Annie's Room (5 page)

Seven

Today

“Annie, do you want dessert?” Mom calls up from the bottom of the stairs.

“No thanks,” I reply, “I'm full.”

“Annie? Did you hear what I asked?”

“I'm full, thank you!” I shout back. “No dessert for me!”

“Annie?” Dad shouts. “Did I leave my phone in your room?”

I look around. “I don't think so!”

“Damn it,” I hear him mutter.

“Annie!” Scott calls from one of the other rooms. “Did you pack the spare controller in one of your boxes?”

“I don't know!”

“Well it's not in mine!”

“Ask Mom!”

“Annie!” Dad shouts. “Are you sure my phone's not up there?”

“Yes, Dad,” I reply with a sigh.

“Annie!” Scott calls out. “Annie, where are your boxes?”

“Annie!” Mom shouts from downstairs. “Do you want a drink?”

“No thank you,” I tell her.

“Did you hear me?” she continues. “Annie?”

“Stop shouting that name!” I yell, momentarily overcome by frustration before quickly calming myself again. “Just... stop,” I continue, looking around the room as I tell myself that I'm overreacting. I swear, all evening people have been shouting the name Annie every five goddamn seconds, and I'm starting to lose my mind.

Silence falls for a moment, and then I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. A few seconds later, Mom appears in the doorway with a frown.

“Annie, are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” I reply, aware that I must seem flustered. I try sitting up in bed a little, before thinking better of it and settling back down. “Sorry, I just wish people would stop shouting Annie all the time, it's like...” I pause, trying to work out how I can explain the problem. It's not that I believe in ghosts, or that I believe that there could be anything in the house; at the same time, I just don't want to tempt fate by having people running around and shouting that name all over the place. “I just don't like the way everyone's shouting up to me,” I add finally, figuring that even if I'm making myself sound grouchy, it's better than telling the truth and admitting that I'm worried. “Can you actually come up to my room when you want to ask me something, or better yet get me a new phone?”

Coming over to the bed, she takes her phone from her pocket and sets it down on my bedside table.

“You don't have to leave
your
phone with me,” I tell her.

“It's late, I'm not going to use it tonight. Just hang onto it, and if anyone calls for me, take down a note. You can damn well earn your keep as my personal assistant.” She pauses. “You're not finding this easy, are you?”

“I'm fine.”

Smiling, she heads back to the door. “I'll tell your Dad and Scott to call you instead of shouting. I totally get how that must have been annoying.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, not wanting to let on quite how glad I am to have the phone. I know I'm being dumb, but I can't shake the feeling that something in this house isn't quite right. “By the way, does your phone have internet?”

“Sure does, but don't go crazy. The data charges are insane.”

“I'll be quick,” I reply, picking up the phone as she heads downstairs. I tap the screen to launch the web browser, and then I start searching for all the details Tabitha mentioned earlier. At first I don't manage to come up with any hits, so I try a few different search terms until finally I uncover a mention of Annie Garrett on a page about notable murders in the area. The phone takes a while to load the section, and there are only a couple of paragraphs:

Annie Garrett (1928 to 1944) disappeared shortly after her sixteenth birthday from her parents' remote home in the Albanack area of Caledonian Brunswick. A police investigation uncovered significant quantities of blood in the house, especially in Annie's bedroom, and a case containing her clothing – also bloodstained – was subsequently located in the forest near the family home. Suspicion immediately fell upon her parents, Jonathan and Rebecca Garrett, and the pair were arrested for Annie's murder in September 1944.

The subsequent trial was controversial due to the lack of a body, but prosecutors argued that there was no doubt the girl had been killed. Jonathan and Rebecca Garrett, who with their daughter had lived an almost hermetic life away from other people, refused to testify or answer any questions, and in November 1944 they were found guilty of Annie's murder. The following year, they were both executed by electric chair, and their bodies were cremated in accordance with standard policy. To this day, the body of Annie Garrett has never been located, despite extensive searches on and near the family's property. No photos of Annie Garrett are known to have been taken.

Scrolling down, I'm shocked to see a photo of our house, complete with forensic workers examining the garden. According to the caption, this photo dates from 1975, when the most recent attempt was made to locate Annie's body, thirty years after her death.

“Oh God,” I whisper, feeling a shiver run through my chest, “we're living in an
actual
murder house.”

I scroll further, hoping to see photos of Annie and her family, but there's nothing and I quickly find entries for other local murders instead. Closing the browser, I bring up Dad's number and tap the screen to call him, and then I wait until he picks up.

“Hey,” he says, “is -”

“It's me,” I tell him, “I'm using Mom's phone. So did you guys know what happened in this house seventy-something years ago?”

“Um...” He pauses, and I can hear him walking quickly. A moment later, I hear him on the stairs, and the call is cut as he comes into my room. “Hey, Annie, listen...”

“Did you
know
?” I ask again. “You did, didn't you!”

“It's complicated,” he continues, shutting the door as he comes in and then sitting next to me. He keeps his voice noticeably low, as if he doesn't want anyone else to hear. “Annie, this house was a real bargain -”

“Because someone was murdered in it.”

“Because of some dumb superstitions.”

“Does Mom know?”

“Your mother doesn't
need
to know, she'd only... You know what she's like.”

“I know what she's
like
?”

“Annie, please -”

“Do you know the murdered girl was also named Annie?”

“I -” He pauses, clearly shocked. “I'm sorry?”

“Her name was Annie Garrett,” I continue. “She disappeared from this house in 1944, and she had the same name as me!”

“Well that doesn't mean anything,” he replies, glancing at the door to make sure no-one can overhear us, before turning back to me. “Annie, listen, it's just a house, okay? There's nothing to be scared of.”

“A girl went missing!”

“And I'm sure if her body was anywhere around,” he continues, “it would have been found long before now. You have to be rational about this. Just because something bad happened here once, that doesn't mean we should turn around and run, okay? Hell, you stand in any spot on the planet, and I bet
someone
died there at some point in human history.” He sighs. “I'm sorry about the name thing, that's an unfortunate coincidence, I had no idea the dead girl was called Annie as well.” He looks toward the door. “Although I guess it explains the carving.”

“What carving?” I ask.

“Oh...” He turns to me, and it's clear that although he'd rather not tell me, he knows he's let the cat out of the bag. “Your mother noticed it first. Someone scratched the words 'Annie's room' into the door-frame, that's all. We thought Scott must have done it, but I guess it's been here all along.”

“This was her
room
?” I ask, my eyes widening with horror. “I'm in a murdered girl's bedroom?”

“No,” he replies with a sigh, “you're in
your
bedroom, your
new
bedroom, and as soon as we get just a little bit sorted here, I promise this will be the first room we decorate.” He waits for me to answer, as if he expects me to suddenly say that everything's fine. “Does that sound remotely like a good deal?”

“Did Mom tell you I saw someone in the garden?”

“I heard you had visitors earlier.”

“No, I saw someone else.” I turn and look out the window, although it's dark outside now. “There was a woman standing on the lawn. Mom didn't see her, but I swear she was there.”

“Great,” he sighs, “this is
exactly
why I didn't want anyone to know what had happened here. Your imaginations are all going to run wild, especially yours since you're cooped up in bed all day. You're not being rational, Annie -”

“So I should be rational and forget what I saw with my own two eyes? Does that even make sense?”

He stares at me for a moment. “Is this going to be a problem?” he asks finally.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean are you going to tell your mother about all of this? Are you going to dump all that worry on my shoulders?”

“I...” Pausing, I realize that he's desperate for me to make some kind of deal. “Mom doesn't need to know,” I admit reluctantly, “so long as nothing weird happens.”

“Nothing will.”

“But if something
does
-”

“Then we'll call the Ghostbusters and get it straightened out.”

“You're not taking this seriously.”

“Are you saying you think there's a ghost? Seriously?”

I open my mouth to reply, but I can't quite bring myself to come up with an answer. I mean, I believe in ghosts in movies and books, but in real life? That's quite a leap.

“It's just creepy,” I tell him finally. “That's all.”

“We're going to make this house ours,” he replies, with a smile that I guess he thinks is supposed to be comforting. “Whatever happened here in the past, it's
staying
in the past. End of discussion. And whatever happens in the present day, please don't talk to your mother or your brother about this. Make sure to wipe the history of the browser on Mom's phone too, just in case.” He gets to his feet. “I need to finish some stuff downstairs, but are you going to be okay on your own for a while?”

“Leave the door open,” I tell him. “I don't want to be shut in here.”

Once he's gone, I can't help bringing up the search again and trying again to find answers about the Garrett murder. I know deep down that there can't be such things as ghosts, but at the same time I'd like to see a photo of the family, just so I could be sure none of them looked like the woman I saw in the garden earlier. After another half hour, however, I have to admit defeat: the Garrett family appears to have been so reclusive, they didn't even leave any photos behind. I guess life was like that back then: you could live and die, and all you'd leave behind would be your name.

Later, after I've said goodnight to everyone, I start to nod off. It's strange how, from just sitting in bed all day, I can end up so tired. Just as I'm about to drift into a deeper sleep, however, I become vaguely aware of raised voices somewhere else in the house. They're not loud enough to wake me, but they keep rumbling along, preventing me from falling into a really deep sleep.

And then suddenly Mom screams.

Eight

Seventy-one years ago

Father is snoring next to me, but I can't sleep.

The house is dark and quiet. I don't know what time it is, but as I stare at the open window I can see a blanket of stars filling the night sky and there's no hint of dawn yet, so I imagine it must be somewhere between midnight and five. In the morning, I'm to help Father in the garden again, but although I enjoy that kind of work, there's a part of me that wants the night to last forever. Everything feels so calm and peaceful, and I honestly can't imagine how life could ever be any better. I don't even want to sleep. I just want to be here, enjoying every precious second.

I hate sleepless nights, because whenever I can't sleep I end up thinking about the forest, and about the lake beyond the trees. I know I'm being foolish, and of course I've never mentioned any of this to Father or Mother, but sometimes when I think about that lake in the moonlight, I can't help remembering the day I was out there a few years ago, swimming through the clear water. Even now, I remember how cool the water was against my body, and then I remember seeing that face, staring up at me with two dead eyes. Ever since then, things have been different. For one thing, Mother and I were much closer when I was a girl, but after the day at the lake, I've become much fonder of Father. Sometimes, I feel as if my way of seeing the world is all twisted.

Taking a deep breath, with Father still snoring next to me, I stare up at the dark ceiling and try to imagine how Mother must feel right now.

And then I hear it.

Somewhere in the house, beyond the closed door of my room, there's the faintest creaking sound, as if a foot was rested very gently against one of the loose boards.

I wait, hoping that I was wrong, but a moment later there's another creek, just slightly closer this time.

Not wanting to wake Father, I turn carefully and slowly until I'm looking over toward the closed door. With moonlight streaming through to the landing, I can just about make out a hint of light around the edges of the frame, and a moment later I see a shadow at the bottom, which can only mean one thing: having gone to bed a while ago, Mother is up and about. I listen for a moment, and then I spot another shadow, this time at the side of the door, near the handle. It takes a moment before I realize that Mother must be feeling for the scratched words in the wood.

Annie's room.

Once she's found those words, which she surely must have done by now, she should go away. Instead, I watch the door and realize that she's still out there, as if for some reason she's loitering on the landing. I want to call out and tell her to go back to her room, to tell her that Father and I are fine in here, but I'd still rather not wake Father so instead I simply watch the door, convinced that at any moment now she has to turn and walk away. After everything that has happened lately, I simply cannot believe that she would be so foolish as to not learn her lesson.

I wait.

Slowly, I start to hear a faint creaking sound.

The handle.

I watch as the door starts to inch open. I have no idea what Mother thinks she's doing right now, but she must have fully lost her mind if she thinks she can come in here. Glancing at Father, I can just about make out his sleeping face in the darkness, especially now that a little moonlight is coming through the opening door. Turning back, I see Mother's silhouette shuffling into the room, and I realize that with her damaged eyes she probably can't see me staring back at her. She's trying to be very quiet, and I watch with a sense of growing concern as she stops at the foot of the bed and sniffs the air for a moment. Shuffling forward, she starts to make her way around to Father's side, and then she stops and leans down again, sniffing as if to make sure that it's him. She clearly has no idea that I'm awake.

Now that she's closer, I can hear the faintest of sobs coming from her silhouette.

Reaching down, she fumbles with something near her waist, and that's when I realize that she's holding one of the shovels from the garden. For a moment, I truly can't imagine what she's doing, but then slowly, with tremblings hands, she starts to raise the shovel, almost as if she's going to strike down with it against the bed. The idea is so monstrous, so horrifying, that at first I can't believe it's true, until she holds the shovel high above her head and tilts the tip slightly, as if to aim directly at Father. All the while, her body is trembling.

And then she strikes.

“No!” I shout, launching myself toward her and slamming into her chest, sending her crashing back against the wall. I feel the edge of the shovel's head cutting against my chin, but there's no time to deal with that now. Instead, I focus on pushing Mother down to the floor and placing a hand over her mouth, trying to quieten her shrieks. I climb on top of her, using my knees to press into her ribs and belly, and I lean closer as she struggles to get free.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Father shouts from the bed.

“I've got her!” I shout back, forcing Mother down more firmly this time. Out of breath and with my heart pounding faster than I've ever known before, I feel for a moment as if I want to hit Mother, to make her pay for her gross idiocy. Turning, I see that her hands are reaching out, trying desperately to find the shovel. I kick the damn thing away, sending it clattering under the bed so she can't get to it.

“What's she doing in here?” Father asks, stepping off the bed and towering over us both.

“I don't know,” I stammer, as she continues to try fighting me off. “I just heard he come in and then -”

Reaching down, Father pulls the shovel out from under the bed, banging it against the frame in the process, and then he holds it up.

“Father,” I say after a moment, worried that he's coming to the same conclusion I already reached, “please, don't think the worst. I'm sure she -”

“Get aside, Annie,” he says firmly.

“Father -”

“Get aside.”

I pause, and he grabs me by the collar, pulling me back against the bed as he steps over Mother. She's still struggling to get up, but she freezes as soon as father presses the head of the shovel against her belly and then puts his right foot on the edge, ready to drive it down into her guts as if he were digging in the garden.

“No!” she shouts, her trembling hands reaching down toward the shovel. She tries to push it away, holding onto the rusty edges, but Father just presses down harder with his boot until she lets out a cry of pain.

“What did you intend to do in this room tonight?” Father bellows. “Tell me the truth, or I swear I'll dig through you like you're a knot of weeds!”

“Stop!” she screams, so loud that I briefly worry the neighbors might hear five miles away. “For the love of God, don't hurt me! Please don't hurt me! Please, please...” Her shaking fingers are still holding the sides of the shovel, but she can surely not hope to force it away.

“Or what?” he asks, with his foot still resting on the shovel's head. “You came in here meaning to hurt me, didn't you?”

“No!” she shouts. “I swear on all that's holy, I just got the wrong room!”

Father turns to me. “What was she doing when she came in?”

“She...” Staring down at Mother, I see the terror in her scratched eyes and I realize that I have power over her. I could lie to Father, he'd most likely believe me, but at the same time I know that lying is a sin. I've been taught that all my life. “She felt the door-frame,” I say after a moment. “I could see her shadow, I could tell she was -”

“No!” Mother shouts. “Don't listen to her!”

“I saw her shadow,” I repeat, turning to Father. “She was out there for a little while, making sure which room she was at. Then she opened the door quietly and carefully, so as not to wake us up.” I turn back to Mother, and I can see pure fear in her damaged eyes. At the same time, she must know I can't be sinful. “You know it's true,” I tell her. “I'm not to lie, am I?”

“Please,” she whimpers, clutching the head of the shovel as it continues to push down against her belly. Breaking into a series of sobs, she says a few other things that are inaudible, before tilting her head back and letting out a wail of pain. “Do it!” she shouts. “End it all now! Kill me and bury me in the garden! I don't want to live like this anymore! My eyes hurt so much!”

I swallow hard, waiting to see whether Father will do what she wants. For a moment, it seems as if he truly might dig down into her until the shovel's metal tip reaches through to the floorboards, severing her body and ending her life. I think he might truly be considering that option, but finally he moves his foot away and pulls the shovel back, tossing it onto the bed.

“Just do it,” Mother whimpers, clutching her belly. “Lord have mercy on my soul!”

“She meant to kill you,” I tell Father. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

“Nor do I,” he says firmly. “Annie, go make the basement ready.”

“The basement?” I pause, surprised by his command. “Ready for what?”

“Just clear the far end of any tools, anything she might be able to use. I want it bare.” He turns to me. “Go!” he barks.

Stumbling back, I turn and hurry to the door, ignoring Mother's continued sobs. I must confess that as I make my way downstairs, I feel a little shocked, and by the time I get to the basement door and pull the bolt across I'm almost trembling with fear. Not just fear, though. Excitement too, and anticipation. I pull the door open and take a candle from the shelf, lighting it so as to be able to see my way. As I start to make my way down the steps, however, I hear Mother crying out from upstairs, and then I hear a bump, almost...

Was that the shovel striking the floorboards? Did Father change his mind and end her life?

I pause for a moment. A few seconds later, I realize I can still hear Mother sobbing, and I can hear Father stomping about up there.

Heading into the basement, I set the candle down and then get to work, hurriedly pulling the tables from the far end and setting them near the foot of the steps. I'm not certain what Father intends to do down here, but I have an idea, and it's clear that he wants to ensure Mother can't get hold of anything she might use as a tool, either to hurt one of us or to cause harm to her own self. Once I've cleared the far end, I take another look around to make sure that there's absolutely nothing she might find useful, and then I head toward the steps, only to hear the sound of Mother struggling at the top. Seconds later, I see a dark shape being shoved through the door and I step back just in time to avoid being struck as Mother is sent rattling down the steps. She lands hard in a crumpled heap at my feet.

Stepping back, I gasp as I see that her right ankle is broken and twisted back, most likely from the fall. She's sobbing more than ever.

Father makes his way down, stomping so hard on each of the creaking old steps, I'm worried he might break them.

“You can go upstairs now, Annie,” he tells me, untwisting a section of rope in his hands. “I can handle this. Go back to bed. You need to sleep.”

“What are you going to do?” I ask, watching as he grabs Mother's collar and starts pulling her across to the basement's far side.

“Something I should have done a long time ago,” he replies.

“But what?”

“It's none of your concern.”

“But is she -”

“Get out!” he shouts, turning and pushing me back toward the steps. “Don't make me tell you again, girl!”

“I'm sorry,” I reply, hurrying up the steps until I reach the door, at which point I stop and look back down. I can hear Mother still sobbing, and in the candle's low light I can just about make out Father still holding the rope as he heads over to her. She's on the floor, curled up like a little dead baby, as Father stops and reaches down to her. Realizing that it's not my place to interfere, I head up and push the door shut, before making my way across the kitchen.

I can hear Mother crying out in the basement below. Whatever Father's doing to her, I hope that this time,
finally
, she might actually learn to mend her ways.