Dream House (7 page)

Another dream.

What is this mystery all about? Is Alfred the gardener the man that scares her so much, or is it just the idea of this monster that all the village kids are frightened of? Most importantly, who
is
this girl who keeps appearing to me? Does she need my help? Is she actually in danger?

Hoping to come across some crucial clue that I might have missed, I mentally run over my conversation with Avery.

According to the story he told me, Alfred had twin boys—there was no mention of any girls. And the girl said this bedroom belonged to her, but if that's the case, where is she now? Where is she in real life, I mean—outside of my nightmares?

My eye falls upon the heart on the wall.

A+A.

Might that be a clue?

If I ever want to get a good night's sleep in this house, I'm going to have to figure this mystery out, once and for all.

I'm going to have to help her.

It's five thirty in the morning, and I've spent the last two hours huddled up under the covers running my brain ragged, trying to work out if there's some kind of logic linking all these different events. But for the life of me, I can't—too many pieces of the puzzle are missing.

The new day's sun is starting to make its appearance, lighting up the white walls, and although I've hardly slept at all, it's a clear enough sign that it's time for me to get up and get busy.

I shuffle tiredly to the bathroom, where I take a quick shower and clean my teeth. As I brush, I look at my reflection in the mirror, and my concerns about my appearance return: I'm losing weight, my skin looks dull, and my cheeks are sunken. My hair is all messy and tangled, and my skin is getting paler and paler by the day, making me look absolutely exhausted—I almost look like I've seen a ghost.

Ready now to head outside, I'm walking towards the front door when a thunderingly loud noise reaches my ears. I gaze up at the ceiling, wondering suddenly if this house has another floor of which I am not aware. From what I've been able to make out, there aren't any corridors or doors that might lead to an upper level—but then again, I haven't really had time to investigate every inch of the house.

Standing inches away from the corridor, with my hand still grasping the doorknob, it suddenly occurs to me that I've never checked out the Blooms' bedroom—it's right at the end of this corridor, between the bathroom and the basement.

I turn around and walk back down the hall until I'm standing in front of the door.

It feels strange, as though I'm about to cross an invisible line.

I twist the handle and push, and the interior of their room is revealed: a luminous, airy space, beautifully decorated in the same style as the one where I'm sleeping, but much, much brighter. To the left, a large French window looks out over the side of the garden I haven't yet had a chance to visit, while the centre of the room is dominated by an imposing four-poster bed with cream-coloured curtains. Over on the right, a very old wooden wardrobe completes the furnishings.

I walk over to the large French doors that open to the garden and study the space outside. A small fountain stands in the middle of a gravelled space which seems to be cut off from the garden proper. All around it, a neatly trimmed square-cut hedge delineates the margin of what would appear to be Amabel and Marvin's special little corner. Two wonderfully intricate white iron chairs are placed next to the water fountain, separated slightly by a small table between them.

Tempted to go outside, I grasp the key and am on the verge of turning it in the lock when all of a sudden I hear that
noise
again.

I spin round in alarm to check if there's anybody there.

Nothing.

I peer about nervously for a couple of seconds, then decide that I should probably turn my attention to the ceiling. Set in the white coffered panelling is a small square hatch with a cord hanging from one corner. I position myself directly underneath it and jump up, trying to reach the cord, but a few failed attempts later, I give up in frustration.

As I look up at it, I suddenly remember the stepladder that I noticed in the basement the other day, and so, with pulse racing, I find myself once again walking down those dark, rickety stairs.

When I reach the bottom, I see what I'm looking for, still propped up against the far wall. Cheered by the thought that I won't have to spend too long down there, I stride across the stone flags and take hold of the ladder—only to find, a few seconds later, that hauling it back up the stairs is unexpectedly difficult.

After a few less-than-successful attempts, inspiration strikes, and I lay the ladder flat upon the treads of the steps and slide it upwards until it bumps into the bathroom door, at which point I clamber past it and haul it up from the top, leaning it against the corridor wall.

Glowing with pride at the success of my efforts, I carry it into the bedroom and position it right under the entrance to the attic.

Compared to the struggle of getting it here, actually
climbing
the ladder turns out to be a piece of cake: I can feel the reassuring support of its steps beneath my feet until I'm high enough to grab the cord and pull down on it with all of my might, and the panel swings down, revealing a dark opening.

The stepladder wobbles but doesn't tip over, allowing me to continue my ascent and make my way into the unknown space above.

Inside, it's cramped and gloomy—what feeble illumination there is comes from the little bull's-eye window of coloured glass in the pediment, but it's nothing like enough to be able to see clearly.

However, after I've been up there a few minutes, my eyes finally start getting accustomed to the low light, and what at first had seemed to be nothing more than an awful lot of blurred shapes start to resolve into something a bit clearer.

I look around me, taking in the various strange symbols that are dotted all over the place, covering practically every inch of the walls. There are piles of old books collecting dust, all seemingly related to religious topics, to judge from their titles.

Part of me is none too surprised to see all of this—every house hides some secret or other of its owners, after all. But I'm starting to feel worryingly as though I'm embroiled in something sinister—something that I might have been wiser not to get involved in at all.

Crawling farther into the small space, I stop to look at a framed photograph that I find propped on a chest, showing five people posing for the photographer. I pick it up and, as best I can, clean away the dust.

Under my right thumb, the Blooms, probably still in their forties, are smiling cheerfully at the camera. Marvin is wearing the same round glasses and a collared sweater and is hand in hand with Amabel, whose dress is as pretty as her freshly done hair. On the opposite side stand a younger couple. They could almost be the Blooms' grown-up children, if it weren't for the fact that they are visibly of different ethnicities: the man at the edge of the frame is tall and serious and appears to be Caucasian, but his face looks nothing like those of the Blooms, while the girl he has his arms around is clearly Asian. There's a sad look in her eyes, but she has a sweet face. She's left her straight black hair loose and is wearing a long, flowery dress for the event.

Her attention is not directed towards the camera—in fact, she's the only one who isn't holding a pose. Instead, her head is tilted downwards towards where a little girl—
the
little girl—is standing, smiling with her eyes closed, holding both Amabel's and the other woman's hands, right in the middle of the picture.

She looks much younger than she's appeared to me in my dreams, but I'm 100 percent certain that it's her.

I turn the photo over in the hope of finding a date or a name or something, but whatever was written on the back has been scribbled out and is now impossible to read.

I place the frame back where I found it and turn my attention to studying the chest itself: it's safely fastened shut by a heavy padlock hanging from a hasp on the front. I look around me for a key that might open it and spy a bunch of them hanging from a nail under a painting on the wall. I snatch it down and, one by one, try each of them—but none works.

Tired and frustrated, I decide that the time has come to take a break and get some fresh air.

I climb down the ladder, pushing the small panel shut behind me, then walk down the corridor and back into the main part of the house.

The sudden chiming of the clock makes me start, and I realise how long I've spent up there—it's 11:00 p.m.

It was still morning when I found the door to the attic—is it really possible that I've spent the whole day in that room without realising it? It's true that while I was up there I had no way of knowing what time it was, but it seems pretty unlikely that I could have spent so much of my day inside that pokey, dusty place.

No reasonable explanation presenting itself, I slip back into my pyjamas, hop into bed, and focus on the fact that I'm finally on the right path—now, I have a lead to follow.

Despite not feeling drowsy at all, I keep my eyelids firmly shut and try to force myself to fall asleep in the hope of having another of those dreams, but it's no use—my mind is far too restless and doesn't calm down enough to let me relax properly until hours later.

Exhausted by the thoughts racing non-stop through my head, I eventually let go of everything and drift off to join the dream world.

M
Y DISAPPOINTMENT
at not having dreamt about the little girl gradually fading, I lie there on my side with my eyes closed and let the rays of light shining through the window caress my cheeks—until the sky starts clouding over and the sunbeams disappear, depriving me of the warmth I'd been enjoying so much.

I open my eyes, only to see Alfred's dour face peering in at me through the window—but as soon as he notices my alarmed expression, he vanishes from sight.

Why was he staring at me? Has he been doing it all this time? Is he trying to scare me? If that
is
what he's trying to do, he's definitely succeeding.

With a growing feeling of paranoia, I tug the curtains shut and change into my regular clothes.

While I eat some cereal for breakfast I try to come up with a plan of action. I have to confront him, this creepy, cantankerous gardener. But I have to be smart about it too. I can't let him know that I'm afraid, or—even worse—that I've been spying on him.

I make a mental list of my options and pick the safest: I'll ask him about the Blooms and hint that I know about his past. That should get me some answers, and at the same time make him realise that I'm not afraid of him and know that he's up to something.

To give myself a pretext for starting the conversation, I make some coffee. I walk across the lawn towards him, holding it out and not saying a word, but he refuses it with a disdainful wave of his hand.

Right. That makes things harder.

But, undeterred and determined to show that I'm not intimidated by his grouchiness, I casually take a sip of it myself. “Rough night?” I venture, noticing the tired look on his unshaven face.

“Rough life,” he replies with deadly seriousness, avoiding eye contact and busying himself with running a pair of garden shears over a whetstone with assured strokes.

Taken off guard for a moment by the blunt nonchalance of his answer, I spy an opening.

“You do spend a lot of time working on this garden.”

He still doesn't look up at me, so I go on.

“Is it your way of repaying the Blooms?”

Even though his face is turned away from me, I can tell from the way his jaw muscles tighten that he's gritting his teeth.

“Is sticking your nose into other people's business
your
way of repaying them?” he replies, without raising his head from his work.

Now completely off my guard, I back away from him and gather my thoughts. I try to figure out a comeback, but before I can come up with anything, he starts talking in a husky voice.

“Reverend Bloom was always nice to me. Helping him with his garden is the least I can do,” he says, apparently sincerely. “You ought to be grateful too,” he adds.

“I am,” I burst out.

Reverend?
The word starts bouncing about inside my head.

“Well, make sure he knows it, then,” he says, squatting down to look at his precious delphiniums.

But what on earth is he referring to? How does he know that the reason I'm still here is to thank the Blooms for their hospitality?

Suddenly, there's a rattling noise and an amber vial of medication falls out of one of Alfred's pockets onto the bright green grass, where it lies, label upwards.

Sleeping pills.

That's
it
. The clue I've been waiting for.

It really
might
be he who's behind all of the strange things that have been happening—I have the proof!