to make the darkness even darker. She felt her way along the counter to the light switch by the door—clicked it on and off—but nothing happened. Then, bumping the table in the dark, she took the chair she’d sat on out into the hall and put it under the fuse box by the door. Her dad did that when a fuse had tripped, but she’d never actually seen what it was he did next, and when she pulled open the door of the cupboard and held the little beam of light to it, there was just a row of white and black buttons. She couldn’t see anything that was “off.”
But now that she was on the chair, she was level with the little window above the front door and she could see outside. There weren’t any lights on in the street either. She got off the chair. The flashlight made a tunnel of dark around her as she went up the stairs. She pushed open her mom and dad’s door and, clambering over their bed, she looked out the big window onto the street below. There wasn’t a light to be seen anywhere. She pressed her face to the glass and peered both ways, her breath fogging the cold window. But all she could see was darkness and the silhouettes of roofs against the lighter dark of the sky.
She sat for a moment on the corner of the bed, deciding what to do. She didn’t want to stay up all alone in the dark house—and she’d get cold too with the heat off. Her iPod was downstairs, though. If she was going to go to bed, she’d need that. She’d stepped on her phone, and until she got that fixed, that’s all she had left for music.
She went back down the stairs, the flash
light beam getting weaker with every step until it was worse than useless. It gave out completely as she reached the bottom. She groped her way along the wall to the kitchen, then, hand outstretched, felt for the table.
Out in the yard the security light went on.
It was so bright after the dark of the house.
She stood like a rabbit in a headlight, looking at the brilliance of the empty yard—at the knife-sharp shadows and the kitchen lit up all around her.
She took a step away from the windows, stood with her back to the countertop, her eyes fixed on the yard, looking at every shadow, every dark place, watching for something to move.
Pik.
The yard faded into blackness.
It was dark only for moments. Then the light came on again, harder, brighter. The darkness it left deeper, blacker.
It shouldn’t be doing that.
She jumped as the house phone behind her on the side glowed, buzzed, and began its little xylophone ring. She snatched it up.
“Hello?”
From the other end of the line she could hear party noises—voices and laughter. Grown-ups acting like kids.
“Jessie, love.”
It was her mom.
Her mom was laughing too. Her voice faded as she turned away and shushed someone.
“There’s no lights,” said Jess.
“You got any power?” her mom said. “We’ve got none here. It’s all gone dark.”
There was a whoop of laughter.
Her mom’s voice faded again as she turned away from the phone.
“Sorry, love,” said her mom. “You’ve got lights, then, have you?”
“No,” said Jess sharply. “There’s no lights.”
She was looking out into the dark of the yard as she spoke, waiting for the security light to come on again.
“Mom?”
“Hang on, love, your dad’s saying something.”
The phone went muffled.
“Is Dad—”
“Your dad says to tell you there’s a big flashlight down in the garage if you want one. It’s by the back—”
“Is Dad there?” said Jess quickly. She was still looking at the yard. “Can you ask him if the security light should be coming on? ’Cause that’s what it’s doing. It’s freaking me out.”
The Wrong Train Page 3