Where the Lost Ones Go, page 10
“Babung—it’s me!” I shout. “I’m right here!”
But Babung’s ghost only reels back in alarm and retreats into the shadows of the corridor.
“Don’t go!” I plead. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Babung’s ghost doesn’t stop, and I chase her back down the hallway, tears flooding my eyes.
“Please,” I beg. “Please remember me.”
Babung vanishes into the room at the end of the hall. When I reach the doorway, the ghosts of Honeyfield Hall are already there, blocking the way. All four of them, standing like a barely corporeal gate. One with gray curls. One with slender hands. One with a mustache. And one with the face of a child.
“You can’t come in,” Pearl says. “This is no place for the living.”
“But I need to talk to Babung!” I sob in ugly, desperate breaths. “I need to tell her who I am. I need to make her remember.”
“You can’t talk to her,” Trill says. “You’ll never be able to talk to her again.”
“Why not?” I demand.
“Because,” Lock replies, crossing his small arms. “You broke your promise. You didn’t save us. And now it’s too late.”
Hatter slams the door shut. Before I have time to reach for the handle, I hear the lock click into place, shutting me out forever.
* * *
My eyes flash open in the darkness of my bedroom and I bolt upright, breaths wild and uncontrolled. My fingers scramble across my quilt, trying to remember where I am.
Moonlight peeks through the gap in the curtains, making Babung’s Obon offering glimmer, and I sink with understanding.
It was just a dream.
There are no ghosts in my room.
The low rumble of voices is barely audible, but it’s still hard to ignore. My bedside clock says it’s nearly midnight. It’s not unusual for Mom and Dad to be up late. Ever since they started the house project, it seems like they do everything they can not to sleep at all.
I push the covers off and tiptoe into the corridor. Maybe they can’t sleep either. Maybe they have nightmares about Babung, too.
I don’t know what I’m expecting to find—comfort? Understanding? Someone to talk to?
But instead, I find my parents sitting on a white sheet in the partially renovated office, surrounded by half-painted walls, eating fried egg sandwiches and drinking fruit cider like they’re having a late-night picnic.
And they’re giggling.
Dad’s always been a joker, but Mom hasn’t seemed to find anything funny in over a year. She looks relaxed. Happy. And more like her old self than she ever is with me.
I don’t get it. I don’t get any of it.
Babung has been gone for six months, but it still feels like six days. Like she was here one moment and gone the next, and I don’t know how my parents find it so easy to just act like it never happened. Like something awful and horrible didn’t rip apart the fabric of our family.
I back away, jaw clenched, and bury myself under my covers until I’m a part of the darkness.
It’s not fair to be mad at Mom and Dad for moving on, but I guess I always thought that if our family lost someone, we’d miss that person together. But my parents …
My parents got us a brand-new life.
I squeeze my pillow tight, hating how helpless I feel when it comes to my grandma. She was supposed to be somewhere I could find her—but instead, I found the ghosts of Honeyfield Hall. Pearl. Trill. Hatter. Lock.
The only way to get a message to Babung is to set them free—but I have absolutely no idea where to start. And if I don’t uncover whatever it is they’ve forgotten, they’ll be stuck between the veil forever.
I’ll never see my grandma again, and they’ll never be able to remember who they are.
I can’t let that happen to them.
I can’t let that happen to anyone ever again.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The next day after breakfast, I grab my bike and head to Mrs. Delvaux’s house. I turn down the first street, and then the second, when I spot Sunny and her friends at the opposite end of the road.
My chest tightens. I haven’t seen them since the day they left me at Honeyfield Hall, like I was the punchline of a cruel joke. I knew it was inevitable that I’d run into them eventually—it’s a small town, after all—but I guess I’m not as prepared as I thought I’d be.
They don’t notice me. I’m still too far away, and I doubt I made the same impression on them as they did on me. So I veer up the nearest off-road path and try to put as much distance between us as possible.
In some twisted way, I suppose they did me a favor. If they hadn’t dared me to knock on Mrs. Delvaux’s door, I never would’ve gotten in trouble. I wouldn’t have met Hazel, or had a summer job, or found a key to the Hollow.
But it doesn’t feel nice to be laughed at. Being laughed at is how I lost my best friend in California. Over a candy gram, of all things.
Cassie had been desperate for one. “Brittany Greene already got three!” she’d complained one day at school. “Everyone has a crush on Brittany because she has nice hair and the best clothes. I wish someone had a crush on me.”
“You have much nicer hair than Brittany,” I’d told her. It was true, but I also really, really wanted to cheer her up.
“You are my favorite person in the whole school,” Cassie had said, and she was beaming on the outside.
I was beaming on the inside.
The next day, I bought a candy gram for Cassie. It arrived in the middle of science class. Cassie had perked up when she heard her name; she looked like she’d won a contest. Like a candy gram was a sign of success.
I didn’t care about winning contests, but I wanted Cassie to be happy. When she read my note, her smile got bigger and bigger—until she got to the bottom where my name was, and then her smile disappeared altogether.
“Oh,” was all she’d said, and she started to fold the card back up.
Lucas Garcia was sitting behind her. He’d leaned over just in time to read the name.
“Eliot?” He’d snorted, staring at me with muffled laughter. “You sent your friend a candy gram? You know that’s supposed to be for Valentine’s Day crushes, right?”
My cheeks started to turn pink. I didn’t know what to say.
Cassie hadn’t noticed—she was too busy arguing with Lucas. “They don’t have to be for crushes. Friends can send candy grams too. It doesn’t mean anything.” And then she looked straight at me. “Right, Eliot?”
She wanted me to agree. To clarify that it was just a friendly note. That it didn’t mean anything.
But for some reason, when Cassie asked me to say the words out loud, I just … couldn’t.
Everyone started laughing after that. They sang songs, and made jokes, and pointed their fingers.
“Eliot just confessed her love!”
“Cassie’s got a date to the Valentine’s Day dance!”
“Eliot and Cassie sitting in a tree…”
Our teacher told everyone to put their candy grams away and return to their work. But it was too late. I shared a secret I didn’t even know I was keeping, and I didn’t even have to say a word.
After that, Cassie acted different. She got quieter and quieter, and eventually one day I walked into the cafeteria and found Cassie sitting at a new table, with different friends, and no empty chairs.
I told Babung what happened, and she had nodded like she understood more than I did. She said I didn’t do anything wrong; that sometimes kids just get embarrassed and don’t know how to explain it in words. She said Cassie was probably acting that way because of something she was going through—and that it had nothing to do with me.
Except it felt like it had everything to do with me.
Babung always seemed to know everything, even the unspoken things, and she told me, “If there’s ever anything you want to talk to me about, I’ll always be here for you, Eliot-Chan.”
But for all Babung knew about life and the world and all the unspoken things, she still couldn’t keep a promise that big. And I never got the chance to tell her the truth that is still bubbling its way up inside me, bursting to get out.
There are so many things I still need to tell her.
So many things I want her to remember.
I pedal faster, leaving Sunny and her friends and the memory of my old school behind.
A chain-link fence is partially blocking the road. There’s a fallen construction sign lying on its side, but I can’t see what it says. I consider turning around and going back the other way, when I notice the gate isn’t locked, so I slip through the opening and race down the dirt track.
Enormous trees line both sides of the path, arching overhead like an oak tunnel. It winds all the way around the massive hillside. When I break through the clearing, I see Honeyfield Hall at the top of the hill.
I found a shortcut, I think to myself, pleased. Maybe if I keep using it, I can avoid Sunny and her friends for the rest of the summer.
I make my way toward the iron gates and park my bike next to the porch.
“You came a different way,” Mrs. Delvaux remarks from the doorway.
I point over the road. “There’s a trail that cuts right through the neighborhood.”
“That’s the old railway line. The grocer used to come through there when I was a little girl. I still remember the sound of his station wagon, like it had run twenty miles up a hill in the snow.” She frowns. “Isn’t that a construction site now? They’ve been talking about flattening the whole lot for ages and filling it with apartments.”
“The fence wasn’t locked,” I say with a shrug. “It didn’t look like there was any work going on.”
“I’m sure they’ll get around to it one day. Just be careful riding your bike there. I don’t want you to get hurt if they’ve got machinery and things lying around.” She shuts the door behind her and ushers me around the corner. “It’s supposed to be a hot afternoon—but I bet we can get some cabbage planted before the sun starts to blaze.”
We only manage thirty minutes before Mrs. Delvaux takes one look at the sun and gives in.
“Tell you what—I’ve got some indoor plants that need repotting. Let’s spend today in the shade.” She leaves her gloves beside the gardening tools, climbs the steps, and I follow her inside.
I’ve never repotted a houseplant before, and I make a bigger mess than Mrs. Delvaux expected. But she’s patient—nearly as patient as Babung—and doesn’t seem to mind that there’s soil all over her conservatory floor.
“There’s a broom in the hall cupboard,” she says, snipping a few of the leaves that look out of place. “Would you mind bringing it here?”
I head back through the house, struggling to figure out which hall cupboard she means, when I run into Hazel near the stairs.
The second she spots me, her cheeks dimple. I don’t know why she always looks so surprised to see me, but it’s nice to think she looks forward to seeing me as much as I look forward to seeing her.
If it had been Hazel with the candy gram instead of Cassie … would she have acted differently?
I motion behind me, even though I’ve sort of lost track of which direction the sunroom is. “Your grandma is repotting some kind of plant that smells like lemon sherbet. And, super random fact, but I learned today that some people say sher-but, some people say sher-bert, and some people say sore-bay, even though, technically, sorbet is a totally different thing.”
Hazel steps closer, grinning. “That’s a lot of confusion over a palette cleanser.”
“Yeah.” I hold out my arms like I’m checking my sleeves. “I think it’s all over me now, too.”
She leans in without warning to smell my wrist and I stiffen, cheeks turning carnation pink.
When she straightens, she tilts her head. “I can’t smell anything.”
“Oh … er…” I tangle my fingers together, hoping I don’t look as nervous as I feel. “I can show you the plant if you want. Your grandma has, like, three of them.”
“I’m more interested in what you were trying to tell me yesterday.” She runs a hand against her neck, blushing slightly. “You know—before I got so upset.”
I shuffle my feet. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you get so upset?”
She twists her mouth like she’s untangling a thought. “My relationship with my grandma, and my parents … It’s complicated. My mom and dad have this idea in their head of who I’m supposed to grow into, and how I’m supposed to behave. All I really want is for them to listen to me sometimes, you know? But instead, they leave me here in this house, where my grandma listens to me even less.” She folds the sleeves of her cardigan over her fingers, the way I do when I’m nervous. “I hate being here. Usually, I hate it so much that all I want to do is run away, but I can’t because, well, family ties and all that. But I never hate this house when you’re around.”
At first, I don’t know what to say. She poured her heart out about her family, which probably means she’s sad. But then she said something nice at the end, which means …
Well …
What does it mean?
I try to fight my way through the static of my thoughts. “I’m sorry things are weird between you and your family. I don’t always know what to say to make you feel better.” I fiddle with the end of my braid. “But I’m glad you like being around me. Because I like being around you, too.”
Hazel smiles, and I think maybe I said the right thing for once.
“Now, are you going to tell me what happened yesterday,” she starts, “or am I going to have to fight my way into the Hollow myself and demand answers?”
Laughing, I wrap my fingers around the strap of my green bag, where the book and the key are tucked inside. I can’t risk setting my bag down and losing the skeleton key, so I keep it with me at all times. Even when I’m gardening. “I was in the attic yesterday. In the Hollow,” I explain. “And I found a letter.”
“Wait, seriously? To who? What did it say?”
“That’s the thing,” I say, checking over my shoulder to make sure Mrs. Delvaux isn’t in earshot. “It didn’t really say anything. It was just a bunch of words that kept moving around. I brought it back with me because I wanted to show you, but it vanished right out of my hand.”
Hazel’s blue eyes are wide. “Holy Disappearing Act!”
I bite my lip, trying to stay focused instead of laughing. “I think—I think I need to find it in the living world. The ghosts don’t remember everything in the Hollow, right? So maybe if the letter exists here, it’ll be whole.”
She peers around me, keeping an eye out for her grandma. “I can take you to the attic. How long until she notices you’re gone?”
“I can get some extra time—hang on,” I say, and I retrace my steps to the conservatory, where I mumble something to Mrs. Delvaux about the bathroom and needing to talk to Hazel about something. She waves me away, busy with her lemon plant, and I hurry up the stairs to the third floor.
There are no vines or trees like there were in the Hollow. Instead, a narrow set of ladders leads to the attic hatch. Once we’re both inside, we make a beeline for the old boxes.
“What does it look like?” Hazel asks, gazing around at the cobwebs.
“It’s a wooden chest with a latch on it,” I explain, ducking below the rafters and checking behind a stack of dusty suitcases and a giant, framed poster of the 1960s Batman movie.
Before I get a chance to show Hazel, I hear her voice.
“Wooden chest with a latch … You mean like that one?” she asks.
I follow her pointed finger to a box perched on top of an old shelf. It looks as if it hasn’t been touched in a century, with enough layers of dust to rival frosting on a birthday cake.
I use some of the boxes to boost myself up, reach for the chest, and slide it carefully toward me. It isn’t heavy, but the layers of cobwebs make me sneeze, sending a cloud of dust scattering away from me.
When I’m back on the floor, I set the box down and run a finger over the latch. It wiggles back and forth, loose.
“The latch is broken,” I note. “It looks like someone forced it open a long time ago.”
We exchange a look, and I open the lid.
Hazel leans over my shoulder, and she’s so close I can almost feel her hair tickling my cheek. “Is that the letter?”
I don’t answer; I’m busy trying not to breathe too loud.
I pick up the lone piece of parchment, unfold the creases, and hold it up so we can read it together. It’s written in swooping cursive, but there are no words missing this time—just a poem.
I hold life without a heartbeat,
I have a face but cannot see,
I give hope on the coldest nights,
I have roots but am not a tree.
I carry the stars but cannot fly,
and will always answer your call,
I am the keeper of all that was stolen,
and the master of Honeyfield Hall.
Hazel mouths every word beside me, concentrating on each line.
“The keeper of all that was stolen,” I read out loud. “Lock—one of the ghosts—seemed to think something else should’ve been in this box.” I take Roseheart: A Local History out of my bag and find the photograph of the Delvaux family. “I showed him this picture. He said the girl took something—something that belonged to him.” I tap the name. “Cora Delvaux.”
Hazel leans back. “You think my grandma took something from the ghosts?”
“Maybe.” I chew the inside of my mouth. What does it mean if Mrs. Delvaux is the reason the ghosts can’t move on?
Sunny and her friends said she trapped souls in this house.
Is it possible they were right? That Mrs. Delvaux is keeping the ghosts here on purpose?
I don’t know. I’ve been around Mrs. Delvaux all week, and she really doesn’t seem like the “trapping innocent souls” type. Maybe Lock made a mistake. It’s not like his memory is one hundred percent reliable.
But the fact is, someone wrote this poem.
If not Mrs. Delvaux, then who?
