I nod, tearing my gaze away from him. I must just be creeped out by the maze and the raging storm, or maybe it’s the memory of the dead birds and the cow bones. I’m reading between the lines, seeing things that aren’t there.
I don’t say anything in response. The truth is, I do like the room. I mean, yeah, it’s not what I pictured for Logan, but it’s oozing with elegance and old world charm. I wonder if the furniture was picked out from antique shops and flea markets, or if it’s been here for decades.
“Anyway, the basement is where the cool stuff is. Come on.”
Logan puts his arm loosely around my waist, but there’s an awkwardness to it as he guides me down the stairs, back to the foyer. Then we turn to a five-paneled, white-painted door with an antique knob like the one on Logan’s room.
The door sticks, but he yanks hard and it squeaks open. He reaches in and pulls at a string hanging from the ceiling. A single lightbulb flickers to life, illuminating the narrow wooden stairs. It swings back and forth on the wire, making the shadows on the walls sway and bend.
“Ladies first,” he says, holding the door open.
I take a tentative step onto the dusty, decaying steps and immediately regret having removed my shoes when I entered the house.
“Don’t worry,” Logan calls out. “Nothing here bites.”
“You sure about that?” I say, gripping hold of the worn wooden railing as I slowly begin my descent.
Logan steps onto the staircase behind me, and it creaks under his weight. “Basements…do they scare you?”
I breathe deeply through my mouth, trying to avoid the musty, dank scent. “They’re not on my list or anything. But they still creep me out when they’re so dark and musty.”
“Well…” Logan says as we set foot on the basement floor, “let’s see if we can’t get you some more light.” He pulls on another string, and then another, and the room immediately brightens. But somehow the light makes the space even less inviting. The cinder-block walls sport dark spots—possibly from the rain. The floor is bare cement, and boxes are stacked all over the place, from corner to corner. The ceiling is covered in cobwebs and too low for comfort. There are no windows to be found.
“Uh, this is the cool part why, exactly?”
Logan chuckles. “I know, it’s kind of creepy at first. But this house is a hundred and twenty years old, so you have to look beyond the aesthetics.”
I nod. “And what exactly would I be seeing if I looked beyond that?”
“The boxes.”
I snort.
“I’m serious, Harper. Most of them aren’t that old, but a few are pretty amazing. I think they were left behind in the sixties, when the original family died. By the looks of the boxes, no one’s bothered with them in years. The dust on them must have been an inch thick. My uncle hasn’t set foot down here since he bought the place last summer.”
“But you have,” I say.
He nods. “Oh yeah, I spend a lot of time down here,” he says, his tone eager. He moves to a wall of boxes, pulling his hat off and running a hand through his shaggy hair. When his dark hair moves, I catch a glimpse of a scar behind his temple just before he puts the hat back on his head. I want to ask him where he got the scar, but he opens his mouth to explain something, so I decide not to pry.
“I started on this wall over here, but it’s mostly household stuff. Tablecloths, sheets, that sort of thing.”
“Mm-hmm. I know you wanted to give me the grand tour and everything, but I really don’t think some tablecloths are enough to make me like this place.” I cross my arms, hoping it’ll shield the sound of my quickening heartbeat.
“Oh, don’t worry. You will.” Logan winks.
“And how’s that?” I raise my eyebrows.
“I’m glad you asked.” He pauses. And then with a flourish of his arm, he says, “This wall, over here, this is the good stuff.”
Reluctantly, I cross the space, my toes growing cold. I’m halfway there when the light-bulbs dim, then grow bright, then dim again.
Logan glances up at the dangling lights. “Sorry about that. The house has a bit of an electrical issue down here. Especially during thunderstorms like this.”
I swallow. “Are you sure we should be down here?”
He waves a hand over his shoulder, too busy looking through a box to see what must be a freaked-out expression on my face. “Nah, we’re fine. The lights usually stay on.”
Usually. That’s comforting.
“Ah! Here it is!” He produces a leather-bound photo album.
“And what is it, exactly?” I ask, stepping up beside him.
“The Carson family photo album.” He pushes it toward me. “Seriously. Take a look.” Then he motions to a stool sitting close to the boxes. “Your chair, madam.”
I nod and take a seat as I pull the album onto my lap. The spine cracks as I flip it open.
A woman with an apron and a glowing smile beams up at me. Dark curls frame her face.
“That’s the one they found hanging from the banister.”
I snap the book shut and look at my hand. My left hand. The hand I slid along the banister just moments ago when we trailed down the stairs. My skin must have touched the spot where that dead woman tied the rope.
Logan chuckles. “I thought you said you knew all the stories,” he says, looking up from the box he’s digging through. In the dim light of the bare bulbs, his eyes have an odd, shadowed look to them, making them look more black than brown.
My heart climbs into my throat. “I did. They’re like urban legends at school. But it’s different seeing a personal family photo album while sitting in the basement of their house.”
A chill sweeps down my spine.
“Still. This is history we’re talking about. Flip to the third page.”
I swallow, slide my fingers over the cover, and find the third page, where twin little girls in matching polka-dotted jumpers stare back at me, sitting side by side on identical bicycles with cute little baskets.
“The twins were six. They say he drowned them in the bathtub.”
I snap the book shut again and stand, the stool clattering to the floor behind me.
“Just stop it,” I hiss, shoving the photo album into the nearest box.
“Stop what?” he asks, his hands buried in a box. “Ah, I found it.” He pulls out a rusted metal hook. “You know what this is?”
“It’s a hay hook,” I snap. I’m not amused by whatever game he’s playing. Is this because I freaked out at the maze? “We have them at my house for feeding the cows. Makes it easier to pull hay bales.”
“It was a hay hook,” he says, excited now. “But they say he used it to drag the bodies—”
“Logan!” I yell. “Just sto—”
And then the lights go out, and my stomach plunges to my knees. His stories, the shadows in his eyes, the pictures of the little girls, just six years old. It’s too much. Now that Logan’s silent, and the lights are out, I can make out the sound of the rain pounding the earth on the other side of the basement walls.
“I want out of here,” I say, my voice pathetic and gargled thanks to the lump in my throat. I’m afraid to move it’s so dark.
I hear something—Logan or mice, I don’t want to know. But then I feel his breath, hot on my ear. “Stop it,” I say, panic rising as I whirl around to face him. Or where I think he is. It’s pitch-black down here. I step back, a tiny, tentative step, my bare heel connecting with something. The stool?
I turn in the direction I hope will lead me to the stairs and tiptoe forward, my toes sliding across the concrete. I blink, again and again, willing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I just want to see. Something. Anything that would tell me where he is, where I am, how to get out of here. “Logan?” I say. “Where’d you go?”
He’s silent.
“Stop screwing around. I’m freaked the hell out, okay? I hope you’re happy.” I purse my eyes shut and then open them again, but it’s pitch-black
either way.
He doesn’t speak. I creep forward another step, and then I feel something cold against the back of my neck.
Cool, curved metal. In an instant, I know what it is, know he’s sliding the back of the hook along my skin.
And then my shirt is tightening around my throat, and he’s pulling me back. My heart explodes in my throat. “This isn’t funny!” I say, my voice strangled. I twist around and my shirt tears, breaks free, and then I lunge toward the steps as Logan laughs.
My vision is still nothing but inky black, and I don’t know how close I am to the stairs until I trip on them. I hit the bottom step with my toes and fall down, hard, my shins and knees hitting the steps just as the lights come back on.
I twist around so that I’m sitting on the stairs staring back at Logan as my eyes swim with tears. He’s doubled over, laughing, still holding the hook in one hand.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask, my voice trembling as tears stream down my cheeks. I sniffle, frantically wiping away the tears, willing myself under control as my lip trembles. “You’re an asshole. Stay away from me.” And then I turn and scramble up the steps, on my hands and feet until I get to the top.
The door sticks again and I shove so hard I tumble to the floor.
Logan laughs louder, and the sound of it rings in my ears as I flee the house.
CHAPTER SIX
On Monday, I step out of my car in the gravel lot at school, pulling my hood over my hair. I glance down at the rocks beneath my feet, just to make sure there are no birds, no feathers, no blood. I don’t think I could handle that today.
The rain that pounded all weekend has finally let up, lessening to little more than a drizzle. I cross the lot and round the building, pushing my way through a steel door and into the bright light of the gym.
Two long tables are set up along one side, where a group of girls are unrolling butcher paper and squirting paint into little bowls. Madison stands with a clipboard in one hand, and a handful of paintbrushes in the other, ever the mistress of the situation. It’s no wonder they’re letting her manage the whole event.
I turn away from her and scan the room for Allie until I find her sitting cross-legged on the floor, dipping a paintbrush into a cup of paint.
I wanted to back out on the stupid Halloween Masquerade decorations—if only because helping Madison on anything is totally against my principles—but I promised Allie I’d help, and besides, I really need to talk to her. She was at her out-of-town race with her parents all weekend and I really need her to tell me what the heck I’m supposed to say to Logan, because I have to see him in a half hour when first period starts.
I shrug away a chill as I think of the darkness in his eyes, remember the sound of his cackling, cruel laughter. Remember the dead silence when the lights went out, and he crept up behind me.
I can’t get over how shocking his behavior was on Friday. How positively gleeful he was over terrorizing me.
I walk up to Allie, where she’s laying half-across an enormous stretch of butcher paper, staring down at a rather lopsided witch’s hat, her lips screwed up to the side. When she looks up at me, her frown transforms into a smile. “Oh good! You’re here!” She motions to the wet paint. “This whole thing looks ridiculous. Help!”
“I don’t know how great I’m going to be at doing this, but okay…” I sink to the floor and sit cross-legged, watching as she tries to even out the two sides of the hat. I’m not really sure what the mural is going to become, but so far she’s got a frog, a broomstick, and some kind of cape. Leave it to Allie to worry about the clothes and accessories before the actual witch.
She glances up at me as she works. “How was your weekend?”
I pick up a bat-shaped sponge and dip it in some paint, chewing on my lip. “Uh, not good.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not really sure if I’m with Logan anymore.”
“What?” She jerks her hand just as she’s dipping the brush into the paint, and the whole cup tips over. “Crap.” She grabs at some paper towels, mopping up the mess from the linoleum floor. I grab a few extra and begin cleaning up alongside her.
Naturally, that’s when the door to the gym opens. I look up to see Logan stride through, my heart dropping to my stomach.
“Great.” I consider making a mad dash for the exit, but we share first period anyway, so it’s not like I’m going to be able to avoid him all day.
Instead, I just sit there, glued to my spot, watching him walk up. Oddly enough, he doesn’t have the look of someone who just scared his girlfriend out of her mind. His smile is tentative and, if anything, he seems concerned. I continue evaluating his expression when suddenly he speaks. “Hey. I dropped by to pick you up like usual, but you weren’t home.” He looks down at the mural. “You want a hand with this stuff?”
I stare at him. “You really think I want your help right now?”
He eyes me quizzically and reaches for a cup of red paint.
“Thanks. We got it.” I pull the cup of paint a few inches from his reach.
He picks it up again, and this time I yank it away so hard it splashes over the rim, onto my hand. “I said we got it.”
Logan narrows his eyes at me. “I thought maybe you didn’t answer my texts yesterday because you were busy. But you’re actually mad at me, aren’t you?”
“Ya think?” I glare back at him, ignoring the paint running down my hand. It drips onto the butcher paper.
“Look, I’m really sorry I had to leave early from the maze—”
“The maze? You think I’m upset about the maze?” I rub the back of my paint-covered hand against the butcher paper, glancing at the speckles that have already begun to dry. They look like drops of blood.
Logan’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “Umm…I’m sorry, but I guess I must have missed something.” He slides his hands into his pockets. “What else do you have to be upset about?”
I slam the mostly empty cup of paint against the paper. “How about how you were a total asshole at your house?”
Logan visibly recoils. “You came to my house?”
“Don’t play stupid with me, Logan. You scared the crap out of me and then laughed about it. And you ripped my favorite shirt.”
He pales. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“Why do you care? You seemed to think it was funny as hell at the time.” I shiver just thinking about the way he rubbed the hook against my skin.
“Harper—”
“Just leave me alone,” I say, through gritted teeth. Allie’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“But—”
“Leave.” I say again, glaring at him, hard.
He looks like he wants to say more, but he’s at a loss, which is just fine with me.
Madison walks up and for once I’m relieved to see her. “Hey, Logan. Did you come to help with the decorations? Because I really need someone strong to work on the custom table we’re designing.” She reaches for his arm, giving his bicep a suggestive squeeze while smiling demurely. “It’s going to hold a bunch of dry ice so it will make fog clouds all night.”
She couldn’t lay it on thicker if she had a spatula.
Logan doesn’t even look at her.
“He would love to help you,” I say, when he doesn’t turn away.
Logan glances over at Madison, finally allowing her to drag him across the room and out of earshot, but not without glancing back at me a half-dozen times.
“Um, wow. Intense!” Allie says, “What was that about?”
“You know, I actually don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I say, staring at the mural to avoid her eyes.
“You sure?” She looks up from her paint cup, studying my face.
“Yeah. I’ll tell you all about it later. Let’s just paint this mural.”
“Oooookaaay,” she says, unconvinced.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
I wipe the remaining crimson paint off my ha
nd and then set to work, adding beady little eyes to the bats.
They’re as black as Logan’s eyes had been just before the lights cut off in the basement.
• • •
I wait until the last minute to walk through the classroom door and am not surprised to discover that Logan’s already sitting there, sunk down in his chair, staring at his binder. When he sees me, he sits up straighter and watches me walk toward him.
It takes everything I have to ignore his gaze. I walk right past him and sit down just as Mr. Patricks begins handing out a stack of papers to the first student in each of the rows.
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