Don't Forget Me! (12 page)

“I'm not a strange girl,” I said out loud.

I wanted to run back upstairs and argue with her.
Plead
with her to believe me.
Beg
her to remember me.

But I heard a creaking sound. On the other side of the basement.

I turned away from the stairs and made my way toward the little room in back. Late afternoon sunlight slanted in from the basement windows, sending long, orange stripes across the cluttered floor.

“I'm coming, Peter,” I called, my voice hollow, ringing off the stone walls. “I'm here.”

At the entrance to the backroom, I stopped with a gasp.

The trapdoor—it was creaking open. Slowly. Stone grinding against stone.

I could see only blackness beneath it. A dark pit that appeared to stretch down forever.

Slowly, slowly, the door lifted. As it opened, the blackness seemed to spread across the floor, over the room. Shutting out the sunlight, shutting out all light.

And then, out of the darkness, a thin, silvery figure appeared.

He seemed to form in front of my eyes, shimmering wetly against the opening trapdoor.

I cried out when I recognized my brother. He stood so stiffly, trapped inside the thick layer of mucus. His hair, his face, his entire body wrapped tightly in that wet, clear covering.

He staggered toward me stiffly, and then raised one arm, motioning to me. Behind the thick goo, I could see his glasses, and behind them, his eyes, staring out at me so blankly.

“Peter—!” I choked out.

He was almost colorless. Entirely gray. I could practically see through him.

He motioned with the one hand. And his mouth opened slightly. Opened, then closed, forming a bubble in the jelly so tight over his face.

Opened, then closed. And then I heard a single word: “Danielle!”

I took a step toward him. But my legs were trembling so hard, I nearly fell.

“Danielle …” he repeated, the name bubbling in front of his mouth. “Come, Danielle.” He stretched his gray hand to me.

I froze. “Huh?” His hand grazed mine, sticky and wet, and so cold, cold as death.

“Come,” he said, the word muffled behind the bubbling slime.

“N-no—!” I gasped. I pulled back.

“They've forgotten you too,” he said. As he reached for me, the thick gelatin over his arm stretched with him. “Danielle, you are a Forgotten One now. You must come with us. Come.”

Peter took a slow, heavy step away from the open trapdoor. And behind him I saw another figure. A girl, pale as my brother, covered in the wet, sticky goo. She climbed up silently from the pit, her lifeless eyes locked on me.

Behind her another gray kid. And then another.

The forgotten kids.

They climbed out one by one, moving in slow motion, stepping out of the dark pit and circling me.

I tried to break away. But they locked hands and formed a tight ring around me.

“
Come with us….
” they moaned. And the moan became an ugly chant. “
Come with us…. Come with us…. Come with us….
”

“You are forgotten too,” Peter said. “You are one of us.”

“
Come with us! Come with us! Come with us
!”

Peter grabbed me with his cold, sticky hands. “Come with us, Danielle.”

The circle of kids tightened around me.

Peter pulled me, pulled me hard toward the black pit. I could feel a chill of cold air from below. The sour odor of decay floated up to me.

My stomach lurched.

Peter pulled me closer. Down, down, down to the foul blackness …

“
Come with us…. Come with us…. Come with us….
”

And as the darkness closed around me, I opened my mouth in a scream of horror. “NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Still screaming, I broke loose.

With a hard, desperate tug, I tore myself from my brother's sickening grasp. I lowered my shoulders, and with another cry, with scream after scream bursting from my lungs—I tore through the ring of chanting kids.

And hurtled toward the stairs. The foul smell floated with me, heavy and rank. The cold mucus stuck to my hands. My brother's words repeated in my whirring mind: “
They've forgotten you too…. They've forgotten you too….
”

No, I'm not! I told myself as I forced my trembling legs up the stairs. I'm not forgotten! I'm not!

“I'll
make
Mom remember!” I shouted down. “Somehow, I'll make Mom remember, Peter!”

I reached the top of the stairs, my chest heaving, my lungs aching.

I slammed the basement door shut and started down the back hall.

The floor spun beneath me. The walls appeared to close in until I felt as if I were running through a dark, narrow tunnel.

What can I do? I asked myself. The whole house seems to be closing in on me. As if I don't belong here anymore.

How can I prove that I'm telling the truth? How can I make Mom remember us?

As I reached the front stairs, a figure jumped out to block my way.

“Dad!” I screamed. “You're home! Please—tell Mom—!”

“Who are you?” he demanded angrily. “You'd better get out of this house. The police are on their way.”

“No, Dad—listen!” I pleaded.

“Get out—now!” he shouted.

“No! I live here!” I screamed. “It's my house too! You have to remember us! You have to!”

He dove for me. Tried to capture me.

I dodged to the side. Fell onto the steps. Landing hard on my knees and elbows. Pain shot through my whole body. But I ignored it. Ignored it and scrambled up the stairs on all fours.

At the top, I climbed to my feet. And stared down the long hall.

What can I do? How can I make them remember?

My room! I decided. I'll show them my room. Maybe that will remind them who I am. Maybe that will force them to remember.

I took a few steps—and then stopped.

I stared at the doors on both sides of the hall. Which room is mine? Which one?

“Oh nooooo,” I moaned.

My room. I didn't remember my room.

I'm forgetting too. I'm forgetting everything.

Sick with horror, I sank against the wall.

“I'm lost,” I murmured. “I give up. I'm lost.”

Then something down the hall caught my eye.

I stared at it. Stared at it, forcing myself to remember what it was.

And suddenly, I had an idea.

 

A rectangle of yellow light fell over the framed photograph on the wall. The photograph of Peter's teddy bear wearing the eyeglasses gleamed as if in a spotlight.

“Yes!” I cried, staring hard at it.

I knew it had something to do with Peter. I didn't remember exactly what. But I knew it was important to my parents.

I tore down the hall, reached up with both hands, and started to pull the photo off the wall.

“What are you doing?” a voice screamed angrily. “Put that down!”

“Get out of this house!”

Mom and Dad came bursting down the hall, their faces red with fury.

“She's up here, Officer!” Dad shouted downstairs. “We have her trapped in the hall!”

The framed photo stuck against its wire. I struggled to pull it free.

“What are you stealing, young woman?” Mom demanded. “Let go of that!”

“Are you crazy? Coming in here like this?” Dad cried.

He grabbed my arm. “Get away from there, miss. The police are here.”

A blue-uniformed police officer, tall and blond, hands tensed at his sides, moved into the hallway.

“Here she is,” Mom called to him, pointing to me. “She's crazy! Crazy! She just broke in and—and—”

The officer moved toward me menacingly. “Young lady, you'd better come with me,” he said softly, blue eyes narrowed on me coldly.

He reached out to grab me.

I tugged the photograph free. My hands were shaking so hard, I nearly dropped it.

I spun around. And raised the photo high.

I held it up to my parents. And I screamed: “NOW TEDDY CAN SEE HOW CUTE I AM!”

 

I watched Mom and Dad freeze. They stood like open-mouthed statues.

Will they remember? I asked myself. I gripped the frame tightly, held it up as if holding on to life … holding on to everything I knew.

Will they remember?

No.

They don't remember.

They're just standing there. Staring at it. Staring at me as if I'm crazy.

No … no …

And then I saw a single tear run down Dad's cheek.

Mom uttered a cry. And I saw her eyes glisten with tears. “Peter … ” she whispered.

“Peter … ” Dad echoed. He stared hard at me. “Danielle!”

He remembered!

“Oh, Danielle,” he cried. His voice broke. “I'm so sorry.”

And then the three of us were wrapped in a tearful hug.

“You remember!” I cried, still gripping the photograph tightly. “You remember us!”

“Danielle, please—forgive us!” Mom said, pressing her tear-stained cheek against mine.

The police officer shook his head. “What's going on here?” he demanded. “Do you know this girl?”

“Yes,” Dad told him. “She's our daughter. We—we can't explain, Officer. We won't be needing you now.”

“She—she didn't break in?”

“No,” Dad told him. “You can go. Sorry for the trouble. We made a terrible mistake.”

The policeman headed away, grumbling to himself, muttering and shaking his head.

“Peter,” I choked out. “We have to hurry. We have to get Peter.”

I led them down to the basement. “He—he's in the little back room,” I told them.

But no.

The room stood empty. Bare, concrete floor. Stone walls. No trapdoor. No opening that led to an endless, black pit.

We're too late, I realized. He's gone.

Mom and Dad stared at me, bewildered. “Where is he?” Mom whispered. “You said—”

“Gone,” I murmured. “Lost.”

I couldn't stand it. I felt about to explode.

I realized I still had the teddy bear photo. I raised it high, as high as I could reach. “Peter, we remember you!” I screamed. “We remember you! We remember you!”

Silence.

The longest silence of my life.

And then the floor shook, and I heard a low, rumbling sound.

The rumble became a loud groan. The floor raised up … up…. The trapdoor slowly, heavily creaked open.

We all gasped as Peter stepped forward.

“We remember you!” I cried. “We remember!”

The thick mucus covering dropped from his body, fell off in chunks, rained to the floor, and then melted.

Peter stepped forward, blinking, testing his arms, his legs, stretching.

And then we were hugging. Celebrating. Celebrating the greatest family reunion of all time!

Later I was in Peter's room, helping him unpack some cartons and put the stuff away. It felt good to be doing something useful, something normal.

I kept glancing at the photo of the teddy bear with its eyeglasses. We had set it up on top of the dresser. The bear smiled down at us, as if it too was happy about being remembered.