Amity (13 page)

I
liked
it. Even though I didn’t like to see Jules hurt.

“And the screaming?” I asked.

She shook her head. “The door swung shut on him, caught his fingers pretty badly. I had to tape them up. Luckily, Dad had a first-aid kit down there.”

“So what happened to
you
?” I waved at her nose, like she needed a reminder.

She shrugged, uncomfortable. “That’s the weird thing. When I got to the boathouse, Abel was freaking out. Completely losing it. The door had closed on him, and when I asked about it, he went on and on about how it had closed on him
on purpose
.

“Like something
deliberately
closed his fingers in the door. Pinning him inside.”

She bit her lip, like she was waiting for me to burst out laughing, right in her face. But as she was speaking, that tinny,
faraway music was building in my head again. And that shaking, live-wire feeling in my stomach was telling me:

Something
had
tried to hurt Abel.

She was right.

“CONNOR,”

Jules said again, with more edge this time, and nasal, too, what with how the paper towel was pressed up against one nostril. The white square was blooming a watery pink that looked almost pretty—sort of delicate—in the afternoon light.

“Yeah?” I felt all clouded over again.
Did she notice?

Of course she does. It’s Jules
.

“God, what is
with
you these days?” she said. “You’re on another planet.
More
on another planet than usual,” she corrected herself. She tossed the wadded paper towel to the counter, where it sat, looking like a squashed, bled-out gerbil against the linoleum, and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“The door closed on Abel’s fingers on purpose. Is what you were saying.” My voice was dull, but I could still, you know, form the words, could repeat her story back to her.

She sighed. “Well, that’s what he said. And, obviously, I told him that was ridiculous.” She hunched her shoulders. “But here’s the thing.…”

My pulse began to hammer, like started to really whale against my ribs.

“When I went to open the door again, after I’d got in there, and had a look at Abel’s hand? The door wouldn’t open. Like Abel said. It wouldn’t go.”

“It was stuck.”

“I mean, yes, I’m sure that’s all it was, that it was stuck. Wood warps and all that. But, I’m telling you, Connor—” She lowered her voice, like whatever she was going to say was some huge secret and not just exactly something I already knew, something I was already feeling with every square inch of my body. “It didn’t
feel
like warped wood.” She shuddered. “It felt like there was someone—
something
—on the other side of the door, blocking it.

“Keeping us locked inside.”

She folded her arms across her chest, like a challenge.

I locked eyes with her, and my spine hummed.

Real
, I thought.
Real
.

In my mind, I saw the Concord River, rushing, churning red.

THE GRUMBLE Of MOM’S BEATER SEDAN CHOKING TO A STOP IN THE DRIVEWAY
snapped us both from our mini-trances.

“So, what about your nose anyway?” I asked while I fumbled with the dirty paper towel. I tossed it in the trash bin under the sink. A puff of rotten-fruit stench drifted up from the cabinet before it shut again, sealing up all the nasty, grimy bits of trash tight. Everything in this house stank like rot.

And I liked it.

“Dad heard Abel screaming, the door banging. He pulled on the door so when it opened, it swung back and hit me in the face. I’m telling myself it was an accident, although he didn’t bother to apologize.” She tapped her first finger against her nostrils real sensitive, tentative. “I think it’s stopped now. I’m fine.”

Anger surged through my limbs.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get outside in time,” I said, feeling honestly, truly sorry, because, I mean: who knows? Maybe I could have stopped Dad. Or maybe I
could
have done something to get the door open, get Abel out, before anything went haywire to begin with.

Yeah, I thought I could have found a way to get the door open. I thought that might be what all of that music, all of
that echo in my chest might’ve meant. That I maybe had an
in
with … well, with Amity. Some kind of all-access pass.

But I’d been busy. Too busy to hear, to notice, down there in the cellar.

“What were you doing anyway?” Jules asked. Her voice got scratchy and kind of high-pitched. “And what the hell happened to your
hands
, Connor? Where were you?”

I looked down. My hands hung limp at my sides, like slabs of meat, like someone else’s body parts.

They were caked in dirt.
Covered
. Like I hadn’t been just scrabbling down in the basement’s stone walls, but had been knee-deep out by the riverbank, clawing at the earth like a wild animal or something.

I didn’t notice before, and I guess Jules was too focused on her nose to see it, either. I still had that huge, round stone in my hand. It looked like something from medieval times, from a castle, or maybe a fort. Some place strong and closed off, I mean.

“I got dirty” was all I could think to say.

“DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT IS?”

She meant the stone, obviously, from the way those little gold sparks in her eyes had caught on it, were scanning it all intense-like. She gnawed away on her lower lip.

“A rock.” Even though I definitely knew, definitely had a feeling, that it was more than that. Special, in some way. Meant for me.

She rolled her eyes and made that cute exasperated face she loved to give me. “Right, ten points, brain trust. But a rock, a stone that size—that shape … Where did you find it?”

“In the cellar.”

She shook her head like a little thrill had just passed over her body, and that made the hum of music slink back into my head for a second, too. “I
knew
it.”

“Yeah?”

“This place. After Dad bought it, I did a little research.” She looked down for a minute. “Maybe I should’ve said something to you. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

I didn’t know, either. That wasn’t like Jules, to keep something from me, you know? But I couldn’t dwell so much on that, not if I wanted to listen. And I had a feeling that what she was trying to say was important.

“I think the house has a history. This area does anyway.

Some people say there was this hideout, like an Underground Railroad for witches, back in the Salem days. And there were drawings, illustrations of what the … um, I guess they were the safe rooms? Pictures of what those places looked like.”

She took a deep breath. “They were lined in stone. Stones like that one. It makes sense. I had a feeling this place could be part of that story. Right location, and it’s definitely old enough. I think Amity was one of those underground safe houses, once.”

The tight, coffin-like feeling passed over me, even though it was broad daylight and we were standing in the kitchen, just as normal, as regular as could be. That sweet, rotten stink from the garbage can wafted by again, and for a second the entire room washed over red.

Then it was back to just me and Jules in the kitchen together, talking.

And the stone. My fingers were curled around it, pressing so hard the tips were bloodless white.

She was right again. I knew—I felt it, like a bug bite or a sting that you can’t just slap away. The same way she was right about what happened to her down in the boathouse, the house kind of … working against her. And now, with the history, a little window on to what Amity truly was, always had been.

Jules was right.

THE FRONT DOOR CREAKED OPEN
and Jules shot me a look. We both listened to the footsteps, so bone-tired and timid they could only be Mom’s. She met us in the kitchen in her church outfit, a button-down flowered dress that had long sleeves and a skirt down to her ankles, even though it was sweltering today. Her cheeks were bright pink, but her eyes still had their usual flat, hollow look. She carried a battered-looking pocketbook made of fraying straw, and she sort of dropped it, heavy, onto the kitchen table, and sank into a chair right next to it.

“How was church?” Jules moved quick to pour Mom a glass of something cold from the fridge. She was always thoughtful that way, my sister.

“It was fine,” Mom said, but her eyes stayed trained on the tabletop, like she was maybe holding something back. “Where’s Abel?”

“He’s upstairs napping,” Jules said. “He, uh, hurt his hand. He’s okay, just resting. And you don’t look so fine.” She slid a glass of ice water down, leaving a wet streak along the wood, which Mom rubbed with the sleeve of her dress. “You don’t have a ‘fine’ face.”

Mom smiled weakly. “No, it was nice, really.” She took a long swallow from her water, then pressed the glass against her forehead, closing her eyes for a second. “I suppose … well,
I’d thought of asking if some of the ladies on the board wanted to come by for coffee,” she clarified, getting to the point. “But there wasn’t … a chance.”

No one gave you the chance to ask
is what I thought she meant.

She flicked her eyes across the room, over the peeled linoleum counters and the water stains on the ceiling. This fixerupper wasn’t exactly there yet. And Dad wasn’t really big on unexpected guests.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” she admitted.

Jules nodded. “Maybe.” She pulled out a chair of her own and sank into it, leaning forward on her elbows like she was getting ready to share a secret. “Have you … Did you talk to anyone about this place? The history here? Have you heard any stories about Amity? Connor found something—”

I stepped up behind Jules, real fast, and kicked at her chair leg. She pitched forward and made a face. After a minute, she waved a hand at me from under the tabletop, like she got it, she understood to shut up about the stone. If Mom hadn’t seen it, hadn’t noticed it, then maybe she wasn’t supposed to.

“History?” Mom asked, like Jules was talking in a foreign language.

“There’s a rumor, I mean. About the Salem witches. Hiding here.”

Mom turned away, a sour look coming over her face. “Well, I never heard
that
,” she said, kind of righteous.

She was lying. I don’t know how I knew it, but she was. And she was lying badly.

“But you heard
something
, right?” I couldn’t help it, couldn’t
stop myself from jumping in, gleeful and a little bit thrilled at the idea. “You heard
something
about this place?”

Mom heard the rumors. I heard the music. It drifted in now, from the riverbanks, slow and lazy, taking its time to get to me. Taking its time to whisper my name.

“There’s
something
about this house, right? There is,” I pressed, smiling.

Mom didn’t answer. But she didn’t need to.

Amity would answer me herself.

THAT NIGHT, I DREAMED
, although what I saw—what revealed itself, I mean—felt less like a dream and more like a hallucination; some place that fell exactly halfway between what was really real, and what was … well, real to me.

I saw some place dangerous.

Dangerous, and inviting.

In the dream, I traveled, pulled by an invisible string, from my bed, to the basement, to the boathouse, and beyond, until I hovered, holding still, waiting to hear from her.

Waiting for Amity to speak to me.

I was over the river. Or in the river. Or maybe I
was
the river. Churning, angry and hungry and wild. Around me, on all sides, pale, bloated bodies thrashed and paddled, wide-eyed, panicked, pulling against the current. They were doomed, I could tell. But their energy fed my own.

My own, and Amity’s.

We were melting together, becoming one. We were the same now.

She was a part of me.

When I lifted my hands from the river, they were washed in red, soaked in bloody stains.

Cold, clammy hands clamped down on my ankles, making me gasp, dragging me under the surface of the water, and now
I was actually bathed in blood, drowning-like, trying to breathe and gulping it in, tasting it like rusty metal in my throat.

Peeking through the ripples in the water, I realized: the fingers at my feet, tugging at me—they were shredded, strings of flesh and knobby bones and who knew how many years of decay. Some were witches’, like Jules had said. But that wasn’t Amity’s only story. The boneyard beneath Amity was more than a specific place … wide and stuffed with bodies.

The fingers at my feet and the people all around me …

Who knew how long they’d been here, rotting, slowly dissolving into the Concord? Feeding Amity. And now feeding me.

I gagged. Shut my eyes. Let myself sink into the thick, sticky mud of the river’s bottom.

She was a part of me, Amity. Growing, gaining power, every day. Amity wanted me.

And I welcomed her in.

NOW

DAY 8