by Katrina Leno
But she didn’t feel scared.
She didn’t feel anything.
So she walked up to the door and opened it—
It was locked one minute and not the next, exactly as Chester’s study had been, exactly as if someone on the other side had unlocked it for her.
She slipped inside and closed the door behind her, then waited to see if Ruth had heard. But the house was quiet.
Her eyes adjusted to the light.
It was a little girl’s bedroom.
There was a small twin bed, a white wooden headboard painted with vining roses. A matching bureau. A tiny little vanity with a stool and mirror. A soft pink, round rug. A jar of marbles. The dollhouse.
There was a smell in the room, the same smell the house had when Ruth and Jane had first arrived. The smell of disuse. Nobody had been in this room for a long, long time.
Jane walked over to the bureau. There was a wooden jewelry box on it. She opened it and tinny music filled the room as a plastic ballerina spun around.
She closed it quickly, listening.…
Still nothing from Ruth.
She opened the top drawer of the bureau.
It was filled with little-girl clothes. Lacy white tops and turtlenecks with flowers embroidered onto them, long-sleeved cotton shirts with fake pockets and ruffles at the sleeves.
But Ruth said this hadn’t been her bedroom.… Was she lying?
Jane shut the drawer and opened another one.
Little pairs of white cotton shorts and striped linen pants.
Another drawer.
Socks and underwear.
Another drawer.
Tights and stockings.
She walked over to the closet and opened it.
There was a light bulb hanging from the ceiling with a string attached to it; she pulled on it gently and the closet was bathed in a dull yellow glow.
Perfect rows of fancy dresses, all a little too formal, a little too perfect. But all clearly worn—this one had a slight stain on the elbow, this one had a tear at the seam.
A shelf at the top of the closet held patent-leather Mary Janes, brown low-heeled oxfords, white party shoes with delicate pink bows instead of laces. One ratty, old teddy bear sat propped against the corner, its fur dirty and matted, its eyes two vacant, unseeing beads.
Jane ran her hand over the dresses and tried to imagine her mother small enough to fit in them. She thought they might be for an eight-year-old, maybe nine.
But why would all her mother’s things still be hanging here? Where were her clothes at ten years old, eleven, twelve?
Jane kept the closet light on but turned back to face the room again. She walked over to the vanity and knelt down before it. There was a small crystal atomizer—rose water, she was sure—and a pink plastic comb and matching hand mirror. Jane picked up the mirror and looked at herself. The curl was right in the middle of her forehead. She pinched it with one finger, pulled it straight, let it bounce back up.
She put the mirror down.
There was one drawer in the vanity, and she pulled it open.
It contained a pale-pink rosary coiled neatly around itself, a half dozen hair clips, a small silver compact.
And a Polaroid picture, facedown.
Jane picked it up and turned it over, and it took her a moment to really see it, to really process it.…
Because it was her.
It was her as a little girl.
But it wasn’t her.
Because she was standing in front of North Manor, and Jane had never been to North Manor before, not until a few weeks ago.
And she was wearing a pink frilly dress with buttons up the front, and Jane had never worn a dress like that.
But she was Jane.
A perfect copy of Jane.
Or—almost.
Her face was almost, almost Jane’s.…
But not quite.
But her hair.
It was Jane’s hair completely.
Long and blond and a little unruly, even though someone had clearly done their best to tame it.
There was writing on the white part of the Polaroid. Faded ink that was hard to read in the half-light.
It said:
Jemima Rose, Eighth Birthday.
Jane’s hands were trembling.
Jemima Rose?
She put down the photograph on the vanity and let out a long, shaky breath.
It fogged the little hand mirror.
And as she watched, a word appeared.
As if someone was writing it in the fog with their finger.
Letter by letter.
And it said—
Sister.
And then, underneath—
Hi.
She was horrid
Jane scrambled back from the vanity, overturning the small stool as she did. The slap of it against the hardwood floor was so loud she was sure Ruth would wake up, and she pressed herself against the opposite wall of the bedroom, her heart pounding, her eyes squeezed shut, her hands clamped over her mouth so she wouldn’t scream, and she counted to ten, then twenty, but she heard nothing to indicate Ruth was awake.
She had never felt quite so scared before.
Not even when she had heard (thought she’d heard?) someone in the house. Not even when she’d seen her trashed bedroom. This fear was icy and immediate and dangerous. She could feel her pulse beating in each of her wrists. It was hard to swallow. She wanted to open her eyes but her motor skills weren’t working. She couldn’t get her eyelids to cooperate.
Finally, she removed her hands from her mouth and she pressed them against her stomach, squeezing herself into something like a hug, just trying to breathe and not pass out. She didn’t want to pass out in this room.
But what was this room?
Who was Jemima Rose?
The dress she wore in the photograph was one of the dresses still hanging in the closet, washed and pressed and untouched for years.
Jane opened her eyes.
The room was quiet and still and unmoving.
She had almost expected… Well, she didn’t really know what she had expected, but it was nice to find the room empty. It was nice to find herself alone.
The hand mirror was resting innocently on the vanity, and Jane made herself take a step toward it, then another step, then another until she was close enough to see that it was unfogged and normal, just a cheap plastic thing you gave a kid until they were old enough to have a nicer one.
Jemima Rose.
Jane had never heard that name before.
But—sister.
Her mother had a sister?
Had she been older or younger than Ruth?
And what had happened to her?
Surely nothing good?
You didn’t preserve an eight-year-old’s bedroom if they had turned nine, ten, eleven.
You didn’t keep their eight-year-old clothes hanging in the closet if they were sixteen and still living in the house.
So something had happened to Jemima, something bad, and this room was tidied up and left alone, the bed made and the dollhouse furniture neat and in its proper place and the vanity set as if, at any moment, a little girl might sit down at it and comb out her long, blond hair.
Jane had always thought she looked like Greer, only like Greer, but here was evidence that she also had some North in her. Here was a little girl with long, tangled hair clipped deliberately out of her face. Here was a little girl with something in the mouth Jane couldn’t quite pinpoint, a certain line or shadow that Jane could see mirrored in her own face.
Here was her aunt, and Jane looked so much like her that she felt light-headed.
So much like a dead girl.
So much like a…
She didn’t want to say the word, didn’t want to even think it, because it was silly. She had made the whole thing up. The shock of seeing the photograph, of realizing Ruth had a sister… Her imagination had run away with her. Her brain had made the connection, th
e obvious conclusion, and her eyes played tricks on her.
Because there was no such thing as…
She wouldn’t say the word.
But there was no such thing as dead little girls who could write words on fogged-up mirrors.
It just wasn’t possible.
Her breathing was returning to normal.
She wanted to get out of this room.
This wasn’t a good room; this was a time capsule of grief.
The air was heavy with it. Jane could feel it now. Like a stickiness that settled onto your skin, like something invisible that crawled around on the back of your neck.
She backed up toward the door, felt behind her for the handle. She didn’t want to turn around, to take her eyes off the room—just in case.
She had made the whole thing up, of course, but just in case…
Her hand closed around the doorknob, and she twisted it open and stepped out of the room noiselessly. She closed the door slowly, slowly, and it didn’t creak, and it didn’t make even a whisper as she shut it and released the knob.
She turned around and yelped at the shadow of a person standing in the hallway—
The light flicked on.
It was Ruth.
Her eyes were awake and clear.
She looked calm—an unsettling calm.
“Why did you go in there?” she asked.
“I just wanted to know,” Jane replied, and it was the truth.
“And what do you know now?”
“You had a sister. Jemima Rose.”
Ruth was quiet for a long time. Then she nodded her head slightly. “Yes. A sister.”
“How come you never told me?”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Did she die?”
Ruth pressed her lips together. “Yes.”
“How?”
“An accident. A terrible accident.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ruth said. “It’s in the past, Jane, just let it be in the past.”
“But she was my aunt.”
“She was never your aunt. She was never anything to you. It was a long time ago.”
“Is that why you never came back here?” Jane asked, realizing. She knew she was right by how long it took Ruth to answer.
She had her arms crossed over her chest.
She let them fall, and Jane saw that she was holding a set of keys in one hand.
“Please, just let her be,” Ruth said. “Just let her rest.”
“You won’t tell me anything about her?”
Ruth stepped past Jane and fumbled with the key ring until she found the one she was looking for. She stuck it into the doorknob and Jane heard it lock.
“Not tonight, Jane. It’s late. She was just a little girl. Okay? There isn’t anything to tell. She was just a little girl, and she died, and it was a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Jane said.
“Just let it go. Please.”
Ruth stepped closer to Jane and wrapped her arms around her, and Jane felt that her mother was shaking a little, like she was crying without the tears, a gentle vibrating as she held on to her.
When she pulled away, Ruth’s eyes were dry but faraway, and when she looked at Jane, it was like she was seeing someone else.
“I’m sorry. Please go to bed,” she said. She kissed Jane on the forehead and went back into her bedroom.
Jane stood in the hallway for a few minutes, then went into her own bedroom.
Something had happened in this house.
She knew it.
Something had happened.
Someone had died.
Ruth was already gone when Jane woke up the next morning.
She hadn’t slept well. The night had felt endless, one of those nights when it seems like you’re lying awake for eight hours straight, but you’ve also dreamed, strange dreams that don’t make much sense, dreams made up of images and sounds and feelings but no real storylines.
She made herself oatmeal and coffee and wished she didn’t have to work after school. She wanted to sleep more. She wanted to come home after last period and crawl back into bed and sleep for the entire afternoon and night.
She put the bowl into the sink when she was done with the oatmeal, then she took a quick shower and dressed in jeans and a shirt Salinger had given her. It was vintage: a faded blue wash with white smoke letters that said Genie as they rose up from a magic lamp.
Salinger.
This was the longest they had gone without talking or texting that Jane could remember.
The house was quiet and the upstairs hallway, which didn’t have any windows, was semi-dark and still. Last night—the Polaroid, the plastic hand mirror, the rows of frilly dresses—felt like just another dream in a night full of dreams. It felt like a dream in the way that morning felt like a dream. But when Jane raised her hand and gripped a chunk of her hair and pulled it gently—it hurt.
“So I’m awake,” she whispered.
Her mother had locked the storage room door.
Jemima Rose’s bedroom.
Jane’s aunt.
She watched it, for a moment, the door…
But nothing happened.
No lights, no marbles dropping on the floor, nothing.
She almost went and tested the doorknob, but her phone buzzed in her hand. Susie was outside.
They hadn’t been able to go to the mall that weekend because of Jane’s fever, so Jane still didn’t have a winter coat. She threw a sweatshirt over her shirt and ran out to the car.
“Are you feeling better?” Susie asked.
“Much better,” Jane replied.
“What happened?”
“I’m not sure. Right after you guys left on Saturday, I just got so sick. My fever was 102.”
“Damn, girl. Well, here. You need this.” Susie reached into her back seat, grabbed a jacket, and handed it to Jane.
“Susie, I can’t take your jacket from you.”
“One thing you need to know about East Coast girls, Jane. We each own one thousand jackets. I haven’t worn this one in years. At least borrow it until you get a new one, okay?”
Jane nodded and slipped it on. It was dark blue, thick, and puffy, and she felt instantly warmer. “This is really nice of you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Susie said.
“But now you’ll have to make do with only nine hundred and ninety-nine jackets.”
“It will be a struggle,” Susie said, nodding seriously. “But I’ll figure something out.”
It was a long day. Jane was tired and slow and couldn’t concentrate in any of her classes. She somehow made it through the morning and lunch and was a few minutes early to her first afternoon class, chemistry. She paused just inside the door when she saw that the only other person in the room was Melanie. Her heart caught in her chest, and she felt a cold rush of anger run through her body. But her desk was on the opposite side of the room, so she made herself take a breath and sit down.
She pulled out her chemistry textbook and looked over what they were currently studying. She couldn’t concentrate on the words; they blurred in front of her eyes when she tried to focus on them. She heard a quiet shuffle, and a shadow fell across her desk a moment later. She clenched her hands into fists and looked up to see Melanie, her face blank of any discernible emotion.
“You look tired,” Melanie said. Her voice was quiet. “Did you not get enough sleep?”
Jane looked back down at her textbook, closed her eyes, and took a long, slow breath. Just like Greer had taught her to do. She pictured him next to her now, standing over her, his hand on her shoulder as her heart started to race. She didn’t say anything.
“Were you sick?” Melanie continued. “You look like you might be a little sick.”
“What do you want?” Jane asked. Her voice shook just a little. She hoped Melanie hadn’t noticed.
“I’m giving you a chance.”
“A c
hance?” Jane looked up, genuinely curious, genuinely confused. What the hell was she talking about?
“To get the fuck out of Bells Hollow,” Melanie said, her voice a low hiss as she leaned even closer to Jane. “To pack your bags and move back to California before you really start to regret it.”
Jane squeezed her eyes shut. They were still the only two people in the classroom, and the warning bell hadn’t even rung yet. Why hadn’t she turned around when she saw her in the room? Why hadn’t she gone to the bathroom, waited outside until other people had gotten there?
“What is your problem?” Jane asked, struggling to keep her voice steady. “I haven’t done anything to you.”
“Don’t act so innocent.” Melanie snorted. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”
“Know what?”
“That terrible things happen in Bells Hollow.”
“What things?”
“People get hurt. People die.”
People die.…
Melanie’s sister. Jane’s grandmother. Jane’s aunt. Jemima Rose.
“Just leave me alone,” Jane said, her voice low. “Just please… leave me alone.”
“I’m trying to help you,” Melanie said. “I wouldn’t want something to happen to you. Or to your mom. I mean, that would be terrible. Can you imagine? Your family’s been dropping like flies lately. You really can’t afford to lose another one.”
And one moment, Greer was standing next to Jane, his hand on her shoulder, steadying her.
And the next moment, he was gone.
And one moment, Jane was inside her body—
And the next moment, something curious happened.
The next moment, she was sort of above herself, and she was watching Melanie turn away from her. Everything seemed red—red skin, red hair, red clothes—like she was wearing glasses with crimson lenses in them. And time had slowed down. Melanie moved in slow motion. And Jane watched herself twitch and then she watched herself stand up and then she watched herself launch her body across a row of seats.
And then she was inside her body again.
She landed on top of Melanie, knocking her to the ground. They came to a hard landing on the floor. Jane raised her arm; her hand was clenched so tightly into a fist that she could feel her fingernails digging into her skin, drawing blood. The first punch landed squarely on Melanie’s nose, but Jane was unbalanced, not quite ready, there wasn’t enough power behind it. She pulled her hand back again, winding up, but before she could throw the second punch, someone had grabbed her wrist and was pulling back her arm sharply, lifting her to her feet with a strength that seemed unnatural when she finally rounded on whoever it was and saw—