Annie's Room Page 6

  “No!” I shout, launching myself toward her and slamming into her chest, sending her crashing back against the wall. I feel the edge of the shovel's head cutting against my chin, but there's no time to deal with that now. Instead, I focus on pushing Mother down to the floor and placing a hand over her mouth, trying to quieten her shrieks. I climb on top of her, using my knees to press into her ribs and belly, and I lean closer as she struggles to get free.

  “What the hell is going on in here?” Father shouts from the bed.

  “I've got her!” I shout back, forcing Mother down more firmly this time. Out of breath and with my heart pounding faster than I've ever known before, I feel for a moment as if I want to hit Mother, to make her pay for her gross idiocy. Turning, I see that her hands are reaching out, trying desperately to find the shovel. I kick the damn thing away, sending it clattering under the bed so she can't get to it.

  “What's she doing in here?” Father asks, stepping off the bed and towering over us both.

  “I don't know,” I stammer, as she continues to try fighting me off. “I just heard he come in and then -”

  Reaching down, Father pulls the shovel out from under the bed, banging it against the frame in the process, and then he holds it up.

  “Father,” I say after a moment, worried that he's coming to the same conclusion I already reached, “please, don't think the worst. I'm sure she -”

  “Get aside, Annie,” he says firmly.

  “Father -”

  “Get aside.”

  I pause, and he grabs me by the collar, pulling me back against the bed as he steps over Mother. She's still struggling to get up, but she freezes as soon as father presses the head of the shovel against her belly and then puts his right foot on the edge, ready to drive it down into her guts as if he were digging in the garden.

  “No!” she shouts, her trembling hands reaching down toward the shovel. She tries to push it away, holding onto the rusty edges, but Father just presses down harder with his boot until she lets out a cry of pain.

  “What did you intend to do in this room tonight?” Father bellows. “Tell me the truth, or I swear I'll dig through you like you're a knot of weeds!”

  “Stop!” she screams, so loud that I briefly worry the neighbors might hear five miles away. “For the love of God, don't hurt me! Please don't hurt me! Please, please...” Her shaking fingers are still holding the sides of the shovel, but she can surely not hope to force it away.

  “Or what?” he asks, with his foot still resting on the shovel's head. “You came in here meaning to hurt me, didn't you?”

  “No!” she shouts. “I swear on all that's holy, I just got the wrong room!”

  Father turns to me. “What was she doing when she came in?”

  “She...” Staring down at Mother, I see the terror in her scratched eyes and I realize that I have power over her. I could lie to Father, he'd most likely believe me, but at the same time I know that lying is a sin. I've been taught that all my life. “She felt the door-frame,” I say after a moment. “I could see her shadow, I could tell she was -”

  “No!” Mother shouts. “Don't listen to her!”

  “I saw her shadow,” I repeat, turning to Father. “She was out there for a little while, making sure which room she was at. Then she opened the door quietly and carefully, so as not to wake us up.” I turn back to Mother, and I can see pure fear in her damaged eyes. At the same time, she must know I can't be sinful. “You know it's true,” I tell her. “I'm not to lie, am I?”

  “Please,” she whimpers, clutching the head of the shovel as it continues to push down against her belly. Breaking into a series of sobs, she says a few other things that are inaudible, before tilting her head back and letting out a wail of pain. “Do it!” she shouts. “End it all now! Kill me and bury me in the garden! I don't want to live like this anymore! My eyes hurt so much!”

  I swallow hard, waiting to see whether Father will do what she wants. For a moment, it seems as if he truly might dig down into her until the shovel's metal tip reaches through to the floorboards, severing her body and ending her life. I think he might truly be considering that option, but finally he moves his foot away and pulls the shovel back, tossing it onto the bed.

  “Just do it,” Mother whimpers, clutching her belly. “Lord have mercy on my soul!”

  “She meant to kill you,” I tell Father. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

  “Nor do I,” he says firmly. “Annie, go make the basement ready.”

  “The basement?” I pause, surprised by his command. “Ready for what?”

  “Just clear the far end of any tools, anything she might be able to use. I want it bare.” He turns to me. “Go!” he barks.

  Stumbling back, I turn and hurry to the door, ignoring Mother's continued sobs. I must confess that as I make my way downstairs, I feel a little shocked, and by the time I get to the basement door and pull the bolt across I'm almost trembling with fear. Not just fear, though. Excitement too, and anticipation. I pull the door open and take a candle from the shelf, lighting it so as to be able to see my way. As I start to make my way down the steps, however, I hear Mother crying out from upstairs, and then I hear a bump, almost...

  Was that the shovel striking the floorboards? Did Father change his mind and end her life?

  I pause for a moment. A few seconds later, I realize I can still hear Mother sobbing, and I can hear Father stomping about up there.

  Heading into the basement, I set the candle down and then get to work, hurriedly pulling the tables from the far end and setting them near the foot of the steps. I'm not certain what Father intends to do down here, but I have an idea, and it's clear that he wants to ensure Mother can't get hold of anything she might use as a tool, either to hurt one of us or to cause harm to her own self. Once I've cleared the far end, I take another look around to make sure that there's absolutely nothing she might find useful, and then I head toward the steps, only to hear the sound of Mother struggling at the top. Seconds later, I see a dark shape being shoved through the door and I step back just in time to avoid being struck as Mother is sent rattling down the steps. She lands hard in a crumpled heap at my feet.

  Stepping back, I gasp as I see that her right ankle is broken and twisted back, most likely from the fall. She's sobbing more than ever.

  Father makes his way down, stomping so hard on each of the creaking old steps, I'm worried he might break them.

  “You can go upstairs now, Annie,” he tells me, untwisting a section of rope in his hands. “I can handle this. Go back to bed. You need to sleep.”

  “What are you going to do?” I ask, watching as he grabs Mother's collar and starts pulling her across to the basement's far side.

  “Something I should have done a long time ago,” he replies.

  “But what?”

  “It's none of your concern.”

  “But is she -”

  “Get out!” he shouts, turning and pushing me back toward the steps. “Don't make me tell you again, girl!”

  “I'm sorry,” I reply, hurrying up the steps until I reach the door, at which point I stop and look back down. I can hear Mother still sobbing, and in the candle's low light I can just about make out Father still holding the rope as he heads over to her. She's on the floor, curled up like a little dead baby, as Father stops and reaches down to her. Realizing that it's not my place to interfere, I head up and push the door shut, before making my way across the kitchen.

  I can hear Mother crying out in the basement below. Whatever Father's doing to her, I hope that this time, finally, she might actually learn to mend her ways.

  Nine

  Today

  “What's wrong?” I shout, trying once again to make them hear me as I sit up in bed. “Mom? Dad? Can someone please talk to me?”

  I can hear them out there on the landing. It's two in the morning and Mom sounds like she's freaking out, and I can tell Dad's trying to calm her. Just a few seconds earlier, Mom's scream rang thr
ough the house, and now I'm waiting for one of them to come in and tell me what the hell is going on. A moment later, Scott steps into the doorway wearing his pajamas, and he stares toward Mom and Dad's room before turning to me. From the look in his eyes, I can tell he's worried.

  “What's wrong?” I ask. “Is Mom okay?”

  He shrugs.

  “I want to know what's happening!” I shout.

  “Go back to bed!” Dad says firmly from further along the landing. “Both of you!”

  “I'm already in bed,” I point out, as my brother – who's clearly a little freaked out – steps into my room. “Scott,” I continue, “can you please tell me what's going on? I can't exactly get out of bed to go look myself!”

  “I think Mom had a bad dream or something,” he replies, although the usual confidence is gone from his voice and he seems significantly more subdued. “I heard her... I don't know, she was whispering in their room, I could hear her through the wall, and then she started screaming.” He peers back out onto the landing. “Dad's got her back into the room now. He'll make sure everything's okay.”

  “Is she okay?” I ask, starting to feel increasingly frustrated by the fact that all I can see beyond my room is a couple of square foot on the landing. “Scott, just tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “Something really freaked her out,” he continues. “I don't know, Dad seems to have it under control. I've never seen her life that before, it's like she was really scared.” He looks along the landing for a moment longer, before turning to me. “What would make Mom scream like that?”

  “I don't know,” I reply, my heart pounding in my chest. “I've never heard her act like this before. It's almost like -”

  Suddenly I hear footsteps coming closer to the door, and a moment later Dad comes into view.

  “Bed,” he says firmly. “Both of you. Now.”

  ***

  “Lift your arm,” Mom says the following morning, as she continues to give me my latest sponge bath. “Higher, Annie. Come on, be cooperative.”

  “I am,” I reply, holding my left arm up as high as I can manage. “I'm being very cooperative. You're the one who isn't cooperating, you won't tell me what happened last night.”

  “I did tell you, it was -”

  “Nothing, sure.” I flinch as she wipes under my arm with cold soapy water. For the first time, she hasn't remembered to heat the water for my bath. “I just don't believe you,” I continue. “I heard the way you were crying out, something obviously got to you.”

  “I had a nightmare.”

  “Must've been a hell of a nightmare. What was it about?”

  “I don't remember.”

  I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Was it about this house?”

  She glances at me for a moment, before shaking her head. “No, of course not. What makes you ask that?”

  “It's a reasonable assumption,” I continue. “We've only been here for a few nights now, I can imagine it's starting to get to you. The place is kind of creepy.”

  “It's natural for a new house to seem a little off,” she replies. “I'm not going to go overreacting just because a few things have fallen over and a couple of bumps have woken me in the middle of the night.”

  “Things falling over?” I ask with a frown. “Bumps in the night?”

  “It's nothing.”

  “If one more person says that to me...” I wait for her to continue, but I think she's hoping I'll just drop the subject. “Has weird stuff been happening to you?”

  She dips the sponge in water again, before starting to clean my left arm. “I'd rather not talk about it,” she says eventually. “Nothing happened, it's just a bunch coincidences.”

  “Yeah, like my name being -” I catch myself just in time, remembering that Dad told me not to mention the Garrett family murder to Mom. I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea of keeping things from her, but at the same time I know this probably isn't the right moment to bring up something so momentously creepy. “What kind of coincidences?” I ask.

  “Silly ones that don't mean anything.”

  “Like?”

  She sighs. “Like... Just doors...” She pauses, followed by another sigh. “It doesn't matter.”

  “Tell me,” I reply, seeing the hint of concern in her eyes. “I've heard a few odd bumps over the past few days, mostly downstairs.” I wait for her to say something. “I know you,” I continue. “I know when you're worried, and I heard you last night. That was more than a nightmare. People don't really wake up screaming in the night from a bad dream, not in the real world, not the way you screamed.”

  She pauses, and I can tell she's on the verge of opening up.

  “Please, Mom,” I continue. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

  “Don't tell your father I mentioned this,” she replies, lowering her voice, “but I just... I woke up in the middle of the night and for a moment I thought I saw someone standing next to the bed.” She sighs, as if she's embarrassed to admit such a thing but maybe also a little relieved. “It was only for a second, I was looking up and I saw this figure right there, just inches away from me, looking down and... It was such a clear image, even now I can see it perfectly, and I froze.”

  “So it was a dream, then,” I reply. “It must have been.”

  She stares at me, and I can tell she isn't convinced.

  “Dreams can be pretty convincing,” I point out. “Sometimes they can seem like they're really happening.”

  She nods.

  “But?” I continue. “What else happened, Mom?”

  “I could feel it,” she replies. “I can't even explain that part, but I could feel a presence, and I just stared up at the shape and I felt this real anger being directed toward me, as if... It was dripping, too. That's the craziest part, the figure was dripping, like its clothes were soaking wet, and then after your father had calmed me down, I went back and checked the floor next to the bed and...”

  I wait for her to continue.

  “And what?” I ask, even though I think I already know what she's going to say.

  She shakes her head.

  “Were there drips on the floor?”

  “Your father thinks there must have been a leak in the ceiling,” she replies cautiously.

  “Was it raining last night?” I ask.

  She shakes her head again.

  “And is there a hole in the ceiling?”

  “No.”

  “So -”

  “He thinks the drips caused me to have the dream,” she explains. “He's going to go up and check the ceiling properly, make sure it's fixed.” She pauses, as if she's reliving the moment, and then suddenly a relieved smile crosses her face, mixed with a little embarrassment. “It was just a night terror,” she says, as if she's trying to convince herself as much as me. “You see how easy it is to get spooked? I've been so busy warning you not to let your imagination go crazy, I forgot to keep from doing it myself.”

  “But if -”

  “I'll just grab some fresh water,” she adds, getting to her feet and heading to the door, “and then we can watch a movie, if you like? I feel so bad, thinking about you being up here alone and -” Stopping in the doorway, she looks out to the landing for a moment, almost as if she's nervous. She glances both ways, before forcing another smile and stepping out. “Everyone else is out,” she continues, clearly trying to hide the fact that she feels scared. “We'll sit in here together. I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?”

  As she heads to the bathroom, I can't shake a sense of concern. My mother, my usually rational and level-headed mother, seems to have changed in just half a day; she's obviously shaken now and trying to hold herself together, and I'm pretty damn sure that despite everything she just told me about her experiences in the night, there's a lot more that she kept back for fear of sounding crazy. She's not the kind of person who'd ever want to cause problems for other people, so most likely she's internalizing her fears, but I have no doubt that she's scared
.

  I still don't really believe in ghosts, but the fact that my mother's scared of something in the house? That scares me.

  Ten

  Seventy-one years ago

  “I made the potatoes a different way,” I tell Father as I put his plate in front of him. “I hope you like them.”

  Picking up his fork, he nudges the potatoes, smearing them through the gravy. He seems to be making patterns; sometimes I wonder what really goes on in Father's head, and I'm quite certain that he thinks a lot more than he lets on. Men like Father – quiet, hard-working men who don't air their thoughts so much – are easily written off as simple, but I happen to believe that in many cases they're actually the most contemplative people of all. There are definitely currents in Father's moods, and I understand why he never opens up to Mother. Perhaps, however, he'll learn over time that he can talk to me a little more. I'd like that.

  “I used goose fat,” I explain, starting to worry that he won't like the change. “I thought... Well, I know how much you like goose fat on lamb, so I thought it might work equally well on the potatoes.”

  I watch as he cuts off a slice and slips it into his mouth.

  “If you don't like it,” I continue, “I can go back to doing them how Mother used to.”

  He chews for longer than usual, before swallowing.

  “They're fine,” he mutters, as he starts cutting off a section of meat. “You're a good cook, Annie. That's one of the few things I don't mind you learning from your mother. You're actually better than her.”

  I can't help but smile with pride.

  Hearing a faint bump from beneath the floor, I look down and find myself wondering what, exactly, Mother is doing down there. It has been two days now since Father dragged her down, and she hasn't been back up since. Father hasn't explicitly told me that I'm not to check on her, but I feel I need his permission and I'd rather not ask. He'll tell me when he's ready. I know she's still alive, because I can hear her sometimes, but I haven't yet summoned the courage to ask Father about the situation directly. I feel it's his job to discipline her, not mine, and I should be patient. For the past couple of nights, I've heard her screams from down there, so I assume he's getting the job done just fine.