Hilltop House

Cora, Seven

"I miss you, little bean, I do, but it's not a good idea to go against your mother. When she comes around, you'll be sure to visit your old Grandma, and I look forward to it, but you have to be patient. Your mother's stubborn, but she wants the best for you. So for now, let's keep our secret letters and hope we can all get together soon. It's sort of fun, anyhow, having a secret. Tell me more about your thrifting! I love hearing about the treasures you find. That nightgown sounds like the sort of thing I'd have worn on my wedding night back ages ago, but I'll spare you the imagery! Love you much."

Cora read the email with a smile and twinge of heartache. She missed Grandma Luce. She knew her mother's upbringing with the old woman had been different than her own; they'd spoken more than once about their disparate experiences with the old woman. But Cora couldn't figure out why her mother was so bent on staying away from Grandma Luce.

The girl sat back against the couch. It was Saturday night, a few days away from Halloween. Her mother was working at that convenience store, and Brian was probably having his people over. She was, once again, alone in the house.

Of course, she knew she wasn't quite alone in there, after all. There was something else in the house with her. Whatever sort of entity it was, she'd come to terms with the fact that yes, it was definitely there, and no, it didn't really seem malevolent. The weird things that happened throughout the building hadn't multiplied, but her own room had certainly become a sort of epicenter for strangeness. Whatever had been going on at night with the lights and the music box was intriguing. It hadn't yet begun to annoy her, even though she'd missed some sleep most nights. On a rare occasion, she'd sleep without disturbance, but four or five days out of seven, the electrical show pulled her from her dreams. What exactly it all was or meant, she had no idea. But it was amusing, and it seemed to respond to her. When she'd open her eyes, the lights would flicker more, and if she touched the wall, she could cause them to go a little wild, even pop if she tried hard enough. She'd wondered if there was something with the wiring, whether pressing certain parts of the wall somehow irritated wires that then reacted weirdly, and though she'd experimented a little with that theory, the wiring had proven off wherever she happened to touch.

No, it was more than wiring. It was more like something was trying to interact with her. Brian would've surely thought it was a ghost, but Cora wasn't so sure. And she hadn't told him, anyway. Something about her nightly visits were . . . private. There was some intense personal aspect to them. The girl was certain her mother wasn't experiencing anything like it. The woman was having nightmares--she'd said as much. In fact, Cora was beginning to worry about her mother. Maeve had always been somewhat irrational (stubborn, as Luce had said), but she was becoming more steadily anxious, jumping at sounds and checking locks multiple times and continuously battling ants she swore were in her room, though Cora had never seen any in there.

But they'd never been very open with one another, and habits were difficult to dispel.

The corduroy couch was comfortable, the lighting was dim and cozy, the television was playing some interesting show, but this room wasn't really where Cora wanted to be. Her own room was best of all; her body acclimated to it immediately. The atmosphere always felt like that of a perfect day at the beach. She was in the living room, though, because of Brian. The girl sat wrapped in a furry blanket, looking out her window rather than at the television, her phone in her hand. She'd just finished reading her Grandma's email and was waiting.

"There you are," Brian's message flashed a moment later.

Cora squinted her eyes to see if she could make him out on the dark street, down toward his house, but she couldn't see much. Rain was falling in a soft mist, obscuring anything not in front of a light. But she waved, just in case.