She moves on, a little too quickly. “Oh, and Rose? I don’t need to know what you and the mayor talked about. I’m sure she gave you a lot to consider as well. Whatever you decide, could you tell us by the end of the day? I hate to rush you, but, you know.”
She tugs the blinds closed, and as the light recedes, so do the shadows. As she slings her parasol over her shoulder, I say, “I can do that.”
She hesitates, a half smile on her face. “Remember, basement stairs. Don’t get lost now.”
Her footsteps move briskly down the hall, steadily fading. I hear a faint thump that must be the front doors. Then, once again, it’s quiet.
I breathe out, and it echoes.
I glance over my shoulder, but the darkened classroom is all there is. No street. No neighborhood. No scene from my past.
For a second, I imagine a life of this flood following me. Maybe, like Rudy, they’ll slip into the boundaries of my shadow, waiting until the moment I lower a parasol. Maybe they’ll follow me a few paces back, like they are now. Slipping in and out of Sutton Avenue every time I look over my shoulder.
Unless this town isn’t enough to satisfy them. Unless we leave here, the two of us, and they just keep destroying.
I don’t want to understand them. I want Rudy to swallow them whole.
I should have told Christie Jones my mind is already made up. That it was a question of when we could get them off me, not if. But I think of the way she smiled at Rudy. And a little reluctantly, I slide her business card into my pocket, next to the mayor’s.
Stepping into the hallway, I face away from the double doors, deeper into the school. I’ve always loved abandoned buildings. It was the one reason I could put up with Gaby’s insatiable horror movie obsession—I liked looking at the sets. I liked putting those places back together in my mind, imagining what had been there before. Gaby thought I was missing the point, but she tolerated it.
It’s different to see an empty place that should be full. Like reality itself doesn’t quite fit together. Like this school is full, and I just can’t see it.
And I choose this moment, right now, to remember Felix’s words to Alex when he dropped me off. It’s okay. We’re not going inside.
The hairs on my arms stand up. I think it’s nerves, at first. But then I realize it’s getting colder. A harsh, artificial kind of cold, like central air on full blast. I don’t think the air is on; I don’t hear the telltale hum. The only sound is a soft kind of wheezing, hitching in and out, like the wind through a window somewhere.
I’m halfway around the corner before I realize what the sound is. It’s not the wind. It’s someone crying.
And before I think to turn back, I see that the tile under my feet has turned to carpet.
I look up. Ahead of me is a different hallway, dim and narrow. The long windows of the school are gone. I’m not in the school anymore. But I know exactly where I am.
A couple of feet away there’s a door, slightly open, nothing visible but a sliver of pale light. And beyond it, I can hear muffled sobs.
“Ohh boy,” I whisper.
Air rattles through the vents above me, and my skin prickles with a wave of goose bumps. I get the hint. I’m supposed to go in.
There’s no reason to be afraid, I remind myself. I know exactly what’s ahead.
“It’s actually back here,” someone calls from over my shoulder— a voice that doesn’t belong in this memory.
I whip around, and the bright and empty school hallway twirls back into place. In front of me, between two classrooms, is a heavy gray door labeled in all caps: BASEMENT. And standing directly next to it is my chaperone.
“Morning.” Cassie the prophet jingles a set of keys between her fingers. “Sleep well?”
Nine
THIS IS A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT
THE BASEMENT DOOR opens with a little pop, as if we’ve punctured a seal, revealing a set of narrow, wooden steps.
Cassie lets out a low whistle. Even from a few feet behind her, I get a hint of cool, musty air. “We should throw a rock,” she says. “See when it hits the bottom. Got any rocks?”
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m fresh out.”
With a glance back at me, she finally notices I’m staring. “Something on your mind, Rose?”
“No.” Maybe. I drag in a breath. “You’re the sheriff’s trusted chaperone?”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m very trustworthy.”
“Does she have any staff above the age of eighteen?” I say. “Is this some kind of work-study thing?”
“I never thought of that. Do you think she’d give me college credit?” When I don’t smile, she sighs and lets her own drop. “Do your parents ever tell you ‘don’t drink, unless it’s in the house’?”
“My parents stopped at ‘don’t drink,’” I say.
“It’s not like we’re out there chasing down criminals, is the thing,” Cassie says. “Crime in Lotus Valley has held at a record low for the state of Nevada since Josephine Martin shoplifted three pairs of shoes five years ago. Ninety percent of the time, the city council meetings are about zoning and property lines and setting up the tent layout for Quiltfest.
“It’s just that sometimes Lotus Valley needs . . . a special kind of supervision. And why not bring in a couple civically minded young people to help with the legwork a couple of hours a week?”
She takes a breath. “That’s what Ms. Jones would say if you asked her. The truth is, she thinks we’re safer here, where she can keep an eye on us.”
“Safer?” I say.
“Some of us are a little bit stranger than most,” Cassie says. “And sometimes that means the neighbors . . . notice us a little bit more.”
An artificial chill skims my shoulders. But when I glance behind me, the hall is just the hall. No door standing slightly ajar. No muffled sobs.
I move toward the basement door. But midstep, I stop dead.
There’s a humming. Not a hum of central air like before. Someone—a very low-voiced someone, from somewhere very far down—is humming a tune.
“Do you hear that?” I say softly.
“Hm?” Cassie tilts her head toward the door, listening. Then she laughs. “Oh, that? Don’t worry. It’s always done that.”
Oh, well. I guess it’s fine, then.
My phone shudders in my pocket. Maybe it’s Sammy, practicing his composition homework again. Or Flora, because I didn’t text her back earlier today.
Somewhere down those stairs someone broadcast Gaby’s voice. In a couple of hours, I’ll be calling the mayor, finishing this. But this comes first.
We step through the doorway and make our way down, into the underbelly of Lotus Valley Elementary.
“It might not be that bad,” Cassie says.
“Hm?” I say, without looking at her.
“You know how you can go through your whole life afraid of a place and then find out there was no good reason all along?” Cassie says. “Happens to me all the time. Just last week I had to make a trip to my grandfather’s storage unit. That place’s given me the creeps since I was four.”
“And it was fine?” I say.
“Oh, no, I never made it there. I was lost in those hallways for hours,” Cassie says. “I’m all for security, but some things are just excessive, right? But anyway, the point is, I may never actually find those photos I needed, but at least I know what I’m up against.”
“I don’t know if that was the message you wanted,” I say.
“Life’s messy that way,” she says with a dismissive gesture. “Oh, watch your step. That one’s rotted.”
I move carefully over the next stair. “Why would they put the broadcast studio in the basement?”
“You know public radio,” Cassie says. “Real bad boys.”
I miss that she’s joking at first. It s
ounds believable by Lotus Valley standards.
“It’s soundproofing, Rose,” she laughs. “Lotus Valley used to be under four different flight paths. Down here, they only have to worry about what’s underground.”
“What’s underground?” I ask.
“What isn’t underground,” she says.
The air in my lungs feels stale. The humming thrums under my feet, gently shaking the wood of the stairs. “Why did they stop broadcasting?”
“This was a dangerous place to be back then,” Cassie says. “I hear it just stopped one day. No explanation. They played a message from their sponsor, then—static. That was it. And no one wanted to come pack up their things.”
“If I were you . . .” My voice echoes. I have no way of knowing, but I feel like we’re halfway down the stairs. “I wouldn’t volunteer to be the first.”
“Better the devil you know,” Cassie says.
“Better the basement than the flood?” I say. “You don’t know either of them.”
“Maybe,” she says. “But this was my school. That recording studio’s been down here all my life, under my feet. Some meetings are just inevitable.”
One of the patchy overhead lights catches something on the wall. A poster, emblazoned with a faded blue logo at the top. Cassie is the first to draw closer. But then she slowly, as if I won’t notice, takes a step back.
Over her shoulder, I read:
lotus valley community radio reminds you of the following:
don’t look at her.
don’t speak to her.
pretend she isn’t there.
we thank you for your cooperation.
“Don’t worry too much about that,” Cassie says. But her voice has gone noticeably higher.
“And yet I’m still worried,” I say slowly.
“She’s not here much anymore,” Cassie says. “She went legitimate, a while back. Has a much more reputable office now, in the center of town. But that doesn’t mean nothing’s moved in in her place.”
As if to prove her point, the humming jumps an octave.
“Her?” I say. “Legitimate?”
“You’ve seen the commercials by now, haven’t you?” Cassie says. “What do you yearn for? When we negotiated the charter, she represented the neighbors. She was the best communicator of them, so we didn’t have much of a choice. But people came to respect her. And I think working with us, she saw an opportunity. She rebranded herself. Takes commissions in exchange for personal mementos and raw meat. The sheriff’s office checks in to make sure she’s not hurting anyone, but if she behaves, she’s left alone. Some people’ve already forgotten what she was. But it wasn’t that long ago.”
I hear Cassie swallow. “Ms. Jones . . . for all that she’s been through, she’s an optimistic person. Thinks every problem comes down to a failure to communicate. But not every neighbor comes to Lotus Valley for sanctuary or for connection. Some of them come for a hunting ground. And this was hers.”
I glance over at her. But Cassie’s eyes are on the stairs, down in the dark. “They say she was born when the first lie was told. And she lies every time she opens her mouth. She’d hide here, calling to us. Calling in other people’s voices. We named her the Mockingbird.”
There’s a vague, cold feeling circling the pit of my stomach. “She does commissions of . . . voices?”
“People you long to hear,” Cassie says faintly. “Gets good business actually. I don’t know why anyone would risk it. But Ms. Jones always says she never really hunted us for need. She feeds off the fear and anger and pain of the people who hear her, not off the people themselves. She hunted because she was bored.”
The humming, little by little, grows louder. Cassie looks distant for a moment. When she does speak, it’s quieter. “Can you talk to me?”
I laugh. I shouldn’t feel better because she’s scared. But at least she’s reacting like a person, finally. “I’m talking to you right now.”
“Tell me a story, then,” she says. “Anything. Tell me about the road.”
“Weird that you don’t want that humming to be the last thing you hear,” I say dryly.
“Oh, no.” She looks distant for a second. “This isn’t how I die.”
It catches me off guard. For a beat, the humming is all there is. And suddenly, I realize what she’d asked of me a second ago.
I play dumb anyway. “What road?”
“I saw you, you know. Well, I’ve seen you a couple of times now, but this was the first. Almost . . . three years ago now, before I knew who you were. Just you, standing in the middle of this empty road,” she says. “There’s usually more detail than that. But if I’m seeing it, even the little things are something big.”
It would be easy, right now, to tell her that I don’t know. That I’ve stood in the middle of countless roads, and I can’t be expected to remember them all. But she knows I know.
“There’s this girl,” I begin. Ahead of us, the hallway narrows. “Ariella Kaplan. Her grandparents have a cabin outside of the city that they never use anymore. So naturally the entire school is up there every other weekend.
“A couple of miles from the cabin, you turn onto Sutton Avenue. And the woods get thick—really thick.” I’d forgotten that until just now. In my memories there’s nothing past the boundaries of the road. Even yesterday, in that vision, Sutton Avenue looked the same way it looks in my mind: clear, flat. I never remember most of the trees. Just the one.
“Right where Sutton meets Chamblys Road, there’s this huge oak tree. Older than anything alive. I guess they didn’t want to tear it down.” There’s nothing to see, ahead or behind us. Nothing to remind me that I’m standing here in the present—nowhere else. “They built the road around it. And everyone knows it’s there. Everyone knows about the tree. And still.”
Cassie makes a small, understanding sound. It echoes.
“If you’re coming from the city, it’s better. If you swerve, you swerve onto the grass. But if you’re coming from the cabin, Chamblys runs across the edge of this retention pond. Pretty shallow. Just not shallow enough.” I take a breath. I count off, so I remember to breathe deep. “I heard they were talking about filling it. I don’t know why it’s easier to fill a pond than to cut down one tree.”
Up ahead, I can see the stairs smooth out into solid floor. Two steps above the landing, I falter. At some point in the past few minutes, the humming had stopped.
“We should stop talking,” I say.
“Agreed,” Cassie breathes. If anything’s there, we want to hear it coming.
The hall ahead is quiet. Cold. I slide my hand along the wall until I feel the light switch, but it doesn’t help much. The shadowed gaps between the overhead lights feel impossibly long.
The posters are more frequent now, reminding us every couple of feet:
don’t look at her.
don’t speak to her.
pretend she’s not there.
in fact, pretend you never saw this.
if you stopped to read this, well then, you’re not paying attention, are you?
Just up ahead, there’s an open door, and beyond it, the hallway opens into a wider space. As we move closer, there’s one more sign, facing us: quiet please. broadcast in progress.
“I don’t suppose you already know what’s in there?” I ask.
“If I did,” she says, “I would have saved us the trip.”
I try to sigh, though I can’t quite get enough air. “Convenient.”
I go first. Cassie looks perfectly happy with that—she hovers by the doorway as I hit the lights. Half of them flicker on, fluttering on and off with a rapid click-click-click, but it’s enough to give me a better look at the broadcasting studio.
The equipment is pale with dust. The microphone, placed triumphantly in the center of the small desk, looks just
as abandoned as the rest of it. There’s certainly no sign that someone might have been speaking into it just two nights ago.
There’s just one device that looks clean: a small, boxy tape deck, hooked into the console by a tangled mass of wiring.
“Look at this.” Cassie hits the eject button. The top gently pops open, revealing a tiny gray cassette tape.
I take a step closer. It looks noticeably darker than the rest of the machinery. Newer, though not by much. And I’m not an AV expert, but just going by the sheer number of wires, someone had to try really hard to get whatever’s on that tape to broadcast.
“I don’t think that belongs there,” I say.
“Maybe they recorded one of their shows,” Cassie says, inspecting the cassette before she slides it back in. “Here, listen.”
She hits play, and the recording starts mid-sentence. I only need that half a sentence to know what it is. I only need one syllable.
. . . ere?
I’ve heard her voice so many times in the past few days, you’d think it would’ve lost its edge by now. But hearing it here, wound around that little gray cassette tape, it’s different. And the world runs as cold as it did almost a year ago, when I heard those words for the first time.
Rose, are you there? Rose, are you there? Rose, are you there?
I step closer. Maybe not step. I lunge, I grab for that little dustless box. Cassie catches my hands in midair.
“Wait,” she says.
I mean to say, Let go. What comes out is “Shut it off.”
“Rose, wait a second—”
“Shut it off!” The last word comes out high enough, frantic enough, that for a second I stop. I haven’t heard myself sound like that before. Not out loud.
“Listen to me.” Cassie spins me around by the shoulders and holds me there, looks me in the eyes until I look back at her. “It’s that message, isn’t it? The one you said no one else should have?”
Suddenly, I’m out of words. I nod.
“Then give me a moment,” she says. “I haven’t heard your message, but I can tell you for sure that it’s not what I’m hearing right now.”
The Valley and the Flood Page 9