Ned Vizzini - House of Secrets

Brendan wondered briefly if it was one of the three books that had expanded in front of him, but they had bigger problems now. “Who cares?”

“I do,” insisted Cordelia. Brendan snorted and led Eleanor towards the kitchen. Cordelia carefully found her place in the novel and salvaged a sliver of wood for a bookmark. No matter how bad things got at Kristoff House, with The Fighting Ace she could escape.

The kitchen showcased more destruction: the fridge was dented and leaking; a burner grate from the stove had smashed through a cabinet and destroyed the dinnerware; a family-size box of Cheerios had spilled its guts into the sink. The kids ran upstairs, frantically calling for their parents, but there was no sign.

The second floor was also in ruins, with two exceptions. The pictures in the hallway were in perfect condition. That made sense, because they were of Dahlia’s family; she wouldn’t hurt them. But Cordelia discovered something in the master bedroom too: the white-and-bronze RW trunk.

“Bren? Nell? Look. Everything is demolished, but this trunk is fine.”

“Maybe the Wind Witch protected it,” said Brendan. “Maybe there’s something inside she wanted to keep.”

“Or,” said Cordelia, “it’s magical. Guarded by a ward.”

“A what?”

“You know, like a magic symbol that protects something.”

Cordelia paused. “What about ‘RW’? Who do you think he is?”

“Maybe it’s a she,” Eleanor said.

“Rutherford Walker,” said Brendan, recalling the name. “Dr Rutherford Walker, to be exact.”

“Who?”

“Our great-great-grandfather. Dad told me his name once.”

Cordelia was impressed. “You remembered from hearing that once? How come you don’t have better grades?”

“Because at school there’s nothing worth remembering.”

“Well, this trunk could be a clue,” said Cordelia. “Remember what the Wind Witch said: ‘For the evil done him by the Walkers—’”

“‘For all the evil done upon him by the Walkers—’”

“Bren, she was talking about revenge. And him was her father, Denver Kristoff. It must be revenge for something that happened decades ago. Maybe Kristoff started a blood feud against us.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know; why does anybody start blood feuds?”

“Maybe that old bag was crazy. She said a lot of stuff back there. ‘The craven consultation with Dr Hayes’? Who’s he? What’s that even mean?”

“I don’t know… but our family used to live in San Francisco.”

“And you think some relative of ours just happened to know the guy who built this house?”

“Not just some relative. Dr Rutherford Walker, our great-great-grandfather, who owned this trunk. What did Dad tell you about him?”

Brendan sighed. “He was the one who settled here. He jumped off a boat when it anchored in the bay, because San Francisco was so beautiful. And he stayed.”

“Maybe Dahlia Kristoff fell in love with him.”

“Like he’d date a bald chick.”

“She wasn’t bald then, obviously—”

“Guys!” Eleanor yelled. “We’re supposed to be looking for Mum and Dad!”

“We are, Nell— just help me get this trunk open—”

“No! We have to find them now!” Eleanor’s mouth trembled. “Aren’t you worried that they’re dead? Didn’t you see that table hit Mum and that chair hit Dad? And there’s blood on the wall downstairs? I don’t want to be an orphan! I want Mum! I want Mum!” Her face collapsed into angry angles. She doubled over, crying, pressing her fists into her eyes.

“Nell, it’s all right,” Brendan said, wrapping her up. “Close your eyes, OK?”

“They’re already closed!”

“OK, so keep them closed. And… ah… think about a happy time.”

“Like before our parents were gone?”

“Ah, yes… Deal, a little help?”

“Think about the future,” Cordelia said, gently pulling Eleanor’s fists away from her face. “When we find Mum and Dad.”

Eleanor held back her next set of tears. “Are your guys’ eyes closed too?”

Cordelia looked to Brendan. He shut his eyes. She shut hers. They all pictured the same thing: their smiling parents, alive and well, occasionally bickering, often annoying, but full of love. “They’re closed,” Cordelia assured.

“OK, so we’re gonna open them, and then we’re gonna make it our mission to find Mum and Dad. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Brendan and Cordelia. They all opened their eyes and kept searching.

They didn’t find anything in the other bedrooms or bathrooms (Eleanor did pull her dolls out of the dumbwaiter, which pleased her), so the only place left was the attic. Brendan pulled the string, brought down the steps, and led them up.

“What time is it?” Cordelia asked. The attic was a wreck. The rollaway bed was tossed into a corner.

“I don’t know, why?”

“Because it looks like daylight outside.” Cordelia nodded to the window. The shutters were closed, as were all the shutters in the house, as if the Wind Witch had tried to conceal the mayhem she had caused. Thin shafts of sunlight shone through the slats – and through the translucent white curtains that were on every window. Did we get through the night? Brendan wondered. He’d never been so happy to think about dawn in his life. He walked to the window – and ducked as a small black shape dive-bombed him.

“A bat!” Brendan yelped. “Watch out, guys!”

Cordelia screamed way louder than Brendan or Eleanor expected, then hurtled towards the attic steps.

The bat, which couldn’t have been more than ten centimetres long, plummeted towards her. Cordelia slapped at her face and nearly broke her neck tumbling down the steps before closing the attic door behind her. “Kill it!” she yelled.

“Cordelia?” Brendan said. “It’s just a bat! What’s your problem?”

“I hate bats!” Cordelia answered from downstairs. “Where did it come from?”

Brendan looked at the stand where the bat skeleton had been. Sure enough, the stand was there. But the skeleton was gone.

“Remember that bat skeleton I told you I saw? Well… I think it came to life.”

“If it’s a magical zombie bat, you shouldn’t mess with it!” Cordelia said, running her fingers through her hair. She was sure she could feel the bat’s sinewy wings brushing against her scalp.

In the attic, Brendan motioned for Eleanor to help him. They approached the window as the bat circled frantically. They opened the shutters; sunlight flooded the room. The bat retreated to a corner in the rafters.

“Is it gone?” Cordelia asked from downstairs. “Can I come up?”

But Brendan and Eleanor didn’t answer. They couldn’t. They were too busy staring out of the window.

A primeval forest lay outside Kristoff House.

Trees with trunks as thick as houses reached up so high that Brendan and Eleanor couldn’t see the tops no matter how they craned their necks. Beams of dappled light broke on giant ferns spread like green fans over mossy logs. It looked like the painted background in a dinosaur exhibit, still and calm and even a bit fake. Trees marched into the distance, blending into a uniform brown-and-green curtain.

“Where are we?” gasped Eleanor.

Brendan opened the window. Sounds swept in: caws, chirps and rustlings in the air.

Downstairs, Cordelia noticed that her siblings were unusually quiet, so she went back into the attic to see what was going on. “Hello?” she said, stepping to the window. “Whoa.”

The trees started just a metre from the house. Smaller trees stood below them, where the honey-hued light broke through. A thin haze lay at eye level, listing up and down. They could make out the sound of a brook babbling in the distance and, behind the caws and chirps, a loud, grating buzz. The haze entered the attic, carrying a tang of dirt and pine and a balm of sweet flowers and sap.