One, I never wanted to come back to Ash House again.
Two, I had the sickening feeling that Ash House would leave me little choice, and that one way or another, I would be forced to come back here and face my demons.
Chapter 4
My heart was still pounding in my chest by the time I arrived home. Kicking my bike against the fence leading to our two-story house tucked in between two larger houses, like a little kid squeezed between its parents, I had never been so relieved to get home.
I took the steps leading to our front door two at a time, opened the door and quickly slammed it shut behind me, like the devil was on my heels.
You’re being ridiculous, Faye, I told myself while I dropped my backpack next to the front door and kicked my shoes off. Stone statues can’t follow you. You ran away from Ash House like a headless chicken, scared of your own shadow. One of the previous inhabitants simply had a strange taste, that’s all. Maybe we had stumbled upon an art room, filled with discarded works, including one very creepy, life-sized statue.
Thinking about it as I walked through the hallway toward the kitchen, I doubted all masters had started off as being particularly skilled. Michelangelo’s first sculptures probably weren’t all that great, either.
The thing was, though, that the statue had looked like it was crafted by a master of the trade, with intricate, lifelike details… The only thing was that the woman portrayed by the statue looked absolutely mortified.
Still in the hallway, I caught sight of Mom working in the kitchen, her back toward me. She hummed the same song she always did when cooking.
I tried to sneak up the stairs unnoticed, not in the mood for conversation or for having to explain myself, but the first step creaked under my weight, revealing my presence.
“Ah, Faye, you’re home!” Mom swirled around, her smile bright enough to light up an entire room.
I instantly felt guilty, not just for breaking and entering a property—which could technically be considered a crime, even if the property in question was abandoned—but also for lying to Mom. When she had asked me what my friends and I were up to this afternoon, I had blatantly lied to her for the first time in history.
Mom didn’t like the thought of me hanging around in the woods, and the only time I had brought up Ash House before, her eyes spat fire. I might as well have told her that I was dropping out of school to join an army of hitmen. If she knew I was heading out there, hell would freeze over before she would let me go.
“Uhm, yeah, hey.” I set my foot back down and turned toward her. “What’s for dinner?” I asked, trying to feign innocence.
“Spaghetti,” Mom replied. “Bolognaise, but I’m trying a new recipe.” She held up a spoon covered with tomato sauce. “You want to get a pre-taste?”
Hesitating, I walked toward her, hoping that nothing would give it away to her that I hadn’t been hanging around at the football field all afternoon, gawking at Emlyn’s crush, which was the story I had fed her. Like all good lies, it was rooted in some truth: Emlyn did have a crush on a guy from the football team, and the football field was at the edge of the woods, and not that far from our actual location.
“Sure.” Mom fed me a spoonful of bolognaise sauce, and I licked my lips. “This is pretty good.”
“Thanks. It should be ready in about twenty minutes; I’m just waiting for your Dad to get home to heat up the pasta. So, did he notice Emlyn?”
I blinked, confused as to what she was talking about, and then remembered the lies I had spun, careful like a spider weaving its web. “Not really,” I said.
“If he doesn’t notice her, then he’s not worth her time.” Mom stirred the sauce some more, and I leaned against the counter, my hands sweaty.
I was surprised the look on my face hadn’t given it away yet that I wasn’t telling the truth. Maybe I was a better actor than I gave myself credit for.
Our kitchen was quaint, the furniture more suitable for in a century-old farmhouse than a two-story house in the middle of one the street. Mom had dressed up the off-white cabinets with some knickknacks such as photograph frames and a fruit bowl that had once belonged to her great-grandmother. One of the cabinets even had a checkered red-and-white curtain in front of it rather than an actual door. With her bright pink apron, Mom seemed right at home in the kitchen, but I looked as out of place as an elephant in a china shop.
“You look a little off,” Mom said suddenly, which caused my heart to jump in my throat. “Are you feeling okay? You’re not coming down with something?”
She lifted her hand to touch my forehead.
I flinched, stepping away. “No, no, I’m fine. I’m going to check some social media for a while.” I hurried past her, desperate to get out of the kitchen. The walls were starting to close in on me, giving me a claustrophobic feel.
“Call me when dinner’s ready,” I said before Mom could speak another word, and then I hurried up the stairs.
The box I had snatched from Ash House poked into my back as I raced upstairs, to the safety of my room.
My room was a constant battlefield for my girly side and my darker side, a strange combination where no side ever seemed to win. As I sat down on my bed, legs crossed, waiting for my laptop to boot, I was amazed by how the left side of the room seemed perfect for a cheerleader captain—a vanity with a huge mirror and make-up worth a small fortune, a closet with clothes piling out—and the right side seemed like a serial killer’s
