Towering - By Alex Flinn Page 0,72

box. Carefully, she held it up, then turned it over.

Out fell an object. She tried to catch it in her hand, but it tumbled onto the floor.

From her glow, I could see that it was a key.

I leaned to pick it up.

She handed me the hairbrush and motioned that I should replace the key inside it.

I did and closed the box. She watched as I attempted, unsuccessfully, to open it. It wouldn’t budge. She took it from my hand, brushed her hair, and repeated the process, then handed it back to me. I closed it and placed it on my nightstand.

She started to walk away.

“Wait!” I said. “What’s it for?”

She didn’t answer, which was maddening. I knew she could speak. I’d heard her screaming just moments before. But she merely continued to walk away.

“Wait!” I said.

Again, she pressed fingers to lips. “Shh, you’ll wake my mother again.”

“But . . .”

She shrugged and continued out the door.

Blackness began to swirl around me. I didn’t, couldn’t pursue her. I was suddenly so tired, more tired than I had ever been before. I fell to the bed and didn’t even see her cross the threshold of my room.

In the morning, I woke comfortably tucked into bed. I looked at the nightstand. It was dry, and my earbuds were where they belonged. The hairbrush wasn’t there.

I checked the hallway for Mrs. Greenwood. No sign of her.

Slowly, careful not to make a sound, I crossed the hallway to Danielle’s room.

Had I expected to see broken glass? A mess where snow had made its way in? I wasn’t sure. In any case, I didn’t see any of it. I peered out the window.

In the circle of lamplight, I could see that footprints dotted the doorstep. I couldn’t tell where they started, but they definitely ended at the door.

Had Danielle returned last night?

Or was it someone else?

Again, checking carefully, I traversed the hall. I spied the Hemingway’s bag on the floor. I reached inside.

The brush was there, as it had been last night in my dream . . . vision . . . visitation. I drew it out, as Danielle had then. I tried to open it.

It didn’t work.

I drew it through my own hair. Nothing. Still, when I shook the brush, I could hear the key rattling inside.

I gasped.

I understood. I thought. Rachel would be able to open the box by brushing her hair. That’s what Danielle had been telling me.

I took the brush with me.

It was cold even inside the house, so I put on a sweater, grabbed my coat and gloves, and went downstairs.

Mrs. Greenwood’s car keys weren’t where I’d left them. Strange. I finally found them, then left a note for her, saying I’d gone skiing.

I thought about calling Rachel before I left, but it was too early. I’d see her later. And by then, I’d know about Zach, her father.

I got into the car and drove down the still-dark road to the expressway. I drove slow because something about the day was dangerous. I could barely make out the snow-dappled boulders that lined the road. I imagined myself running off it, dashing against those rocks, no one knowing who I was, where I’d come from.

And Rachel would never know what happened to me.

I slowed further and moved to a different lane.

In the first morning light, I thought I heard a voice, Rachel’s voice, saying, “Call me.” Crazy. But I didn’t have my phone anyway, and I’d be there soon. Aloud, I said, “I’ll be there soon. An hour, maybe.”

Finally, I reached Gatskill. The streets were deserted. I passed the library, then almost missed the Red Fox Inn. As I was about to pass it, I noticed something. A light in a window. Someone was there.

With a deep breath, I pulled into what was left of the parking lot and got out of the car. The wind whipped through the trees, rattling them like dead bones. Its whistle was almost a warning. Almost. I reminded myself that the real danger was in the place I had just left. I trudged toward the door. The snow was high here, as if the wind had collected it. I left footprints where there had been none.

I hesitated. Last chance to leave.

Before I could knock, the door opened.

“Are you Wyatt?”

I stepped back, but I nodded.

The man was just as old as his brother, maybe eighty, maybe more. Like his brother, he had startling bright blue eyes.

“I’m Carl.” He held out his hand. “Come in.”

“I’d rather not.” Even