There was a full-length mirror on the closet door. I grinned into it and it grinned right back at me. The mirror was old and kind of spotty and made me seem about twice as tall, which looked neat, like I was an NBA basketball player. The problem was that stretched out I looked even skinnier than I really am. My legs looked like knobby sticks, especially in my baggy shorts, and my arms stuck out like toothpicks.
Dork city, definitely.
I bounced up and down in front of the weird old mirror a few times watching how a wave in the middle turned my body to rubber, and my ears wiggled like elephant flaps.
This was better than a funhouse and the admission was free, right in my own bedroom. After a while it got pretty boring, though, so I went back and checked out the window seat.
I took off the cushion and you could tell it was like a built-in toy box, and the seat part was the lid.
So open it up, Doofus, I told myself. See if there’re any toys inside. But a funny feeling made me not want to open the lid.
Maybe there was something inside. Something that wanted to come out.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said out loud.
Then I reached out and flung open the lid.
The toy box was empty.
Whew! I let out the breath I’d been holding. What a complete goon I was being, afraid of an empty toy box!
I let the lid fall and started unpacking my suitcase. It’s going to be a great summer, I thought, throwing my clothes into the old dresser hurriedly.
Suddenly I wanted to get unpacked and get outside, check out the neighborhood, and see if there were other kids my age.
The bottom drawer stuck. I reared back, ready to kick it, then remembered what my mom said about it being valuable. Which you’d never know to look at it, that was for sure!
Sighing, I got down on my knees and worked to loosen that stupid drawer. I jiggled it sideways and finally it came free with a piercing shriek of wood on wood.
I winced and let go of the drawer.
But the shriek went on. It got louder. More urgent.
Sally. My little sister was screaming. Screaming as if somebody—or something—was trying to hurt her.
3
I ran out into the hall. The scream was louder. It was definitely coming from up here on the second floor.
“Sally?” I hurried toward the sound, worried that Sally was really hurting and not just crying for attention like she sometimes does.
The crying was coming from a room at the far end of the hall. The door was closed.
“Sally?”
I opened the door and the sobbing stopped in mid-wail.
There was nobody in the room.
A child-sized chair rocked gently in the corner. Which really spooked me until I realized it must have been the force of my opening the door that got it started. Or these creaky old floors, totally uneven.
I started to leave when a movement outside the window caught my eye. Frowning, I took a step toward the window.
Sally! She was down there in the backyard chasing a beach ball and laughing like she never had a care in the world. What was going on here? The hairs prickled along the back of my neck.
Someone had been in this room, crying and screaming bloody murder.
And if it wasn’t Sally, then who was it?
As I stood there like a dolt staring out the window, trying to get a grip on some kind of logic with my sluggish mind, I heard a loud banging noise coming from downstairs.
Someone was at the door, trying to get in.
“Hey, Mom!” I shouted. “Someone’s at the door!”
No answer. Mom must be outside, looking after Sally. The pounding was making the walls shake and I decided I had better answer the door before the house fell down. So I sprinted down the hall, slid down the banister, and jumped off the end. That’s when I realized the pounding wasn’t coming from the front door like I’d thought. It was coming from the back door.
My throat felt thick, like it was hard to swallow. Why was everything so strange in this old house?
Go ahead, I told myself, answer the door.
I went into the kitchen. Nobody was there. The banging on the back door was deafening. Wham, wham, wham!
Somehow I knew it was a summons meant for me alone.
4
I gathered up my courage, grabbed the knob, and flung the door open.
There on the back steps was a round-faced kid with fat freckles and a gap-toothed grin.
“Hi! Jason? I’m Steve. From next door.”
I stared at him, trying to smile back. Steve was a little shorter than me but husky and solid instead of beanpole skinny. He was wearing a Stephen King T-shirt and baggy shorts and looked about my age.
“Your mom said I should knock real loud since you were upstairs.”
So that was it. Relieved, I stepped back from the door. “Come on in.”
“I’ve never been in here before,” said Steve, looking around the kitchen eagerly. “My family comes every summer but nobody ever stays in this house.” Steve ducked his head as if he’d said too much. “Hey, do you play ball? There’s not a whole lot of kids here but we might be able to get a game together—if you don’t mind playing with girls.”
“What do you mean, nobody ever stays here?” I demanded.
Steve avoided looking me in the eye. He shrugged and scuffed at the floor with the toe of his sneaker. “People don’t, that’s all.”
“What’s wrong with this house?” I asked.
Steve hesitated, like he didn’t want to say any more. Right away I figured he had an active imagination, like they’re always saying about me, and he was used to people not believing him.
“It’s
