Towering - By Alex Flinn Page 0,10

weird. On the lawn, below the room next to mine, were footprints. Footprints barely hidden in the snow. Even though it had been snowing all night, I could make them out as if they’d been made only hours, not days, earlier.

I opened the window to see something else, the walkway leading to the door where I’d come in. I’d agreed to shovel the walk, and even from a distance, I could tell it was completely blank, white. I’d come in after midnight. That meant the footprints under the window had been made even later.

Through the trees, I heard a sound. At first, I thought it was birds, or the tinkling of a wind chime. It was so blank and white and empty here, I bet you could hear noises from miles away. But, as I listened, the sound put itself together in my mind, and I recognized it.

A human voice.

Singing.

Then, the wind shifted, and the voice was gone.

5

Wyatt

After it became obvious I wasn’t going to find service no matter how many times I raised the phone in the air, I decided to get dressed and go downstairs. I took my plate with me and hunted for the kitchen.

Mrs. Greenwood was there. “Did you enjoy your breakfast?” She was cleaning up after what looked like a baking project. At least, there was a big bowl and flour scattered on the counter and a delicious cinnamony smell coming from the oven. “Wyatt?”

“What? Oh, breakfast was great.” Normally, I resented this type of meaningless, extraneous question when it came from my mother. She didn’t actually want to know how my breakfast was, after all, just wanted to force me to talk. But Mrs. Greenwood hadn’t cooked for anyone in years, and really did want my opinion about the biscuits. And, more to the point, I wanted to interrogate her about 1) cell phone service; 2) internet; and 3) the possibility of going to town and seeing some people, even if those people would probably be backwoods hicks. So I said, “Best biscuits I ever had.”

She beamed, so I laid it on thicker. I’d actually been good at that. “Is that pie I smell? Apple?”

“Actually, it’s apfelkuchen. Apple cake. My mother’s recipe. It’s so nice to have someone to cook and bake for. There’s been no one since . . .”

She broke off, but I filled in. “Since Danielle.”

“I am sorry.” She picked up the mixing bowl and began to fill it with water. The faucet was old, and it stuck a little. “You came here to get away from your problems, but instead, you’re stuck with an old lady and her long-dead ghosts.” She began to scrub the bowl a bit too hard with a brush.

So she assumed Danielle was dead too, then. I surprised myself by saying, “No, it’s okay. I know how hard it is. See, my best friend died last month.”

It was the first time I’d said the words. Back home, everyone knew Tyler was dead. I didn’t have to tell anyone, even if they didn’t say anything.

She started to reach for my hand, to say she was sorry. I decided that was enough reality TV stuff for one day, so I said, “You need me to shovel the walk?”

“Has it finished snowing? No use starting if it hasn’t.”

I glanced out at the lawn, at the white walkway. “I think it’s done for now, at least.”

She wiped out the clean bowl. “The shovel is in the garage. I’ll show you.” She gestured for me to follow her.

I said, “Um, so does anyone live around here?”

She turned back, surprised. “Oh, there’s a farmhouse about half a mile away. Josh, the boy who picked you up. Nice family. They own the hardware store in town.”

“Nothing closer?”

“Oh, no. The McNeills were on the other side, but they left years ago.”

“I thought I heard . . .” I stopped. Obviously, I was wrong.

“What is it, dear?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering if I’d be able to use my cell phone. And internet.”

“Oh, yes, your mother hired a man to hook up the . . . um . . .”

“Wi-Fi?”

“Yes. So you can take your classes on the computer. But I’m afraid you’ll need to go to town to use your telephone. Of course, I have that phone.” She pointed to a yellow phone with one of those old dials. “We’re quite isolated here in the mountains, so I have it, for emergencies.”

“Quite isolated here” sounded like something a man in a horror movie would