Don't Forget Me! (8 page)

Mrs. Andersen was Peter's favorite teacher ever. He never stopped mentioning her. It was always “Mrs. Andersen said this,” and “Mrs. Andersen said that.” I think Mom has actually been getting a little jealous that Peter is so crazy about Mrs. Andersen.

The long front hall was empty. My shoes made a hollow sound as I walked toward Peter's classroom.

It's always strange going back to your old school. When I went here, the place seemed enormous. But now, the classrooms all appeared so tiny, the desks and tables so low to the ground. The water fountain was practically down at my knees!

I turned the first corner, and Mrs. Andersen's room came into view. I stepped up to the door, my heart pounding a little harder, and poked my head in. “Peter—?” No.

I uttered a disappointed sigh.

Mrs. Andersen sat at her desk, her head bowed, writing rapidly on a stack of papers. She looked up as I stepped into the room and narrowed her eyes at me. “Yes?”

She was a young woman with wavy blond hair, round, blue eyes, and a nice smile. She wore a pale blue sweater-vest over a white top. As I came closer, I could see why Peter liked her so much. She was really awesome looking!

She kept her pen poised over the papers as she watched me approach.

“I'm Danielle Warner,” I said.

She didn't appear to recognize the name. “Can I help you, Danielle?” she asked. She had a soft, little-girl voice. She sounded more like a kid than a teacher.

“I was hoping to find my brother, Peter, in here,” I said.

Her smile faded. “Peter?”

I nodded. “But I guess he already left. Did you see him leave? Was he with some of his friends?”

Mrs. Andersen lowered the pen to the desk. She squinted at me. “What is your brother's name? Did you say Peter?”

“Yes. Peter Warner. He was supposed to meet me out front. I've been waiting since the bell rang and—”

“Well, I think you have the wrong classroom,” she interrupted.

I stared at her. “Excuse me? You're Mrs. Andersen, right?”

“Yes, I am,” she said softly.

“Then this is the right room,” I replied. “You're Peter's favorite teacher. He doesn't stop talking about you.”

She stood up. Her expression became stern. “I'm really sorry, Danielle. But you've made a mistake.
I don't have anyone named Peter Warner in my class.
”

 

My mouth dropped open. I stared at her. “You're kidding, right? You are Peter's favorite teacher. You know Peter, right?”

She bit her bottom lip and shook her head. “No. I'm sorry. I—”

“Red hair!” I shouted. “Bright red eyeglasses. Never stops talking. You know. Peter!”

“Danielle,” she said softly. “Why are you shouting at me? Your brother is not in my class. Maybe you mean Mr.
Anders
. Sometimes people get us mixed up since our names are so similar.”

“No!” I cried. “I'm not mixed-up. Peter is in your class, Mrs. Andersen. I
know
he is.”

She sighed and raised her eyes to the door, as if searching for help. “You need to try the office,” she said softly. “Mrs. Beck can help you find Peter. She'll know whose class he's in.”

I stared at her, breathing hard. I had my hands pressed against my waist. My brain was spinning. Mrs. Andersen … Mrs. Andersen … Peter talked about her constantly.

No way I had the name wrong.

“Mrs. Beck,” she repeated. She motioned to the door. “You'd better hurry if you want to catch her. She leaves early on Mondays.”

“Oh … okay,” I said softly. I turned and made my way out of the classroom. The little desks … the chalkboards so low on the wall … the water fountain nearly down on the floor … it all suddenly appeared unreal. As if I were back in another nightmare.

I made my way toward the front office. My shoes thudded loudly, echoing in the empty hall. Two teachers walked by, laughing softly about something.

I stopped at the office. The door was closed. The lights were off.

“Mrs. Beck already left,” one of the teachers called to me. They disappeared around a corner.

I stared through the glass into the dark office. “Peter, where are you?” I murmured.

I walked through the halls, making a complete circle of the building. I looked into every classroom I passed. No sign of my brother.

Did he go home without me? I wondered.

Did he forget he was supposed to meet me? Did he go out a side door and walk home by himself?

Yes. That had to be the answer. Just thinking it made me feel a lot better.

I hurried outside and practically leaped down the front steps. I ran all the way home.

He's already home. I know it. The little creep is already home.

I burst into the house and heaved my backpack to the floor. “Peter, are you here?” I called breathlessly.

No reply.

I raced down the hall toward the kitchen. “Peter? Are you home?”

No sign of him in the kitchen. I checked the den. The dining room. “Peter? Hey, Peter?”

I stopped and listened.

Silence.

Then I heard a sound that sent a shiver down my back.

A moan. A low moan. Like an animal in pain.

“Peter? Is that you?” I followed the sound to the front stairs. I grabbed the banister.

Another moan, followed by a high-pitched howl.

Gripping the railing tightly, I pulled myself up the stairs. “Peter? Is that you? I'm coming.”

I reached the top, my heart thudding, and hurried down the hall to his room. The door stood open. I dove into the doorway—and gasped. “Peter?”

He was pacing back and forth in the middle of the room. He still had his jacket on. His eyes were nearly shut.

“Peter—?”

He had his hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets. He kept moaning to himself, moaning like a sick animal, shaking his head as he paced.

Why were his eyes closed like that? Why was he making those horrible sounds? What was he doing?”

“Peter, stop!” I cried. “Stop! Can you hear me? What are you doing?”

He moaned again, his eyes still nearly shut.

I could feel my throat tighten in fear. “You were supposed to meet me,” I said. “Will you stop doing that? What is
wrong
with you?”

Finally, he stopped pacing. He turned toward me. His eyes opened slowly. He studied me for a long moment, his face filled with confusion.

When he finally spoke, his words came out in a hoarse growl: “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

 

I gasped. A wave of nausea rolled up, tightening my throat. I suddenly felt so sick, I clapped a hand over my mouth to keep from hurling.

“Peter, don't you remember me?
Don't
you?”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Get out of my house.”

“I'm your sister!” I cried.

Poor Peter. I had to do something.

“Peter, just stay here in your room,” I said. “You'll be okay. I promise.”

He stared blankly at me through his glasses. I could tell that he had no idea who I was.

I spun away and ran down the hall. My mind was racing. What could I do? Who should I call?

I ran into my parents' room and frantically ransacked their desk drawers until I found their phone book. My hands were shaking so badly, I could barely turn the pages.

My stomach was lurching again. I found Dr. Ross's number and quickly punched it into the phone.

It rang three times before a woman answered. “Doctor's office.”

“I've got to speak to Dr. Ross,” I said breathlessly. “It—it's an emergency.”

“I'm sorry,” she replied. “He's away at a conference this week. If you'd like to leave a message, I could—”

“No thanks!” I cried. I clicked off the phone.

Who else? Who else?

Aunt Kate. She lives in the next town. Aunt Kate is a sensible, practical woman. She's always calm. She always knows what to do.

I punched in her number. “Please be there,” I murmured. “Please …”

The phone rang and rang. I let it ring at least ten or twelve times before I finally gave up.

“Now what?”

Who can I call? There's
got
to be someone!

I shut my eyes and tried to think. A loud knock on the front door made me jump.

“Who is that? Addie?”

The knocking repeated, louder this time.

I tossed down the phone and made my way quickly down the stairs to the front door.

Maybe Addie can think of someone who will help me, I told myself.

I pulled the door open.

Not Addie.

I stared in terror at the man in the black raincoat.

“Wh-what do you want?” I asked.

“Gotcha,” he whispered.

 

He lowered his head toward me like a bird about to attack a worm. He had a short black beard and mustache, and wavy black hair that fell over his forehead. He glared at me with round, black eyes.

His gaze was so cold, I felt a chill run down my back. Then he raised his eyes to look behind me into the house. “Are your parents here?” His voice was soft and scratchy, as if he had a sore throat.

“No,” I said.

Why did I say that? How stupid! Why did I tell him my parents weren't home?

“I mean, they'll be home really soon. Sorry. I have to go.” My heart pounding, I moved to close the door.

But he pushed past me, nearly bumping me aside.

He was in the house!

He stood in the entryway, still glaring at me with those tiny black eyes. “You ran from me this morning….”

“Y-yes,” I replied. “I didn't know—I mean … who are you? What do you want?”

“Sorry if I frightened you,” he said in that scratchy voice. “I'm a reporter. For the
Star-Journal.
”

“Huh? A reporter?”

I suddenly felt very foolish.

A newspaper reporter? But why had he been chasing me? And why had he been spying on our house?

He's lying, I thought. Why did I open the door without looking first? Why did I let him in the house? Why was I so stupid?

He glimpsed himself in the hall mirror and pushed back his wavy black hair with one hand. “I'm thinking of doing a story about your house,” he said.

I studied him, trying to figure out if this was some kind of joke. “Are you selling something?” I asked. “Insurance or something? Because if that's what you're trying to do—”

He raised his right hand. “No. I'm a reporter. Really.” He fumbled in his back pocket and pulled out a worn brown wallet. He flipped it open to show me a card that had his photo on it and said PRESS at the top.

“I found some old articles at the newspaper office. A big stack of yellowed papers hidden away in a corner cabinet. In the old articles, they call this house
Forget-Me House
.” His eyes burned into mine.

I stared hard at him. “Huh? Why?”

He shrugged. “I'm not sure. According to the papers I found, the house makes people forget.”

My heart started to pound. “Forget what?”