It was a child. A child was singing.
No, she realized. Not singing. Humming. As one might hum along to a favorite tune.
She leaned farther into the great room. The outside sounds fell away. The humming was louder but still muffled. She looked slowly around the room, tracking the sound like a fly. Once again, she found herself staring up at the section of wall above the kitchen entryway.
There was no doubt. It was coming from there.
The song was familiar, although she could not hear enough of it to place it.
She could not even be sure that it was an actual song. It could have been a random tune, made up by Sadie as she played or read a book. But her delivery of it was growing in confidence as if she were learning each note, practicing it over and over.
Careful to not make much noise, Kris tiptoed past the leather couch and over to the kitchen entryway. She was directly under that section of wall now, staring up at the mere inches of wood paneling that separated her from Sadie as she hummed her sweet little tune, pausing only to start it all over again.
What was that song? She knew she had heard it before. Many times, in fact. There was a repetition to it, the same simple cycle hummed over and over. If only she were upstairs, standing just outside the tiny door instead of downstairs.
Without realizing what she was doing, Kris took a step backward, and she felt the floorboard give just the slightest bit beneath the heel of her shoe. It squeaked, not loudly, but enough to make her wince.
Above her, the humming stopped.
The entire house had fallen still.
Outside, in the distance, a bird gave a sharp cry—once, twice—but it was answered only by silence.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
IT CAME TO her as a thought, like the other times when she was alone in her room or on the swing or up in her secret playroom.
At first Sadie was sure they were her thoughts, but those had always sounded just like her own voice. These sounded … different. Not completely. The voice of these thoughts was still a little girl, like her, but it was …
She paused, trying to find the right word.
Stronger. That was it. The voice was stronger. Like when the older girls spoke to her on the playground at school. Most of them were nice, like this voice, but they had a way of talking that made Sadie feel even smaller.
This thought had asked her a question. Now it was waiting. She could almost hear it breathing.
Can thoughts breathe?
It was a silly thing to wonder, and yet it sent a shiver through her small body.
“Because I heard something,” Sadie replied out loud. She was careful to keep her voice just above a whisper. She was sure Mommy was downstairs listening. Mommy was always listening, waiting for a reason to ask if she was okay. She was okay. She was better than okay.
It wasn’t only because of the new voice in her mind. Sadie was beginning to see something, too. She couldn’t look straight at it. Looking straight at it made it go away. But if she stared straight at something else—the wall or her ceiling or a book she was pretending to read—she could see a fuzzy shape out of the corner of her eye.
Like right now, as she sat in the circle of sunlight shining through the oval window above her play table. In the middle of the table was a glass jar she had found in a lower cabinet in the kitchen. It was one of those old-timey jars that grandmas put homemade jam in and adults younger than her mommy used for drinking alcohol. These types of jars had a name. On the side of the jar, in swirly, bubbly letters, was the word “Ball,” but she knew that was not its name. She had heard it before, although she couldn’t remember where or when. But she was pretty sure it started with an “M.”
Mason.
That was it!
Mason the Jar.
She had set Mason the Jar on her table like a vase, and in it she had placed one of the purple flowers from her bedroom, one that Mommy had missed when she was sweeping up the mess. Her broom must have knocked it under the bed, but Sadie had found it, and here it was. She had put a little bit of water in Mason the Jar so the pretty flower could drink when it got thirsty.
If she looked right at that flower and did not, for any reason, let her eyes move away from it, she could see the blurry shape standing beside her.
Her friend.
The girl who talked to her in her mind.
Sadie could feel the shape staring at her, as if, up until then, she, too, had been nothing but a sound or a feeling in the house. But now they could see each other!
The flowers on her bedroom floor had been a present. A friendship present. Like the Rainbow Loom bracelets her best friend, Charlotte, had made in the first grade.
She missed Charlotte. She missed her other friends from school. She missed going to the park and climbing on the yellow-and-green thing with steps and the bars and the pole she could slide down when Mommy wasn’t looking, because Mommy was afraid she would lose her grip and fall.
She missed home.
But this was home now, wasn’t it? For the summer, this was her home.
And then you’re going to leave?
It was her friend’s voice again, as strong as it was sweet. But now it was so clear, so real. Not the feeling of what her friend meant but actual words. They were no longer in Sadie’s mind. The voice was in the room with her.
“We have to,” Sadie whispered.
She could see the blurry shape moving closer. Her friend’s face was almost pressed up against hers.
But we have so many games to play.
Sadie grinned, and her chest suddenly felt warm and tingly. She loved their games. She never got tired of playing hide-and-seek or tag or World Record. And she still wanted to play the game her friend had put into her mind like a note slipped in class, Ghost in the Graveyard, even though Sadie had sensed that this game was most fun when played at night.
But she knew Mommy was getting worried. She saw it on Mommy’s face and heard it in her voice when she called out Sadie’s name.
I don’t want you to leave again, the shape of her friend whispered in her ear. I want us to play forever, Krisssy. Forever and ever and ever.
Sadie frowned. She turned her head, her eyes leaving Mason the Jar, and her friend instantly vanished as if someone had flicked a switch.
“My name isn’t Krissy. It’s Sadie,” she said to the empty air.
She waited for a response, for that wonderful voice to speak again, but there was only silence.
Sadie looked back at the jar. The blurry image of her friend returned to the corner of her eye, but it was farther away, as if it had taken a few steps back. The shape cocked its head, confused.
“Kris is my mommy’s name,” Sadie offered, answering a question that had not been asked.
The shape remained motionless, staring, its head cocked at that odd angle.
Sadie was suddenly filled with a terrible fear that made her tremble, like when she ran too far ahead in a department store and realized suddenly that she was lost and alone.
She’s mad at me, she thought, even though she could not figure out why. The possibility that she had ruined this new friendship made her want to burst into tears.
As if hearing this thought, the shape straightened its head.
Where is Krissy? it asked.
Sadie sighed with relief. There was no anger in that voice.
“That’s my mommy’s name,” she replied.
The woman downstairs?
“Uh-huh. That’s my mommy. Her name’s Kris. I’m Sadie.”