Hilltop House

Maeve, Sixteen

There was no answer, so Maeve turned the knob and quietly pushed the door a few inches inward, and her heart about lept into her throat when she opened it to see Cora literally right there, apparently waiting for her.

"Oh my God, Cora! You totally freaked me out!" She put a hand against her chest, laughed uncomfortably, then widened her eyes expectantly as the girl remained entirely unchanged and silent. "Why are you just standing here? Are you sleep-walking?"

Cora finally moved, shook her head, looked away from her mother and went to lie on her bed. She was still fully clothed. Maeve scanned the bedroom, saw that Cora's laptop was open and glowing, various articles of clothing and jewelry scattered across her floor, the pages of her journals torn out and scattered.

"What . . . what are you doing? Are you all right?"

The girl sighed, faced the wall, pressed a hand against it. "I'm fine."

Maeve just stared at her daughter's back for a moment. "Oooook . . ." She stepped into the room, moved things aside with her foot. "Brian was pretty worried about you. Were you supposed to meet him?" She bent to pick up some clothing, hung it over the back of the desk chair. When Cora didn't answer her, Maeve began to sense something odd, some weird vibes. "Hey, are you sick again?"

"No."

The woman was too annoyed with her daughter's affect to press. "Well you probably just need to go to bed. I'll turn this off, and the light--" The woman bent over her daughter's laptop, took the mouse and began to move it to exit the screen, when something caught her attention.

Cora's email was open; she appeared to have been reading one of her messages:

"Bean, I am so glad to hear from you again. I'm sorry that some woman came to your house and tried to hurt you. She won't be back. Just make sure your mother doesn't get too concerned about it; she's already worried enough as it is. I wouldn't talk about it at all with her. Best to keep it quiet. When she was your age, my Maeve was quite the drama queen.

And have you heard anything more about that strange neighbor of yours? The one with all the cats? Do you know when she'll be home? Being an old lady myself, I have some sympathy for her--"

Maeve spun to her daughter. "Wh-what is this, Cora? Who wrote you this email?"

The girl made no response, so her mother went to the bed and grabbed her shoulder, forced her to roll over. "Mom, what? Leave me alone!"

"Who wrote you that email?"

"What email?"

"The one you were reading--calling you Bean? Saying things about me? Who wrote it?"

Cora sat up grumpily. "Stop being so crazy, mom. I know you'll be mad, but . . . it's Grandma, ok? Me and Grandma still talk."

"For how long?"

The girl shook her head. "I don't know, forever! I mean, when we first left she didn't talk to me for a while, but then, after a year or something she started writing me back."

"And you never told me?"

"No! Who cares, all right? She just wanted to know what was up in my life, which is more than I can say for you."

"Cora--" Maeve felt as if the room were spinning.

The girl shifted her shoulder to remove her mother's hand from it, then laid back down. "It's just Grandma, all right? I know you hate her, but it was no big deal."

"Oh my God . . ." Standing, putting out her hands to steady herself, Maeve stumbled slightly and reached out for Cora's dresser, but her hand mistakenly grabbed hold of the black quartz music box there and dragged it to the floor, where it broke into several pieces with a strange metallic jangle.

Cora sat up abruptly. "What is wrong with you?"

Maeve took several deep breaths, counted them, closed her eyes. Then she steeled herself for what she had to say, looked directly at her confused daughter, and said, "Cora, Grandma Luce has been dead for three years."

A heavy silence dropped like a pall around them, Cora having at last shaken herself from whatever daze she'd fallen into. "What? But that--that's not possible. I--"

"Her house burned down. I went to her funeral."

"But you never said--"

"And you were telling this person everything? About where we are?"

Cora leapt up from the bed. "That is impossible, mom! If that wasn't Grandma, then who have I been talking to this whole time?"

Maeve met her daughter's eyes but couldn't bring herself to answer the question. "Stay here." She turned to the door.

"What? What are you--"

The woman spun back to the girl. "Just--!" She put up her hands, which were shaking terribly. She curled her fingers into her palms, managed to lower her voice. "I will explain everything, but I--I have to check something. So please . . . just stay here for about ten minutes. Lock the door when I leave, and have your cell nearby. If anyone besides me comes in this house, hide and call 9-1-1." Not waiting for any sort of reply, Maeve hurried into the kitchen and picked up her purse, then headed to the front door. Behind her, Cora padded along in her slippers like a puppy anxious to let its owner leave. Before Maeve went back out into the night, she turned once more to her daughter. With one hand on the door frame, she said in all seriousness, "The house will protect you, Cora. It likes you."

And then she slipped out and off the porch, happy to hear her daughter shut and lock the door behind her.

Dottie's house loomed ominous within the fog, a dark silhouette frosted with a slice of moonlight that became obscured as it bent through the mist. Not a single light was on, but Maeve knew. She knew, even as she prayed she was wrong and that it had only somehow been a cat that'd flipped a switch on Thanksgiving night and the few other times she'd seen a glow deep within, beyond the main rooms that looked out onto the street. With each step, Maeve's determination waned, but recalling her daughter, she pressed on. Had she been alone, she'd have run, but it needed to end. It was her legacy--living in fear--and she'd be damned if she passed it on to Cora.

Retrieving the gun, Maeve wrapped her fingers around its cold metal, gripped it so tightly her hand cramped, and when she arrived at the front door of the house, when she stepped up onto the wraparound porch and approached the door, she held it out in front of her, thinking she'd be ready to shoot the minute anyone opened it. Even as she rang the bell with a finger so unsteady she missed the round button the first time she went for it, even as she knew no one would come to answer it at this time of night, even as she told herself she'd kill him, when a deep voice rasped at her ear "Hello, Maeve" and an arm reached around her side and gently removed the firearm from her powerless fingers--Maeve admitted she'd had no chance.