The wall shivers. I reach out invisible hands to brace it.
Am I losing my mind? Why did I leave the house without shoes? I’m starting to feel like an actor in a play where all the scenes have bled together. Annie calls it déjà vu. Knowing the word doesn’t make it any less scary.
Opening the back door, I let myself into the darkened kitchen. Our cottage is unheated, but it’s warmer than outside. I wipe my frozen feet on the mat and tiptoe to the hall.
The staircase creaks as I climb it. I hear Papa’s snores and Mama’s soft breathing. Passing Kyle’s room, I enter my own and close the door. Only then do I turn on the light. Near the bed, I see my trainers and wet socks. The room smells strange – damp and unpleasant. There are no copper coins on my pillow, but that doesn’t mean no one’s visited. I can’t shift the feeling that something’s wrong.
I go to the bed and sit down. Pulling out the paper torn from Gretel’s notebook, I read the letter she dictated:
To Whom It May Concern,
I am writing in the hope that you’ll please send me a free introductory chess set. Even though I’ve learned the full rules, I currently have no board or pieces, and therefore no way of actually playing.
Dietmar Pfister is currently my favourite player. Caspian Alexandr is also very good. Often, they manage to turn the tables on what seem like hopeless situations. There’s something particularly exciting about Pfister’s game. The way he defeated Jacob Nyback in Tblisi last year was truly astonishing.
Although I’m a late starter, I hope that with a board and pieces of my own I’ll develop into a competent player. Grateful if you could send my set to the address at the top of this letter.
Ever your servant,
Kyle North
Gretel told me a bit about Dietmar Pfister, so that bit isn’t a lie. Whether there are other lies, I don’t know. The words aren’t my own, which means I can’t trust them.
But I do want that board, so badly I can think of nothing else. At the top of the page are two addresses. The one on the right is Leon Meunier’s, my brother’s name above it. The one on the left, I don’t recognize. It’s somewhere in England, which worried me, until Gretel explained that FIDE has member federations in every country. Luckily, I still remember the address she gave me when we first met: I’m thirteen years old, and my name’s Elissa Mirzoyan. M-I-R-Z-O-Y-A-N. I live at six, Cloisters Way.
The address on the letter isn’t that one. I hate to be suspicious, but I have to protect myself. Earlier, Gretel asked if she could trust me. The question I need to ask is whether I can trust her. She’s already tried to fool me once.
Again, I feel that dizzying sense of a wall beginning to topple. I sway on the bed, trying to keep my balance. Once I’ve recovered, I read the letter again, searching for traps.
All I need now is an envelope and a stamp. There’s a postbox a few miles down the road. If all goes well, I could have my new board within a week.
There are no pennies on my pillow, but that doesn’t mean I’m safe. The chess set, like everything else, is a fantasy. I have bad instincts, but thankfully not that bad. Going to the corner, I lift the loose floorboard and retrieve my Collection of Keepsakes and Weird Finds. I place the FIDE application letter inside. It can stay there until the morning, when I’ll destroy it.
Elissa
Day 5
I
In the light of her seventh candle, Elissa eats the scrap of chocolate brownie she hid inside her underwear. The six candles already consumed equate to a forty-eight-hour burn time, but she knows she’s been here far longer; knows, too, that she’s nearing the limit of her endurance. Her injured arm throbs from her elbow to her fingertips. When she dares to examine it, she finds a foul-smelling pus seeping through the makeshift bandage.
Inside the cell, the temperature has dropped further. Her soiled vest is still wet. Otherwise, she’d have put it back on. Earlier, she dried a small section over the candle flame, but it’s a task she can only manage in stages.
On her mental chessboard, the drawer to E8 is open. Into it, she plans to store her every interaction with Elijah, along with her every insight into his character.
It won’t be easy. Because Elijah, now she’s got to know him better, frightens her more than anyone.
For a start, he’s a contradiction. He acts like he wants to help, but despite her pleas he’s consistently failed to raise the alarm. Neither has he been entirely honest. Twice during their conversations he’s mentioned his high IQ. Yet when pressed for his score, it was clear he’d never taken a test.
‘Ninety-nine,’ he’d told her, as if expecting that number to impress. Elissa could have explained that the median adult IQ is one hundred. Hers is one hundred and thirty-eight.
Even if Elijah were to take a test, she doubts the results would impress. The time he took to scratch out his FIDE letter was staggering, and although she didn’t see his handwriting, she’s convinced it’d resemble that of someone far younger. He’s clearly unstable; she suspects, too, that he suffers a form of mental impairment; high-functioning autism, perhaps – something she’s encountered a few times on the chess circuit. When she pointed out he was barefoot, he seemed genuinely confused. And yet he was smart enough to recognize her ploy with the mobile phone.
Elijah seems shockingly unaware of the modern world. He hasn’t heard of the internet; hasn’t heard of apps or tablet computers. Is that because he’s led a sheltered life? Or because he’s spinning her a lie? And why is he so careful to remain hidden? Is he worried she’ll betray him? She could do that easily enough without describing his appearance. Once before, she imagined him as a child-sized monstrosity, with lamp-like eyes and a horribly deformed mouth. Now, unbidden, a new image comes to her; of a boy with smooth skin instead of eyes, and lips as plump and moist as tulip petals. She knows this version of him is just as inaccurate as the first – if Elijah was blinded by deformity, what reason would he have for a torch?
He’s probably still her best chance of surviving this, but the effort of treating him like a friend is exhausting. When she thinks of the affectionate way he calls her ‘silly’, or his delight at their Hansel and Gretel monikers, her stomach grips with nausea. His voice – petulant at times, thoughtful at others – makes her cringe. There’s a quality to it that nags at her, advertising something not-quite-right. When he visits, she feels like Clarice Starling in the company of Hannibal Lecter; or Frodo Baggins in the tunnels with Shelob. Even worse, despite her hope that he’ll help her, he’s already admitted he couldn’t save Bryony.
Still, she got her tree. I made sure of that, even if I couldn’t make sure of anything else. Picked out a tall one, just like she asked.
Maybe that’s why he calls this place the Memory Wood. She imagines, above ground, a landscape of dripping trees, with children’s bones buried among the roots. The thought is enough to set her teeth squealing.
Outside the cell door, the deadbolts rattle in their mountings.
II
It’s the ghoul.
Elissa knows by the stink of him and the harsh white beam of his head torch. She waits in silence as he sets up his equipment. Finished, he carries out the red waste bucket, returning with a clean one.