The Dead End (5 page)

Casey never found an explanation for the strange surge of electricity. After a while, she managed to push it to the back of her mind.

Time passed, and her days began to fall into a routine. Most mornings, after breakfast, Casey rode her bike into town to call Jillian from the gas station pay phone. (Her parents still hadn’t done anything about getting a landline. When Casey pressed them about it, her father just shrugged and said he was glad for the peace and quiet for a change.) More often than not, though, Jillian was too busy to talk for long. She was always heading off to a movie or some event in the park, usually with David. From the sound of it, Casey thought, Jillian
was
having the best summer ever — and she didn’t need Casey there to do it.

Casey spent the afternoons roaming the property. The house sat on a half acre of dry, grassy field, bordered by forest. Casey picked clover flowers and tried to weave them into daisy chains. She collected rocks with interesting shapes. She made elaborate snacks from the things her mother picked up at the farm stand: raspberries with maple syrup and burnt-sugar candy; tomato-and-cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. She watched movies on her computer. She listened to music. She painted her nails. In short, she was bored out of her mind.

Her parents knew she was unhappy, but they didn’t do anything to help her with it. Her boredom only seemed to irritate them.

“For Pete’s sake, Casey, you’re old enough to entertain yourself,” her dad said when she complained that there was nothing to do. The trip to the nearby lake seemed to have been long forgotten. Her parents spent every spare minute working on the house. Casey’s father replaced the fan in her bedroom, patched the porch railing, and tinkered with
the old stove until he got it to work. Casey’s mother scraped at wallpaper, painted window frames, hung curtains. After a few weeks, the place began to look more lived in. But to Casey it never felt cozy or comfortable, and despite the new curtains and fresh paint, the house never quite lost its air of abandonment.

Nights in the house were the worst. The lights now worked, but they often flickered, sending a flutter through Casey’s stomach. Late at night, alone in her room, the darkness seemed to press in close. At those times, Casey’s imagination ran wild.

One day, after they had been there for more than three weeks, Casey reached her wit’s end. Her parents were upstairs in their bedroom, scraping wallpaper, and Casey wandered through the house, desperately looking for something to do. The blank TV sat against a wall in the parlor, unplugged, since there was no cable. She couldn’t text her friends or surf online. Even the battery for her MP3 player was dead.

In a corner of the living room, atop some boxes they hadn’t bothered to unpack, Casey discovered
the crate full of books her mother had found in the attic. She browsed through it. They were mostly adventure stories, illustrated with pastel scenes of pirate ships and talking animals. Inside the cover of each book, someone had written the letters M.A.H.

Near the bottom of the crate, Casey came across a small red cloth book without a title. On the first page, in uneven, sloping cursive, it read:

MILLICENT AMELIA HUGHES

M.A.H.,
Casey thought.
Millicent Amelia Hughes. These must be her books.

She turned the page.
May 26, 1939,
it said at the top. After that was more of the same clumsy handwriting broken up by dates.

It’s a diary,
Casey realized. She wondered if she ought to put it away. She’d always been told that it was rude to read someone else’s diary.

But Millicent Amelia Hughes obviously doesn’t care if someone else reads her diary,
Casey reasoned,
or she wouldn’t have left it in some dusty old attic for anyone to find.

Casey got a glass of cold water from the kitchen and took the diary out to the front porch. Settling onto the porch swing, she turned to the first page.

The slanted handwriting was difficult to read. She struggled to make out the first few words.
“Dearest friend …”
it began.

May 26, 1939

Dearest friend,

Mama gave me this diary today. She said I should use it to practice my penmanship. “Your handwriting is as bad as a monkey’s,” she said. I said, “How do you know? Have you ever seen a monkey’s handwriting?” Mama just rolled her eyes to the heavens, as if to say, “Lord, you see what I put up with?”

Mama has been rolling her eyes a lot lately. She rolled her eyes when she caught me chewing tree sap, and when I got my school clothes all muddy by wading in the stream. I heard her tell Papa she’s afraid I will become a country bumpkin living here in Stillness. “How will she ever find a good husband?” Mama said.
I don’t care a whit about husbands. I want to become a nurse, because I think I would like to take care of people. But if there’s one way to get Mama started, it’s to tell her that. I’m better off just practicing my handwriting.

We moved to Stillness six months ago for Papa’s job at the Stillwater Bank. Before that, we lived in Manchester. Mama always says how lucky we are that Papa found such a good job. But I know she secretly misses the city. When we go to the general store, Mama makes little sighing noises, and I know she is thinking, “The coffee was better in
Manchester
. The biscuits weren’t stale in
Manchester.
”

But I like it here in Stillness. There are lots of trees and pretty flowers and a stream where I can go wading (as long as I don’t get my clothes wet). Papa planted an elm tree by our house. He says when it gets big enough he will hang a swing for me. I hope it grows fast! In the meantime, I have to make do with the porch swing.

My cat, Bagheera, likes it here, too. He stalks through the grass, pretending he is a real panther instead of just a silly gray tabby. Today I saw him chasing crickets.

So, I have everything I could wish for here — almost. I do wish I had a friend. There aren’t any girls my age on Drury Road, only a boy named Gunner Anderson. He is twelve years old, the same age as me, but I don’t like him. He thinks he is so clever. Oh, and there is the Swedish family, the Henrikssons. They have lots of boys and one little girl, Anna. But they just moved here from Sweden, and I can never understand what they are saying. Anna is too young to be my friend, anyway, because she is only six years old and I am twelve, like I said.

But now, dear diary, you can be my friend. I will tell you all my secrets, just like I would a real friend.

Yours truly,

Millie

May 27

Dearest friend,

Today I found a little chickadee that Bagheera had caught on one of his hunts. It wasn’t hurt so far as I could see, but it was so scared that it didn’t even peep when I picked it up. I could feel its tiny heart beating fast. I found an old hatbox and made a nest out of
grass and leaves and some petals from Mama’s yellow roses. I put the bird inside, and tried to feed it some water from a spoon.

Afterward, I caught Bagheera and gave him a good scolding, but he just flicked his tail and didn’t act sorry at all.

When it is better, maybe the bird can be my pet. I will walk around town with a chickadee on my shoulder, like Long John Silver with his parrot. Wouldn’t that be funny!

I am now more sure than ever that I want to be a nurse. I will take good care of anyone who is sick, so they never have to suffer or die.

Yours truly,

Millie

May 28

There was a lot of excitement on Drury Road today. Mama, Papa, and I were eating our lunch, when out the window we saw Mrs. Henriksson come running up the lane. Her hair was flying and her apron was flapping and she looked very upset.

Her English is not very good, so it took us a while
to understand what was wrong. But after a lot of hand waving, we figured it out: Little Anna was missing! She had been gone since morning, and all the Henrikssons were very worried.

None of us had seen her, of course, but we joined the search. “Anna! Anna!” we called. We walked through the field and the woods between our places, but we didn’t find her.

When we got to the Henrikssons’ place, all four boys were there (Mr. Henriksson was away and wouldn’t be back until dark). Their oldest boy, Johan, told us that Anna had gone out to collect eggs from the henhouse that morning and hadn’t come back.

Right at that moment, I knew where she was. I don’t know how I knew. I just did.

I went to the barn and opened the door. One of the twins — I think it was Alf — said something, and although I couldn’t really understand him, I knew he was saying they’d already checked the barn. I went inside, anyway.

And that’s where I found her, curled up in the hay like a chickadee in a nest. She was so sound asleep that she hadn’t heard them calling her name.

There was a lot of commotion then. Anna woke up and started crying. But then Mrs. Henriksson hugged me, so Anna hugged me, too. She is a pretty little girl, with blond curls and big blue eyes. She reminds me of a little china doll.

After that, we came back and finished our lunch. Mama gave me an extra slice of cake for dessert because I was a hero.

Yours truly,

Millie

May 30

Dearest friend,

I have been having the strangest dreams. Last night, I dreamed I was somewhere very bright. There were flickering lights all around me and a loud roaring noise. I kept shouting, “Get up! Get up!” I don’t know why. The last time I shouted so loud, I woke myself up! It should have been funny, but the dream left me with a bad feeling. I have been grouchy all day.

Signed,

Millie the Grouch

June 1

Dearest friend,

Today I just happened to be walking by Gunner’s house, and I saw him out in the lane. He was playing marbles with the Henriksson twins, Alf and Charles. Anna Henriksson was there, too, hanging around the edges because the boys wouldn’t let her play.

As I have said, I don’t like Gunner, so I was going to go on my way. But I couldn’t leave without saying hello to Anna. I waved and shouted, “Hi, Anna!” and she waved and shouted back.

That’s when I heard Gunner start talking loudly about what a swell marble collection he has, how it was “the best in the whole county.” I cannot stand when Gunner starts bragging (which is all the time), so I decided to play a trick on him. I said, “Gunner, do you want to play a game?” And he said, “Fine.” So I told him to hide a marble in his hand and if I guessed it right, I got to keep it, and if I guessed it wrong, I’d give him a nickel. They sell marbles three for a nickel at the general store, so Gunner thought he was getting a swell deal. Plus, he doesn’t think a girl could ever beat him at anything.

So Gunner hid a marble in his hand and — surprise! I guessed it right. Gunner couldn’t believe it, so we did it again, and I got it right again. Now I had two marbles! By then the twins were laughing and teasing him, and Gunner was getting steamed. We played again, only this time he put the marble in his pocket. But I guessed that right, too!

What Gunner didn’t know is that I play this game with Papa all the time. Every day, Papa comes home from work with a piece of penny candy for me, and I have to try to guess which pocket it’s in. I always get it right. I don’t know how I know; I just do. But I’ll never tell Gunner that.

Anyway, what happened next was Gunner and I got into a big fight. Gunner said I cheated and I said I didn’t. And Gunner said, all matter-of-fact, “That game was gambling, and I’m going to tell your mother.” I didn’t like the sound of that at all, so we struck a deal. I gave Gunner two marbles back and kept one. But I kept the best one. A big green agate with a gold-and-white swirl.

I was feeling all mixed up — glad that I’d played a good trick on Gunner, but mad about giving the marbles back. I went home and got out the cigar box
where I keep my special things. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, the lightbulb in my room burst with a loud POP!

I got so scared, I dropped the marble. It rolled under the bed, and disappeared. I have looked everywhere for it. But it has vanished into thin air.

“Casey!”

At the sound of her name, Casey looked up, startled. She turned and saw her father standing in the doorway.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Just reading,” said Casey.

“It must be a good book. I’ve called you half a dozen times. Dinner will be ready soon,” he told her. “Come and wash up.” He disappeared back into the house.

Casey stretched. She felt stiff from sitting for so long. While she had been reading, the sun had moved across the sky, and now it made long shadows in the yard.

Setting the journal down on the swing, Casey felt in her pocket for the marble she’d found. She had been carrying it around with her ever since that first day in the house; she liked the weight of it, and sometimes she found herself absently rolling it between her fingers, like a good-luck charm.

Now Casey pulled it out and examined it more closely. The green-and-white glass swirled together, like a picture of Earth from space. Shot through it, here and there, were tiny flecks of gold.

“It’s the same marble,” Casey whispered. But how weird that she would find it now, after it had disappeared more than seventy years before.

“Casey!” her dad called from inside.

“Coming!” Casey called. Shoving the marble back into her pocket, she stood and went into the house.

In the kitchen, there was a large salad on the counter next to a plate of cold, sliced ham and cheese. As Casey washed her hands in the kitchen sink, her mother came in the back door. She was carrying a glass vase full of wild daisies she’d picked in the yard.

“I found the vase up in the attic. Isn’t it pretty?” Mrs. Slater said. She filled it at the sink, then set it
down on the kitchen table. “That really brightens up the place.”

Casey agreed. The flowers gave the dreary kitchen a cheerful look.

“We’re almost ready here,” said Mr. Slater, who was slicing a tomato for the salad. “Casey, could you please set the table?”

Casey found forks, knives, and plates and placed them around the kitchen table. She folded some paper towels in half and placed one under each fork. Then, feeling inspired by the flowers, she got out the candles they’d used the first night and set them on the table, too.

Casey struck a match. As she leaned forward to light the first candle, she heard a loud
crack.
Suddenly, the vase shattered. Casey jumped back, dropping the match, which went out.

Her parents gasped and whirled around.

Casey stood, frozen with surprise. Water and glass covered the table. The daisies were strewn everywhere, like victims in the aftermath of a bomb.

“You cut yourself!” her mother exclaimed.

Casey looked down and saw that her hand was bleeding.

“Don’t move.” Her father grabbed a kitchen towel and pressed it against her hand to stop the blood. “Casey, you’ve got to be more careful!” he said.

“I — I didn’t do anything,” she stuttered. “The vase just … exploded.”

“Let me see, now.” Her father pulled away the bloodstained towel and examined the wound. “It’s pretty bad, but I don’t think you’re going to need stitches. Just keep pressure on it for a few minutes.” He wrapped her hand back up again.

“There must have been a flaw in the glass,” Mrs. Slater said, wringing her hands. “I should have checked it more carefully before I put water in it. Does it hurt a lot?”

Casey shook her head, wondering how a crack in the glass could cause a vase to explode.

By the time they had cleaned up the table and bandaged Casey’s hand, it was dark out. Although she had been hungry earlier, she picked at her food. Her mind was swirling with thoughts.

“Do you know anything about the people who lived here before us?” she asked her parents at last.

“People? You mean the old owners?” her father asked.

Casey nodded.

“Not much,” he replied. “I heard that an old couple lived here; then it was empty for quite some time. We bought it from the bank. Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered why they would leave so much stuff behind,” Casey replied. “Why didn’t somebody take it?”

Her father shrugged. “It’s hard to say. Maybe no one wanted it. It’s possible they died without any relatives or heirs, and the bank just didn’t want to go to the trouble of going through it all.”

“Oh.”

Casey wondered if it had been Millie who’d lived in the house, and if she had died without any relatives, with no one to give her things to. It was sad, Casey thought, that Millie would never know that her lost marble had finally been found.

That night, Casey dreamed she was looking for something in the house. She went through every room, walking at first, then starting to run. She
wasn’t sure what she was looking for. She only knew that it was terribly important that she find it.

By the time she reached the attic door, her heart was pounding. Slowly, she turned the doorknob….

Casey awoke with a start. That was when she heard it.

Tap-tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Casey pulled the sheets up to her chin. She could tell from the blackness outside her window that it was very late. Even the crickets had quit chirping. No one should have been knocking at that hour.

Tap-tap-tap.

She huddled there, barely breathing. Why didn’t her parents get up?
Wake up!
she thought fiercely, hoping the silent cry would penetrate through their dreams.
Wake up!

But they didn’t stir. At last, Casey forced herself from beneath the covers. She flew down the hall, her feet barely touching the floor.

“Dad?” she said, shaking his arm. “Dad, wake up.”

Her father peeled his eyes open. “What’s wrong?” “I heard someone knocking,” Casey whispered.

He sat up and looked at her. “Who would be knocking this late?”

“What is it?” Casey’s mother was awake now, too.

“Casey thought she heard someone knocking.”

Her mother listened. “I don’t hear anything.”

“I heard it. Please just go look,” Casey pleaded.

“All right, Casey. Calm down.” Her father got out of bed and shuffled out of the room. Casey waited at the top of the stairs as he checked the front and back doors, and all the windows.

“There’s no one there. Everything is locked,” he said when he came back.

“I heard something,” Casey insisted.

“Casey, I promise you everything is fine,” her father said. “Now, why don’t you go back to bed? It’s very late.”

“But —”

“Casey,
please.
We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Casey went back to her own room. She got into bed and pulled the covers over her head. She was shaking.

Her father was wrong. Everything was
not
fine. They could lock all the doors and bolt all the windows and it still wouldn’t help. Because she was sure that the knocking had come from inside the house.