House of Secrets. Ned Vizzini
him rest, and they had made him sleepwalk.
The patient had sued, of course. Dr Walker had lost his job. The lawsuit was still pending, and the Walkers had spent so much money fighting it that they’d been forced to sell their old home and their two cars. It was so weird – so crazy and unlikely – that Brendan still had trouble believing it had really happened, even though he was living with the results.
“You know, I heard weird stuff about this place,” the removal man said as they walked along the upstairs hall, past the portraits of the Kristoff family.
“What?” Brendan asked.
“Maybe I’m no Harvard grad, but I’m a real good listener and an even better eavesdropper. And I heard this house was cursed. That’s why the last family left.”
“You believe in that stuff? Curses?”
“In San Francisco? With all kinds of hippies and freaks running around? Anybody could get cursed.”
Brendan had a question, but he wasn’t sure if he could ask it without sounding crazy. He pulled the string so the attic stairs came down and went into the attic with the removal man.
“Where you want the hockey stuff?” the mover asked.
“Lacrosse,” Brendan said. “Put it anywhere.” The man put it by the window. Then Brendan said, “If this place is cursed, how do I fix it?”
The man didn’t seem to think that question was weird. “Best way to fix a curse is to find the person who set it up,” he said, shrugging. Then he left Brendan to think about the old crone.
Out on the pavement, the removal man returned to the Spartan truck for his next item: a white trunk with bands of riveted bronze. It had rounded metal corners and the faded initials RW stencilled over a hefty lock.
“What’s in that trunk?” Cordelia asked. She was standing outside with her father.
“Just some old family records,” said Dr Walker. “You never noticed before? I’ve been lugging them around for years. Master bedroom!” he told the removal man. Two hours later the Walkers had settled in, hardly daring to believe that this was their new home. Since the purchase price had covered the furniture, everything inside was as beautiful as when they’d first visited: the pottery, the suit of armour, the grand piano… The Walkers’ belongings seemed out of place, unworthy of their new surroundings. Even the box of groceries that they brought from their old house didn’t seem to belong in the shiny kitchen. After making her family take a self-timed photo with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background, Mrs Walker let her kids wander while she made tea in the stellar kitchen and her husband dozed beneath a sunbeam in the living-room Chester chair.
Cordelia went to the library to return Savage Warriors to the shelves, but was surprised to see there wasn’t any space for it, as if the other books had multiplied in its absence. Oh well, she thought, putting it on the table and taking down a book called The Fighting Ace.
Eleanor went upstairs and bravely passed under the creepy old pictures, moving to where Diane Dobson had pointed out the dumbwaiter. She pulled the handle in the wall; it opened like a mailbox. She was just tall enough to see a small compartment hanging on what looked like two bicycle chains. She wanted to climb in, but she knew that her mother would have a fit, so she tossed her dolls inside the dumbwaiter and tried to figure out how to make them go down to the kitchen.
Brendan grabbed a lacrosse stick to use as a weapon and went outside to investigate the stone angel. He was sweating nervously and hated himself for it as he crept around the side of the house. He came to where the statue had been…
And it was still gone. Pine needles and twigs lay over the area in uniform distribution.
It was her, Brendan thought. He had no idea where the thought came from, but he knew he was right. He remembered how the angel had been missing a right hand. He tried to remember which hand the old crone had grabbed him with. He would put money on the left. Eleanor saw her, and she turned into stone to hide herself. Now she could be anywhere.
Brendan scanned the property. He didn’t hear anything but a babbling squirrel and the irregular sibilance of cars passing on Sea Cliff Avenue. After a few minutes he decided he wasn’t doing anything useful and made his way back inside.
She was right there, in the great hall, talking to his family.
“What are you doing here?” Brendan demanded, brandishing his lacrosse stick like a two-handed axe. “Leave my family alone!”
“Brendan!” his mother snapped. “Have you lost your mind? Put that down!”
The old crone turned to face him. She wasn’t dressed in dirty rags any more. She wore a loose polka-dot dress and a floral bandanna that hid her baldness; her teeth were freshly cleaned and polished, almost white. She carried an apple pie in her left hand; her right was tucked into her dress pocket. “What’s wrong, son? You seem troubled.”
Brendan gritted his teeth. “You bet I’m troubled. Now drop the pie, put your hands over your head, and get out of our house—”
“Brendan! Give me that lacrosse stick! Immediately!” his father ordered.
“Dad, this old bag’s evil. I’ll bet she spiked that pie with arsenic—”
“You’re playing too many video games. Hand over the stick!”
Silence gripped the room. Brendan gulped and gave his dad the lacrosse stick.
“Now apologise,” ordered his mother.
Brendan took a deep breath, refusing to make eye contact with the old woman, and said under his breath, “Sorry.”
“You’re more than sorry. You’re grounded for a month. You can’t just threaten people,” said his father.
“I’m not sure she’s a person,” Brendan mumbled.
“Bren,” Cordelia said, “she was introducing herself. She’s our next-door neighbour.”
“Great.”
“I apologise for my son’s unconscionable behaviour,” said Dr Walker, putting the lacrosse stick against a wall. “Brendan, go to your room; we’ll discuss this shortly. Ma’am, we never had a chance to get your name.”
“Dahlia Kristoff,” the old crone said. “And please don’t worry about your son. I understand about young boys. Especially these days. So many stimuli.”
“Are you related to Denver Kristoff, the writer?” Cordelia asked breathlessly.
“He’s my father.”
Was your father, Brendan thought as he mounted the back stairs, unless he’s like two hundred.
“I’m a fan,” Cordelia said. She held up her copy of The Fighting Ace.
“It’s so nice to meet a fellow bibliophile. Did you get that from my father’s library?”
Cordelia nodded, a little embarrassed – but then again, it was her library now.
“I remember when he finished it. I was born here. See that old joker behind you?” Dahlia nodded to the philosopher bust in the great hall. “Used to call him Arsdottle. Never could pronounce his name correctly.”
“How long did you live here?” asked Cordelia.
“Oh, not too long,” replied Dahlia. “I’ve moved around a bit. Europe, the Far East… I’ve lived in places you wouldn’t believe. But I could never get Kristoff House out of my soul.”
“Where do you live now?” Eleanor asked. “One thirty or one twenty-six?” Cordelia gave her a squeeze. She was getting better with