One House Left, page 3
“You’ll see. It was nice to meet you, new kid. I think you’ll fit in just fine.”
Max strides away, Seb and Tyler hurrying to catch up, before all of them are lost in the crowd.
Three days into my time at Montgomery-Oakes High School— despite my best intentions—I think I’m part of a quartet.
The weirdest thing—I kind of like it.
10
The lunchroom is packed when I arrive: the sound of trays hitting tables, jokers hitting punch lines, gossip hitting greedy ears.
To some people, I guess this could be a “hell hole,” but I can’t see Max or the boys anywhere.
For a few stupid seconds, I imagine the three of them on a table of their own, eagerly waving me over. But every single option is full to bursting.
Montgomery-Oakes doesn’t seem to have an outcasts section, or one for the new kids who never lost that label.
No one pays me any attention as I get my food, then carefully tread between the outstretched legs and forgotten backpacks.
I walk from one end of the room to the other, thinking back to the moment Max was swallowed by this place. And that’s when I see it.
The space in the corner narrows into an unlit hallway, the sounds behind me muffled as I step farther inside.
For a few moments, there’s nothing; just a strange silence that doesn’t belong here and yet, somehow, fits perfectly. Because that’s what schools are, right? They are simultaneously alive and dead—full of the promise of never-ending tomorrows and forgotten yesterdays.
My heart quickens as I anticipate walking headfirst into a teacher. Whatever this place is, it’s not where you’re supposed to have your lunch. Then noises drift through the air, the unmistakable sound of Max’s voice and the new sound of Seb and Tyler talking back.
“… and you just draw the face and wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“The monster, obviously. Or the psychopath. Or whatever it is that’s out there.”
The voice in my head tells me to turn around. I can eat somewhere else. I can still be the loner. But I’m not sure I want that anymore.
“Hey,” I say. “The Hell Hole, I presume?”
“New kid,” Max says, and I say, “It’s Nate, actually.”
“Okay, then, Nate Actually. Join us. Tyler was telling a story.”
The boy adjusts his glasses and bristles slightly. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes,” Max replies. “It’s about time we had some new blood. I’m getting bored of you two. Joke, obviously. But look at him. He’s perfect for this.”
“Perfect for what?” I ask. “Is this a cult thing? Am I your sacrifice?”
I’m kidding, but no one laughs.
Max points at the upturned crate next to her and says, “Sit.”
“What is this place?”
“It used to be a storage space for all the janitor’s equipment. But, as you’ve probably noticed, Montgomery-Oakes High is shiny and new these days. A lot of the old is gone but this is … a bit of history, I suppose. It’s preferable to eating out there.”
Max gestures down the corridor that seems even longer from this end.
“Why do you call it the Hell Hole?”
“Sticking with the theme. We’re a club. The Hell Chasers. Have you heard of us?”
Before I can answer, Tyler chuckles and Max grins.
“Of course you haven’t,” she says. “But we like it that way.”
“You’re a secret society?”
“We have a shared passion for urban legends.”
You’re kidding me.
I back into the corridor as Seb mutters, “Chicken.”
Max glares at him but he’s right. I am a chicken, if that means being smart. I come from a place where the rules don’t apply. The rules that say that it’s not real, that spooky stories can’t harm you.
On the news, when tragedy happens and the neighbors say, “You wouldn’t expect that to happen here”? That’s not how Murder Road works.
That place is stained by nearly a century of death; so much that the stain is all you can see. If Seb is wondering why I don’t want to join a club called the Hell Chasers, he should check my old area code.
“I should probably get back,” I say.
“Back to what?” Max replies.
We stare at each other until my cheeks burn. Then she says, “Is that what you want? To be on your own? Because, from where I’m sitting, it doesn’t look like much fun.”
It’s not. But it’s been a long time since fun was on my to-do list.
Being alone was what I wanted, or what I was told to want. It’s easier that way. But that was before I met her.
“I’m sorry I called you a chicken,” Seb says. “There’s nothing sinister about what we do. We’re the good guys.”
“People,” Max replies. “We’re the good people. So, are you in?”
“What do you do, exactly?”
She stares at Tyler until he coughs and says, “Do you know the story of the Face in the Glass?”
The only “urban legend” I’m interested in is real. We lived it or, more specifically, we lived next to it.
I can’t say that now, so I shake my head and Tyler grumbles. “If you want to join us, you need to know your stuff.”
He has no idea, but I let him think he does. Ignorance isn’t just bliss; sometimes it can save your life.
Max and Tyler share a look like the ones Mom uses when she’s pissed with us in public—a silent shout—and then he sighs and says, “Okay. I’ll start over for the latecomers.”
A loud scrape fills the space as Tyler shuffles his crate forward, its echo settling in my ears along with the low rumble of machinery hidden even deeper in the school’s belly.
“This one must be done in a secluded area, but you also need a road, so somewhere near the woods is ideal. It won’t work if it’s easy to save you. It also needs to be dark and cold. And there must be at least eleven minutes of complete silence before you draw the face.”
Max is studying me, searching for a reaction. Do they think I’m scared? Do they think this is the worst life gets—lunch-break ghost stories and intense looks?
“Once those eleven minutes have passed, you breathe on every window, then trace the shape of a face with your finger—a circle, two eyes, one mouth. There have to be six faces in total—one on each side window, one on the back, and one on the windshield. But the circles must be incomplete. There has to be a gap. That’s how it comes in.”
“How what comes in?” Max asks.
I’ve never heard something more scripted.
“No one knows exactly what it is,” Tyler replies. “It could be human. It could be a monster. I personally think it’s a spirit … and that gap you leave allows it to break into our realm. Once all six faces are drawn, everyone in the car looks out of their window and says, ‘I see the Face in the Glass.’
“That’s when you’ll see the shape in the darkness. It will bang on the car, begging to be let in. It will use different voices. It will try everything it can to get to you. That’s why I’m saying this bit last—so you remember.
“If you do ever try this, make sure you lock the car.”
“So,” Max says to me, “are you in?”
“In what exactly? A storytelling club?”
It’s not supposed to sound snarky, but that’s exactly what happens, and I think I’ve lost them already—this strange collection of people who, for some reason, want to be my friends.
Max grins as she says, “The stories aren’t the fun part. What are you doing on Friday night?”
“Why?”
“Because that’s when we’re drawing the Face in the Glass. We’re going to see if it’s real.”
11
The three of them pile the crates in one corner, collect the trash from their lunch, then head back down the darkened corridor.
I close my eyes and breathe as slowly as I can, stepping back in my mind, trying to meditate the way Hazel does. That’s how my sister deals with our life—by taking temporary trips away from it.
When I try, the tranquility teases me, sitting just out of reach, and then the screams surge through my head, ripping my eyelids open, reminding me that, for some, there’s not even a brief escape.
Rowan handles it through violence. Wherever we go, the first thing he does is join the closest karate or judo or boxing club.
His teachers think he’s a natural. They don’t know that with every punch, every kick, every guttural yell, he’s taking aim at someone … something.
“You coming?” Max’s voice echoes in the dark, shaking me out of my daydream and forcing me into a decision.
They are standing at the mouth of the Hell Hole, our classmates illuminated by the overhead striplights, their words one long hum.
“Where are you doing it?” I ask, and Max says, “We can pick you up. We don’t want you getting lost.”
“No. I’m happy to meet. Give me directions.”
“Stranger danger,” she replies. “I respect that. We could be psychos for all you know. But then, it would probably be easier to get away with it if we didn’t drive over and say hi to the family. Whatever you prefer.”
“I’ll walk.”
When you walk, it’s easier to run.
“Pass me your phone,” Max says, quickly sending herself a message then handing it back. “I’ll give you all the info. But remember, it must be in the middle of nowhere. That’s not the kind of place people walk to.”
“I’ll be fine.”
As the bell goes for next period, Seb stares at me, his eyes scarily serious, and says, “We choose who joins, so don’t bring a friend. And don’t tell anyone what we’re doing.”
“I don’t have any friends,” I reply. Except, I guess, the three people standing in front of me.
“Neither do we,” Tyler replies.
They don’t feel quite real. It’s as if they are playing characters and they’re testing me. Should I be laughing at them? Do I play along? Or should I just wait for the act to slip?
“Has anyone ever said no?” I ask.
“Just once,” Max replies. “But they don’t go here anymore.”
12
Mom has filled the house with our stuff but it will never feel like home.
The same things come out every time. The crystal cube with Hazel, Rowan, and me inside—our 3D baby faces captured forever. Our parents’ wedding photo—when Dad had hair and Mom looked like a movie star. The painting our grandma did, of the scene from her nursing-home window—the golden beach and the vast sea beyond it full of people enjoying what she no longer could.
These are the things our mom treasures most. They are, to her, what makes a home.
It takes a little longer each time—for Mom to find the strength to build one. But she’s good at it, using our distant past to cover the cracks in our present.
My bedroom walls are still blank and my mind is racing with all the things I could have done. I could have said no. I could have been a prick, because no one wants one of those in their secret club. I could have hit Seb when he called me a chicken, ending our friendship before it had even begun. But Max …
There’s a glimmer behind her words; there are unspoken certainties in the safe spaces between them. No one’s ever looked at me like that. Most don’t look at me at all.
I’ve felt scared, lost, hopeless, for so long. But with her, this girl who is not quite a stranger, those things disappear.
So, I said yes, and I don’t completely regret it. Not until Rowan strolls in and says, “Rating from one to ten. Go.”
“Four,” I reply, because it’s always four.
The houses our parents find are slightly below average. They are damaged in superficial ways. They are just in our budget. When you move as often as us, there isn’t time for your home to grow in value.
I don’t know how much money they’ve lost, in lawyers’ fees and moving trucks and the rest. But I do know Dad’s work hours have grown to match his worry lines, while Mom wastes less and less time before finding a job in every new town we discover.
“How was school?” Rowan asks.
“It was fine.”
“You made any friends yet?”
I shake my head, because that’s the answer my brother expects.
“Give it time,” he says, staring at my bare walls. “You need to decorate, Nate. This place is deeply depressing.”
“What’s the point?”
“The point is, if you make your living space nice, you feel nice.”
“How’s that working for you?”
“I’m getting there,” he mumbles.
He’s nineteen. Three years older than me. And all he’s done since we arrived is join a gym and arrange his vinyl.
Like always, it’s not sorted by artist. It’s by mood.
“I think it’s a two,” Rowan says.
He doesn’t justify that score with an explanation. Instead, he slumps on my bed and closes his eyes.
“Was it better before?” I ask. “When you could go to school?”
When he doesn’t answer, I picture my brother at Belleview Academy, then the three schools we went to after that. Every time, he’d reinvent himself—the confident kid, the quiet kid, the teachers’ pet, the teachers’ pest.
I’m not sure he had a favorite role. I think he loved the opportunity to be a little bit of everyone, while Hazel and I have always stuck to what we know.
On cue, our sister walks to my door then quickly away.
“What’s up, sis?” Rowan says, the scaffolding of our brother’s fake confidence crumbling on the last word.
She stops for a moment on the landing, then goes back to her room and slams the door.
Rowan counts down from five to one, then shakes his head as our sister’s faux-cheery voice hums through the cracked plasterboard.
“She needs to stop calling him,” he says. “It’s not doing her any good.”
“She wants to hear his voice.”
“But it’s not just that, is it. She wants to go back and live her happy-ever-after. She’s in denial.”
Max’s face fills my vision as I say, “Have you ever liked someone? Like, really liked them?”
Rowan’s thick eyebrows scrunch as he says, “Of course not.”
The thought of our brother in love forces me to stifle a laugh and I wish we could make fun of each other without the threat of something bigger.
We used to. But, these days, Rowan is better in rings or on mats, with referees and rules.
If we fight, only one of us will get hurt.
Hazel’s door opens again and she hurries downstairs. She’s a senior now and I make a promise to look out for her tomorrow.
Rowan has these rules, unwritten but never forgotten, and one of them is to keep away from each other at school. But he’s not there anymore, so I guess, if we wanted to be the siblings who talk in the corridors, we could be.
I picture Hazel at our last school, her sentences coming out like songs, her smiles genuine, her friends hurrying around her like superfans.
I was jealous of her, and a little bit angry, but, mostly, I was proud. She had finally found a place where she could be herself and maybe be happy again.
Our brother lets out a deep breath, then stands and says, “Let’s get this over with.”
I follow him downstairs, where Dad is reading at the table and Mom is laying the final few plates.
“Right on time,” she says. “Dig in.”
Rowan leans over us, piling his dish high, while Hazel takes small amounts only from the food she can reach.
“It looks great,” Dad says, kissing Mom’s cheek then resting his hand on her back. And it does.
For plenty of people, this would be perfect. But, for me, every bite comes with a side of fear.
We’ve done this first-proper-meal-in-a-new-home thing so many times and I’m sick of pretending.
“Don’t get comfortable.” That’s another one of Rowan’s rules. “We won’t be here for long.”
So that’s what Hazel did, until the one time she didn’t. And I wonder, as I think of Max and Tyler and Seb but mostly Max, if this is the time that I don’t listen to our brother either.
When we’re nearly finished, Dad watches Hazel pushing the food around her plate, waiting the required amount of time, then a bit longer, before taking Mom’s hand and saying, “That was delicious.”
She smiles like a cashier with a broken computer and mumbles, “Thank you.”
“Yes,” Rowan says. “Well worth the wait.”
Dad’s arms tense and I can see Mom sending him a message through her fingers, tapping on his like she knows Morse code.
Hazel’s fork clanks against her plate and our brother smiles at her and says, “I’ll have that if you don’t want it.”
It’s my sister’s turn to tense, her glare burning a hole in the table as she takes two deep breaths in … then out.
She nudges the plate away and he finishes what’s left in three mouthfuls.
“Right,” Dad says. “We’ll clean up.”
Mom and Hazel stare at each other as Rowan and I help with the plates. Then I head upstairs without dessert and my sister follows.
“I’m sorry that he’s a dick,” I say.
A faint smile flickers across Hazel’s lips as she mutters, “We all have our ways of coping.”
These moments, when she chooses to talk to me, are so rare that I shouldn’t risk spoiling them. But they remind me of a better time, one I desperately want to get back to. We were good—the three of us. We looked out for one another. We had fun.
Now I snatch at the tiniest thread of my sister’s voice and forget what happens when it unravels.
I watch her for a few seconds, then ask, “Are your ways still working?”
“Some of them.” Tears form in Hazel’s eyes as she shakes her head.
My arm twitches as I think about comforting her, but it won’t help.
I could tell her about Max, because I think she’d understand. Yet she’d also say all the things I don’t want to hear; about what happens when your perfect new life, which you’ve built in a heartbeat, crumbles in the blink of an eye.
