The Gathering

by Dan Poblocki

  Huhh. Huhh. Huhh.

  Dylan was suddenly too frightened to move. The boy came closer, the wooden floor creaking underneath Dylan’s spine.

  Dylan closed his eyes, hoping to make himself invisible. There was no way this boy was part of the film production. So why was he here at Larkspur? And why was he wearing a mask?

  The breathing came closer still, inches now from Dylan’s nose.

  Reflexively, Dylan swung his arms up to push the boy away. But his hands didn’t meet a body. Instead, they passed through air—very cold air. Dylan sat up, flattening himself against the wall as the sound of chains scrambled away, and the nearby door slammed shut again with a wild wham!

  Dylan frantically patted along the floor until he found his phone and then shone the light toward the end of the landing.

  The door was gone.

  Dylan blinked. The door was gone.

  Where the frame and the dark wood and the metal knob had been, there was only a wall covered in that Gothic blue-patterned wallpaper.

  This must be a trick, he thought. The whole thing had to have been a trick. Dylan had played enough of them on other people to know when he was being messed with.

  Dizzy, Dylan struggled to stand. For a moment, his scalp stung, and he worried that the horrible vision in his dressing room was about to return again. But he focused on the wall and the feeling went away.

  His hands shook as he approached the spot where the door had been. His phone light fluttered. If this was a trick, he wondered, then why was his heart kicking out of his chest?

  Dylan made himself touch the wall where the door had been. Then he knocked. It was solid. Glancing around, he searched for a seam or a crack, anything to indicate some sort of purposeful illusion, like something out of a magician’s stage show. But there was nothing.

  He turned and leaned against the wall, shining his light back down the small staircase. Maybe the boy had slipped away. Maybe he was waiting for him down there, just around the corner. Maybe—

  The wall seemed to give under his weight, to soften like a pillow, calling him to sleep, luring his body down for a night of dreaming. Dylan leapt away and stared at the wall. To his horror, he could see his own silhouette pressed into the wallpaper, as if it were a wax mold instead of a wall. The shape almost looked like a shadow of himself—or maybe the boy in the mask—yearning for Dylan to return, as if it were hungry for another, longer embrace.

  Dylan turned and raced down the steps, refusing to look back even as the sound of a clicking latch and the squeal of hinges reverberated past him into the dark hallway and the unseen spaces beyond.

  “WHAT WOULD A private school need with all this old stuff?” asked Azumi as they strolled past yet another elegant sitting room. “And where are the classrooms?” She and Marcus had seen countless fireplaces, each made out of a different material—stone, marble, brick. Their mantelpieces held hurricane lamps with bulbous glass sconces, frames filled with antique photographs, and little porcelain animals. Paintings hung on the walls—portrait after portrait of important-looking figures in elegant costumes, as well as several ethereal landscapes of the Hudson River valley. But they hadn’t seen anything that looked like a school.

  “Maybe it’s all to impress visitors,” Marcus suggested. “Like for when parents come to see what they’re spending their money on.” He was keeping quiet about his scholarship. He had never seen a house that looked this luxurious before, not even at the Oberlin campus where he’d performed, and he couldn’t believe he was going to get to stay here. He held his hands tightly to keep from drumming the Musician’s rhythm. Thankfully, Azumi didn’t seem to notice.

  “This is more like it,” said Azumi, stepping through a doorway into an immense kitchen with numerous cupboards and cabinets. An island in its center looked like an enormous carving block that had been stained dark over the years. “Looks big enough to feed several classrooms of kids.”

  Marcus opened one of the cabinets. “Yes!” He pulled out a few metal trays. “Check it out.” He showed Azumi the Larkspur insignia engraved in the center of each—the same little bird that had been carved into the pillars by the gate. “We’re not crazy. This is definitely a school.”

  “But where is everybody?” asked Azumi, tugging at a drawer crammed with beat-up silverware.

  Marcus opened a door beside an industrial-size refrigerator. “Hey! There’s good stuff in here. Hungry?”

  Azumi cracked a smile. “A little bit, actually.”

  “We’re in luck, then.” Marcus stepped aside. Through the doorway, a huge pantry was stocked with boxes of cookies and crackers, cans of tuna and tins of sardines, jars of pickles and preserves. Marcus tore open a bag of potato chips. “Tastes pretty fresh.”

  Azumi slid her finger under the flap of a box of chocolate wafers. Nibbling one of the cookies, she closed her eyes and sighed. “These are amazing. The only thing that might make them better is a cup of my baaba’s sencha tea.”

  “Your baaba?”

  “My grandmother. She lived with us for years before she died.”

  Marcus spoke quickly to cover the awkward pause. “We should bring some of this for when we meet up with the others again.”

  Azumi nodded. Together, they helped themselves, leaning against the shelves, filling their empty stomachs. After such a weird morning, it felt nice to do something as normal as a snack break.

  “Where are you from again?” Marcus asked.

  “Outside of Seattle,” said Azumi after swallowing a graham cracker.

  “So, why are you here?” Marcus asked.

  Azumi squinted at him. “I already told you. For school.”

  “I mean, it’s so far away from home.”

  “We’re not that close to Ohio either.” Azumi opened another door off the pantry, revealing several rows of long dining tables. High windows near the ceiling allowed daylight to spill inside. “Look. This must be the dining hall.”

  Marcus was still looking at her. “I came here for music though. I just thought maybe you’d want to be closer to your family. There have got to be good schools on the West Coast. No?”

  Azumi passed quickly through the room to an open door on the other side. “My family’s a little strange right now.”

  “Strange how?” Marcus watched Azumi’s face turn red and he felt bad for asking. He hurried after her.

  Now they were in a laundry. There was a washer and dryer against the far wall, big enough to climb inside. Uniforms hung from silver racks all around the edges of the room—more evidence that they were on the right track. The insignia they’d found marked on the kitchen trays was also embroidered on a bunch of gray sweater-vests. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was really personal.”

  “It’s okay,” Azumi said, but she didn’t look at him. “We lost my big sister last year.”

  “Oh my gosh. That’s horrible.” Marcus didn’t know what to say. He reached out as if to hug her, then awkwardly dropped his hands. “What happened?” he asked.

  “I really don’t like to talk about it.” Azumi shook her hair off her shoulders. “But … whatever. If we’re going to be together at Larkspur, you’re going to find out eventually. My sister was being an idiot. She went off into the woods behind my aunt’s house in Japan. And she disappeared. I had to come back to the States all by myself.” She spoke flatly, as if she were talking about what she had for dinner last night.

  “That’s horrible!” Marcus said. Azumi was looking at him steadily, but he could feel the tension inside her. He felt that if he touched her, she might actually pop like a balloon. Better to change the subject? “My mom doesn’t like it when I practice cello or piano,” he said. The familiar tune drifted through his mind again. “She doesn’t say so, but I know it bugs her. So I get mad at her sometimes. And my brothers and sister are always around, making noise, interrupting me. They hate when I put on Phillip Glass or my jazz albums. They only like ‘songs with words.’ Sometimes, I wish they’d just disappear too.”


  Azumi’s mouth dropped open. For a moment, Marcus regretted his words. But then she released a loud laugh that reverberated around the laundry room. After a moment, she pulled herself together. “That’s probably the worst thing anyone has ever said to me,” she told him.

  “I didn’t mean … It came out all wrong.”

  “You don’t really know how to talk to people, do you?”

  Marcus crossed his arms, tapping his fingers on his biceps. He struggled to steady his nervous breath. “I never thought about it before. But yeah. I guess music is how I talk. It’s how I think. Kids at my old school called me a nerd a lot.”

  “That’s not necessarily something to be ashamed of,” said Azumi. Marcus sighed in relief. “C’mon. Let’s keep looking around before it gets too late. Someone’s got to be around here somewhere.”

  Across the hallway, they discovered the biggest jaw-dropper of all—a ballroom so immense, the white ceiling overhead almost looked like the sky. A line of glass doors stretched across the far wall, covered by gauzy curtains that allowed light to filter in. “I’m pretty sure my entire house would fit in here,” said Marcus.

  “Mine too,” said Azumi. “This is really beyond huge.”

  “But look!” Marcus pointed toward a far corner. A large black piano stood, its cover open wide, as if it had been waiting for him. His heart gave a great leap and he ran to it, settling himself on the bench and lifting the fallboard. He dragged his fingers silently across the keys and closed his eyes. He pressed down and a chord sang out, ringing through the chamber like church bells. Finally, he was able to release the tune that had haunted him all morning.

  Azumi couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Standing in the doorway of this new room, she watched Marcus move his fingers across the piano’s gleaming keyboard. A beautifully complicated melody filled the space and spilled out into the hallway behind her.

  Marcus had been transported to another realm. It looked like the jitters she’d seen on him had evaporated away. Gone were his shaky hands and drumming fingers. Gone were the grimaces that made him look like he was trying to block out imaginary voices in his head. He was amazing. And if he was a nerd, Azumi knew he was the best kind of nerd. The music washed over her skin like warm water, rinsing away all the bad feelings that had accumulated since her arrival at Larkspur that morning. She could have stood there and listened to him forever.

  And she might have done just that if she hadn’t suddenly heard a voice calling her name from somewhere down the hallway just outside the door.

  “Azuuuumi.”

  It was long and drawn out, as if coming from very far away. Azumi’s body tensed. She moved away from the ballroom and stared into the murky distance of the corridor. Then she looked back at Marcus. He was so wrapped up in his melodies that he didn’t even lift his head.

  “Poppy?” Azumi called back. “Is that you?” But she knew that it wasn’t. It was the voice she heard in her dreams, the one that had drawn her outside to the forest behind her house. It was Moriko’s voice.

  Azumi shut her eyes tight, hoping that when she opened them she’d be lying in her bed back home, this entire trip a dream. She wouldn’t even mind if she were to open her eyes and discover herself to have been sleepwalking again, standing in the woods in the night. But when Azumi’s eyes finally fluttered open, she was only deeper down the corridor, farther from Marcus’s comforting melody.

  Tied to a doorknob was a fluorescent-pink nylon ribbon. Just like the one Moriko had followed into the woods. Just like the one Azumi had turned away from on the last day she’d seen her sister, fearing what they’d find at the end of it. It was stretched taut and disappeared into the shadows, as if someone hidden in the distance was pulling on it.

  The voice came again. “Azumi.”

  “Moriko?” Azumi called back. She couldn’t help herself. She knew it was impossible that Moriko would be here, but with her heart in her throat, she stepped forward, reached out, and then clasped the pink nylon ribbon. With a determined shake of her head, she tried to brush away the fear, and allowed the ribbon to lead her farther down the hallway and into the shadows.

  UPSTAIRS, POPPY WAS in the office space.

  Several landscapes hung beside the sketch of the five uniformed children. One tall frame that stood between the door and a red-curtained window had been draped in a thin black sheet, hiding whatever image was underneath. As curious as Poppy was about the house and her family’s connection to it, something deep in her brain told her to steer clear of that one.

  Desks and filing cabinets filled the room. Papers and folders were stacked on various surfaces, begging to be examined. Poppy imagined herself as a detective in one of her favorite books—Harriet the Spy or Turtle from The Westing Game—being clever and picking up details that even adults might miss. Maybe some of Great-Aunt Delphinia’s papers were here. Poppy knew she’d have to be careful not to mix anything up in case her great-aunt walked in on her.

  The top page of the first pile was an itemized invoice from a grocery store in Greencliffe to be paid by The Larkspur Home for Children.

  Larkspur had once been a group home, just like Thursday’s Hope? Was it still? Great-Aunt Delphinia hadn’t mentioned anything about that. Poppy swallowed. This was not a good sign.

  From nearby, there came the sound of someone sighing.

  “Delphinia?” Poppy asked, holding her voice steady. No one responded.

  The invoice was dated from the late 1940s. Poppy flipped through a few more pages. Apparently, Larkspur hadn’t just been a home, but an orphanage. She fought against tears. Was she just going to be another foster kid to Great-Aunt Delphinia? She glanced over her shoulder at the sketch by the door. Were the kids in the drawing like her—stuck in the system, waiting for a reprieve?

  Then, Poppy noticed a name at the bottom of the page in her hand that sent a thrill of excitement through her. It was a signature, belonging to the orphanage’s director—a man named Cyrus Caldwell. Another Caldwell, just like me! She couldn’t wait to ask Great-Aunt Delphinia about the family tree.

  Feeling almost giddy, Poppy continued combing through the stacks of paper. Most were filled with bookkeeping documents, numbers, and data about income and costs, and almost all of them had been signed by Cyrus Caldwell.

  She opened a drawer in the filing cabinets and found old files about the orphans who had lived at Larkspur. There were small pictures of the children attached to the folders. Caldwell’s name was all over these too.

  I wonder how he’s related, Poppy thought. The papers had been signed a long time ago. Could the director still be here somewhere? Either way, there were definitely relatives of hers around. Poppy almost slumped with relief. She’d started to think she might have to go back to Thursday’s Hope.

  Poppy continued her search through the filing cabinet, hoping to learn more about the director or her great-aunt, then turned to the desks by a long row of squat windows at the far end of the room. A single desk there was markedly different from the others. More organized. A couple of folders thick with papers rested on a green blotter. The top one had a tab that someone had written SPECIALS on in bright red pencil, so the word practically leapt off the manila paper.

  “Specials?” Poppy wondered aloud, “What are Specials?”

  Before she had time to look closer, she heard a voice murmuring somewhere nearby. Poppy glanced up from the folder, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. It sounded like a young girl.

  Turning from the desk, she realized that the room was L-shaped, and there was a section she’d overlooked before. The voice was coming from around the corner.

  “Hello?” Poppy called. She closed the SPECIALS folder and slipped it into her bag.

  As she walked toward the voice, she could make out some of the girl’s whispered words: “… the bread crumbs through the forest … ” When Poppy was very young, the story of Hansel and Gretel had given her nightmares. It had never been the witch in the candy house who
had frightened her, but instead the parents who’d heartlessly sent their children into the woods to die.

  Holding her breath, Poppy peered around the bend. The midday sun shone brightly onto a single high-backed chair that faced the windows. The chair was so tall, she couldn’t see the girl who was sitting there.

  “Gretel didn’t waste a moment,” the voice continued. Poppy’s shyness suddenly returned. She locked her knees and pressed her bag to her side. “She pushed the old witch into the oven, slammed the door shut, and then turned the latch, locking her in. A howl filled the cottage with a rage nearly hot enough to melt the candy walls! ‘Tell me, missus,’ said Gretel, smiling, ‘is the oven hot enough to cook meat now?’ Then she turned toward the cage made of bones where her brother had crouched, watching her with both wonder and terror.”

  The room fell silent, and Poppy’s skin prickled. “Hello?” she called again.

  The person in the high-backed chair shifted, the chair swiveled around slowly, and Poppy found herself staring into the blank eyes of a girl in a light-gray cat mask. She flinched with surprise. On the mask, the cat’s eyebrows were lifted high, as if Poppy shouldn’t have dared interrupt the fairy tale.

  Poppy tried again. “Um, do you live here? Can you help me find Delphinia?”

  Poppy trembled. She recognized the cat from the charcoal sketch that Ashley had almost destroyed. The girl in the chair also wore the familiar dark skirt, white blouse, and gray sweater. Long brown hair fell from the top of her head, a few stray strands caught in the edges of the mask’s eyeholes.

  But this couldn’t be the same girl from the drawing, could it? And why wasn’t she saying a word?

  On the floor by the wall sat the girl’s audience—a group of dolls propped up against the baseboard. All of them were damaged in some way. Disfigured. Some of them were burnt, their faces mottled and blackened. Others were missing limbs and blank-eyed. One of the larger ones was slumped over with a smashed head, a gaping hole in its fragile porcelain skull.