Chapter 9

Be Still My Heart

Rainy Sundays in New England can be awful, but a baking project cozies-up even the wettest, most miserable day. So Meg, Jen and I decide to get together at my house and bake something. Mom thinks it’s a great idea and runs out to buy all the ingredients. Meg wants to be a chef, so she’s in charge.

Soon after we start baking, Connor texts Jen, looking for something to do and ends up coming over. Just as we’re putting the first loaded-up cookie sheet into the oven, Ryan calls Meg. She tells him we’re at my house, baking cookies.

Then she turns toward me and says, “Wyatt’s at his house. They want to come over.”

Ryan plays keeper on the soccer team and they’ve been hanging out a lot lately.

I whisper, “Yes.”

“Come on over. I’m cooking, so the food will be professional quality.” Meg smiles and we bump fists. Ten minutes later Wyatt and Ryan are pounding on my back door.

As soon as the double batch of cookies is done, we start in on them, finishing off two dozen pretty fast, along with almost a whole gallon of milk. Then we all head downstairs to play ping pong. Meg and Jen challenge Connor and Ryan to a match. As they begin whacking the ball back and forth, Wyatt touches his finger to his lips to shush me, grabs my hand and pulls me out of the room. Together, we tiptoe into the unfinished part of the basement. After he eases the door closed, we move through the dark, hand-in-hand, past the furnace, into the middle of the room. We can barely hear the distant pop of the ping pong ball because the pelting rainwater’s splashing so hard against the window pane. It looks like someone’s spraying the glass with a hose. Wyatt turns to me and takes hold of both my wrists.

“They won’t notice we’re gone for a while.” He leans in closer. “I’ve thought of a way to find out more about him.”

I know Wyatt’s referring to the ghost. But even though I’m anxious to find out more about him, I feel weird about sneaking off like this. “Everyone’s right in the next room. What are they gonna think?”

“Why do you care so much about what they think? Let them think we’re making out. Everyone in the whole school thinks we’re hooking up anyway. Who gives a damn, Annabelle?”

“I do.”

“Why? What would be so awful about hooking up with me?”

“I’m leaving.” I pull away from him and start toward the door. I didn’t sneak off to talk about our nonexistent relationship. I want to know more about the ghost.

He grabs my hand and pulls me back toward him. “Okay. I give up. For now.”

“Thank you. Now what about the ghost? How can we find out more?”

“I want to try to communicate with him. If we hold hands and concentrate really hard, maybe something will happen. Kind of like a séance. Are you in or out?”

“I’m scared.”

“That’s okay. We don’t have to try it if you’re too scared. We can go back in there with the others.” He cocks his head toward the door.

Curiosity sneaks in, overpowering my fears. “Is he here now?”

“He’s always nearby, Annabelle. And right now he’s very close.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Just watching and waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For us to make a move.”

“What kind of a move, Wyatt?”

“A move that will empower him further. He grows stronger when we’re alone together. But never speaks. I think he might be able to if we help him.”

“How can we help him?”

“By staying in here alone together and concentrating really hard.”

“It’s getting colder.” A shiver runs across my scalp and down my neck.

“That’s because he’s growing more powerful.”

“How do you know that if he doesn’t speak?”

“I can read his emotions. I feel them as if they were mine.” Wyatt stops talking for a second and his eyes open wide. “The cold just moved into my hands.”

His hand in mine turns to ice.

“My arms! My chest! I feel like I’m neck deep in a snow-bank…I’m freezing, Annabelle.”

Wyatt drops my hand and holds out his arms to me, as if I’m his only hope on earth for warmth. But I hesitate.

Gently, he tips my chin up, with one icy finger, so I’m forced to look into his eyes. “Come closer. It won’t work unless we’re holding each other.”

I take a deep breath. Then step into his arms. Immediately, he folds me in so I’m pressed solid against him. He lifts me up, until my feet dangle a couple of inches off the concrete floor.

“Shh, listen.” His icy breath chills my ear. Even through the layers of both Wyatt’s clothing and mine, I can feel the deadly cold temperature of his body. His heartbeat thunders against my chest. Slow but strong. Once. Twice. Powerful and hypnotic. The only warmth generated between us lies centered at the union of our pulsating hearts.

“Shh, listen,” he says again. He rests the side of his cold face against mine. Then turns and presses a frigid kiss against my cheek.

A blinding flash of lightning explodes. Seconds later a blast of thunder shakes the foundation.

Wyatt’s heart thumps once then stops. I can’t feel it anymore.

Like an ice sculpture, we stand frozen together in our treacherous embrace. Frantic, I wedge my arms in between us and push at his chest. With a loud groan, he exhales and then finally relaxes his grip. My feet thud onto the floor. Then another flash of lightning sprays across the room. The burst of brilliance illuminates Wyatt’s face. His eyes are rolled up with only the whites showing. He’s trying to inhale but can’t. I open my mouth to scream but only a croak comes out.

Finally he steps back, bends over, rests his hands on his knees, and starts choking. I whack him on the back. He coughs a couple of times and then starts to breathe normally.

When he straightens up, I grip his icy hand firmly between my two warmer ones. Trying to sound calm, I suggest, “Just relax for a second, Wyatt. I’ll go up and get you some water.”

As I turn toward the only exit, my eyes adjust to the gloom and our surroundings grow more distinct: the furnace, the fieldstone walls, the cement floor, the rusting oil tank in the corner, a bookshelf with cans of paint organized by size and color and an old wooden Adirondack chair my mother sanded down, but hasn’t started to paint yet. The sight of this familiar junk, together with the damp, earthy smell of the ancient rock foundation, quiets my panic a little. I turn back toward Wyatt and point to the chair.

“You should sit down for a few minutes.” He still doesn’t move or respond. His eyes look wild with confusion, like he flew off somewhere and when he returned, he crash-landed here in the basement. I keep trying to sooth him. “As soon as you catch your breath, we better go back and join the others.”

“Others?” His voice curves up, like he’s asking a question; like he has no idea what I mean.

“Wyatt, do you feel all right?”

“Feel all right.”

His response doesn’t reassure me at all. I touch his cheek with my open hand. “You’re still freezing.”

As if he thinks that moving his head might cause it to fall off, he dips it uncertainly, down then up. “Freezing.” He whispers the word. His eyes open wide and his lips part in wonder as the sound travels up his throat and floats out of his open mouth. His brow furrows in concentration and the echo of his voice reverberates off the stone walls before it finally dissolves like steamy breath on a winter’s day.

“Do you feel sick?”

Slowly, he dips his head down then up again and says, “Sick.”

“Maybe you’re coming down with something.”

“I have words.” He stares into the darkness as if he could catch sight of them before they fade and disappear. His fingers drift up to touch his lips. Then move down to his throat.

“Annabelle.” The quality and depth of Wyatt’s voice sounds different; hoarse like he’s unused to speaking.

“We need to go back to the others. C’mon.”

“I can look at you with his eyes; speak to you with his voice.”

“Whose voice, Wyatt?” I’m more terrified than I’ve ever been before in my life.

He reaches for me and I flinch and back away.

“I want to touch you.” Suddenly, he shoots one long arm out and wraps his hand halfway around my neck, pressing his icy thumb into the hollow at the base of my throat. Tingles of panic slide down my spine and into my feet. I want to run but I’m paralyzed by fear. And something else. Fascination.

The shape of his hand and the texture of his skin feel normal, but he’s freezing.

Shiny, deep and dead, his reptilian gaze mesmerizes me.

“You’re not Wyatt!” I try to pull away, but he tightens his grip on my neck. I gasp for air and tears rush to my eyes.

Immediately dropping his hand, he whispers, “Sorry.”

I stagger back, horrified by the sinister, disturbing creature before me.

“Come here, Annabelle. Please. I’ve waited so long.”

I need to get away from him. Keeping my movements slow and my thoughts to myself, I start backing toward the door. I know I should call Oliver, but I don’t have his number in my phone. So I stop inching away. Careful not to seem panicked, I hold out my hand. “Can you find Wyatt’s cell phone?”

“It’s right here in my pocket.” As he digs around in the pocket of his jeans, an expression of pleased discovery dawns on his face. Pulling out the phone, he presents it to me, like finding it was an accomplishment.

I grab the phone and quickly find Oliver’s number. He answers after the second ring. “Wyatt?”

“Oliver,” I hurry to explain. “It’s Annabelle. Wyatt’s here and he’s okay, physically, that is, but something’s wrong. He’s not himself.” I can’t think of another way to say it.

“I’ll be right there. You’re at home, Annabelle?”

As soon as I say “yes” he hangs up. I reach out my hand to pass the phone back to Wyatt and his knees sag. He lurches toward me. I cringe at the idea of touching him, but he seems like he’s about to collapse. So I drape his right arm across my shoulders and help him move backwards until his legs bump the seat of the Adirondack chair. As he eases himself down into the dusty old thing, he looks up at me and the irises of his eyes lighten to fish-scale gray.

He clears his throat as if he’s preparing to speak but just then, hesitant footsteps stop right outside the door. Two knocks announce someone’s arrival.

“Come in,” Wyatt croaks.

Ryan opens the door and stands at the threshold, peering through the gloom at us.

“Hey, Wyatt, I gotta get going. My dad just called and now that it’s stopped raining, he needs help clearing the leaves out of the gutters.”

“Okay. I think I’ll stay a little longer. Annabelle, can you give me a ride home later?”

“Sure. No problem.”

Ryan steps farther into the room. “You don’t look too good, Silver. Are you feeling okay?”

Wyatt’s slumped down in my mother’s latest yard sale find. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just go ahead without me.”

“Connor and Jen left about ten minutes ago. I’m gonna give Meg a ride home.” Ryan moves toward the doorway. “’Bye Annabelle. Thanks for having me over. See you at practice tomorrow, Wyatt.”

About a minute after he walks up the stairs, I hear his car start up in the driveway.

I’m feeling confused and pretty annoyed with Wyatt, but I’m too worried to act mad. As we head up to the kitchen, I hold on tight to his hand because he’s still shaky and I’m afraid he’ll stumble and fall down the stairs.

“Any cookies left, Mrs. Blake?” Wyatt asks as soon as we walk into the kitchen. My mother gestures to the counter top behind her where a hill of delicious smelling chocolate chip cookies sits on a platter.

“Would you like some milk, Wyatt?” Mom doesn’t wait for an answer. She’s already pulling the gallon jug out of the fridge.

Sitting at the kitchen table, with a huge glass of cold milk and a plate of cookies in front of him, Wyatt perks up a little and begins to eat and drink. His episode, whatever it was, hasn’t affected his appetite; if anything he seems even hungrier than usual.

Rubbing my arms with both hands, I announce, “It’s freezing in here.”

My mother fills the tea kettle and puts it on the stove. As she turns on the burner we hear a car speed up the driveway and come to a screeching halt.

Mom looks out the window and announces, “Oliver’s here. Why is he in such a hurry?”

Wyatt doesn’t respond to her question, so I give him a sideways look, kick him in the shin under the table, and start a lie that I intend to pass to him after I run out of fake ideas. “Oliver’s expecting company for dinner and they’re due any minute now. He just called Wyatt to invite me and swung by to pick us up on his way home from the grocery store.”

Wyatt reaches down to rub his shin and glares at me, but continues my story as if he’s done it a million times before; tag team lying, our favorite sport. “Because Oliver’s a vegetarian, he has to have really fresh, organic vegetables every day. He goes out to buy them right before he starts cooking. We have to run. Thanks, Mrs. Blake.” He grabs my arm and pulls me out of my seat and toward the door in one rough motion.

“’Bye, Mom,” I yell as Wyatt yanks me out to the driveway. My mother follows us and stands on the threshold watching, as Wyatt shoves me into the back seat of his uncle’s car, whacks the door shut and then jumps into the shotgun seat.

Oliver rolls down his window on the driver’s side. “Thanks for the tea. I’ve been sleeping like a baby.”

“You’re welcome, Oliver, any time.”

Mom knows Wyatt’s uncle pretty well because she’s a member of the Eastfield Historical Society and he’s the president. She always sells her teas and homemade, scented candles at the historical society’s booth, during the annual Eastfield harvest fair. Also, my father’s side of the family has lived here for generations and my mother donated their family diaries and Bibles and other artifacts to the Eastfield Historical Society Museum. She smiles and waves goodbye to us as Oliver backs down the long, winding driveway.

Wyatt’s uncle drives pretty fast for an old guy. The scenery’s streaking by, making me a little dizzy. I’m sure that we’re traveling about twenty miles over the speed limit. Maybe cops don’t give tickets to teachers because then their kids might flunk a subject at school, kind of like a small town educational mafia.