Don't Forget Me! Read online

  “Don’t worry, Peter. I’ll get you out of there,” I said, struggling to my feet.

  As I ran to the stairs, I rubbed the thick dust from my hands onto my jeans. The floor seemed to tilt and sway beneath me. The walls spun wildly.

  My brain whirring, I hurtled forward. Pulled myself up the groaning basement stairs. Into the kitchen.

  I grabbed the phone off the wall.

  I’ll call the police. I’ll call the fire department. They can open the trapdoor. They can get Peter out of there.

  I raised my hand to dial 911. But I stopped as yellow light swept over the kitchen from outside.

  Twin beams of yellow light. Headlights.

  I heard the crunch of tires over gravel.

  “Yes!” I ran to the back window. “Yes!”

  Mom and Dad were home. “Yes!”

  I tore open the kitchen door and ran out, screaming, waving both hands above my head wildly.

  I leaped in front of the car. Into the wide rectangle of yellow light. “Mom! Dad! You’ve got to hurry! Help! You’ve got to help!”

  I grabbed Mom’s car door and tugged it open. “Hurry! Get out! There’s no time!” I shrieked.

  I saw their startled faces. I grabbed Mom’s arm and started to pull her out of the car. But her seat belt was still attached. She let out a cry of protest.

  The driver’s door swung open, and Dad climbed out, frowning at me, his eyes darting from me to the house. “What’s wrong? Danielle, what is it?” he cried.

  “No time!” I wailed. “No time to explain! Hurry!”

  Mom finally unsnapped her seat belt. She slid out of the car and stood unsteadily in front of me. “What’s all the screaming? Is—is something wrong in the house?”

  I grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the kitchen door. “It’s Peter!” I cried. “He—he’s in the basement. I mean—”

  “Peter?” Dad squinted at me.

  “Please! We have to hurry!” I shrieked. “Peter went down a trapdoor. It’s a long story—but he’s been acting so strange. Ever since you left! Come on! We have to go down there! Why are you just standing there?”

  They stood side by side now, both staring hard at me.

  “Danielle, who is in the basement?” Mom asked finally.

  “Peter!” I screamed frantically.

  “But who is Peter?” Dad asked.

  “Huh?” My mouth dropped open. “Peter! My brother! What is wrong with you two? Hurry! We’ve got to get him out!”

  They didn’t move. Just stood there staring with such worried expressions on their faces.

  Finally Dad came over and put his hands gently on my shoulders. “Danielle, please—calm down,” he said. “What is this all about?”

  “You know you don’t have a brother,” Mom said softly. “You know there’s no one in our family named Peter.”

  “Have you gone crazy?” I shrieked. “Of course I have a brother! Have you both gone totally crazy?”

  Dad tightened his hold on my shoulders. “Danielle, please,” he whispered. “Let’s go in the house and talk about this quietly.”

  Mom sighed. “Your father and I have had a very long trip.”

  “But, Peter—!” I protested. “He’s in the basement. We can’t just leave him there.”

  Mom sighed again. “I knew we shouldn’t have left her alone,” she said to Dad.

  Dad kept his eyes locked on mine. He shook his head. “Danielle, you used to make up imaginary friends when you were little. But you’re fifteen now.”

  I pulled free from his grip. “I’m not making Peter up!” I cried. “I’m not! He’s my brother! He’s your son!”

  Mom shut her eyes and held her hands over her ears. “Please stop it. Please. I have a splitting headache.”

  “Can’t we go inside and talk about this calmly?” Dad pleaded. “We’ll sit down and have a cup of tea, and—”

  “How can I be calm?” I wailed. “Peter is in horrible trouble—and you don’t even remember him! Your own son! Your own son!”

  I grabbed Dad’s hands and pulled him toward the house. “Come down to the basement. I’ll show you.”

  Walking with me, Dad slipped his arm around my shoulder. “It’ll be okay, Danielle,” he said softly. I saw him glance at Mom. “You can show us the basement later. Okay?”

  He pressed his palm against my forehead. “Hmmm. It feels hot. I think you might have a fever. That would explain—”

  “NO!” I shrieked. “I’m not sick! And I’m not crazy! You’ve got to remember Peter. You’ve got to!”

  They led me into the house. They took me up to my room and forced a thermometer into my mouth. I didn’t have any fever.

  But they insisted I get into bed. Dad went downstairs to call Dr. Ross.

  Mom kept clearing her throat tensely, crossing and uncrossing her arms, sighing loudly. All the while, she gaped at me as if I was some kind of alien from another planet.

  I changed into my pajamas and sat on the edge of my bed. “I know what’s happening here,” I told her. “Peter is real. But you’ve forgotten him. Because this is Forget-Me House.”

  Mom narrowed her eyes at me. “Excuse me? This is what?”

  “Forget-Me House,” I repeated. “A man came here. He told me—”

  “Someone was here?” Mom interrupted.

  I nodded. “And he told me this would happen.”

  Mom sighed for the hundredth time. “I don’t understand. A strange man came here? And he said you would start to imagine you had a brother?”

  “I’m not imagining!” I cried. And then I totally lost it. I jumped to my feet. I grabbed Mom by the shoulders, and I started to shake her. “Listen to me! Listen to me! You’ve got to listen to me!”

  Mom’s eyes bulged in shock, in fear. “Danielle, stop! Let go!” she pleaded.

  I heard footsteps. Dad rushed into the room. He uttered a startled cry. Then he pulled me off Mom. He wrapped his arm around my waist and guided me firmly back to my bed.

  “Sit down, Danielle,” he ordered. “Sit down and take a deep breath. Do I have to take you to the hospital?”

  “She—she attacked me!” Mom whimpered, rubbing her shoulders. And then she added, “Like a wild animal.”

  “Dr. Ross will see us tomorrow,” Dad told me. He stood between Mom and me, breathing hard, hands on his waist. He stood tensed, as if ready to protect Mom from another attack.

  “She’s completely out of control,” Mom said, shaking her head. The tears in her eyes began to run down her cheeks.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I told her. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I only …” My voice trailed off.

  They’re not going to listen to me, I realized. They’re not going to believe me.

  They think I’ve gone crazy or something.

  They really don’t remember Peter.

  What can I do?

  I’ve got to wait, I decided. I’ve got to wait until everyone is calmer. Then I can sit down quietly with them and explain. Explain about the house. Explain what that reporter told me about this place.

  I hunched myself on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tightly in my lap. My hair fell over my face, but I made no attempt to push it back.

  “Sorry, Mom,” I repeated. “Sorry I’ve been acting so insane. But we really need to talk. About Peter and about this house.”

  Mom and Dad exchanged glances.

  “Of course, we’ll talk,” Dad said, sounding really forced and phony. “We’ll talk about everything. You know, moving into a new house can be very, very stressful.”

  I wanted to argue with him, but I bit my tongue.

  Mom wiped the tears off her cheeks. She suddenly appeared so tired, so old. “Let’s discuss the whole thing in the morning,” she said. She pressed her fingers against her temples. “When we’re all calm and rested, and I don’t have this splitting headache.”

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  “Yes, first thing in the morning,” Dad added, nodding eagerly. “I know you�
��ll feel a lot better about everything after a good night’s sleep.”

  No, I won’t! That’s what I wanted to say. Instead, I murmured, “Yeah. Okay.”

  Mom started toward the door, then turned back to me. She forced a smile to her face. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll make your favorite—blueberry pancakes—for breakfast. How does that sound?”

  “Great,” I replied.

  “Okay!” Dad said cheerfully. “Blueberry pancakes for breakfast. And we’ll have a nice, long talk.”

  Dad put a hand on Mom’s shoulder, and they hurried out of the room. They both seemed really eager to get away.

  I know they’re going to go downstairs and talk about me, I thought. About how crazy I am and how I totally lost it.

  I’ll set them straight in the morning, I decided. I’ll take them down to the basement. I’ll convince them that Peter is real. And together, we’ll rescue my poor brother—from wherever he is.

  I yawned loudly. All the tension, all the worry, all the horror—it made me feel so tired, so exhausted. I suddenly felt as if I weighed a thousand pounds. I couldn’t raise my arms. I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

  “First thing in the morning!” I murmured to myself. “First thing …”

  I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Bright morning sunlight through my window startled me awake. I blinked hard, feeling dazed. Such a deep sleep. I groaned as I sat up. I didn’t feel at all rested.

  What kept me awake? I wondered. What was troubling me?

  I gazed around the room, squinting against the bright light.

  Something had upset me yesterday. But what?

  What was it? What had me so worried?

  I couldn’t remember.

  I lowered my feet to the floor and climbed out of bed. I was still thinking hard, still trying to remember what had kept me awake for most of the night.

  “Peter,” I whispered finally. The word floated out as if from a distant place. “Peter.”

  Yes. Peter. Of course. Peter.

  “Oh, no,” I murmured. “Oh, no. Oh, no …” I had nearly forgotten him.

  Peter was almost lost. Almost lost forever. And then I realized …

  “I’m next.”

  “Peter … Peter …” Chanting his name so I wouldn’t forget it, I hurried into the bathroom to shower. Then I pulled on an oversized blue sweater over black leggings.

  As I made my way downstairs, I rehearsed what I was going to say to my parents. First I’d explain how strange Peter had been acting. How at first I thought it was because I hypnotized him.

  Then I’d tell them about the reporter who came to the door. And what he told me about the strange, frightening rumors about this house. I’d tell them why the house is known as Forget-Me House.

  I’ll be totally calm, I decided. I’ll speak slowly and softly. They’ll see that I’m not crazy. They’ll believe me.

  “Calm … calm …” I repeated to myself as I made my way down the back hall to the kitchen. But my heart started to pound. And my hands suddenly felt ice-cold.

  “Calm … calm …”

  I stepped into the kitchen.

  And gasped in shock.

  “Mom? Dad?”

  I uttered a hoarse cry as I gazed around the dark, empty kitchen.

  “Hey! Where are you?”

  I clicked on the ceiling lights. My heart racing, I walked around the kitchen.

  No sign of them. No breakfast dishes on the table or on the sink. No coffee cups. No cereal bowls.

  “Mom? Dad? Did you leave?” I tried to shout, but my voice came out tiny and weak.

  “That’s impossible,” I muttered to myself.

  I hurried to the kitchen window and peered out. No car in the driveway.

  Did they go to work? Did they just drive off?

  They must have left a note, I decided. They always leave me endless notes on the refrigerator. I turned. Bumped my knee on a kitchen stool.

  “Ouch!” I hopped across the kitchen on one foot.

  No. No note stuck to the fridge.

  “Weird.”

  Rubbing my throbbing knee, I hurried upstairs to their bedroom. “Hey, are you two still asleep?”

  I stepped into the room. Mom’s nightgown lay crumpled on the floor beside their unmade bed. The suitcases from their trip had been emptied and stood open against the far wall. The light in their bathroom had been left on.

  “Where are you?” How could they leave for work without even waking me up? And what about the blueberry pancakes? What about our serious talk?

  What about Peter?

  “They promised….” I murmured as I headed back to my room to get ready for school. I suddenly felt so angry. And so hurt. “They promised….”

  The morning went by in a slow-motion blur. What did my teachers talk about? Did any of my friends talk to me? I couldn’t tell you.

  I shouldn’t have come to school today, I told myself as I trudged like a zombie, a brain-dead zombie, from class to class. I should have stayed home. Called my parents. Called the police. Called somebody to come help me rescue Peter.

  “Peter, I haven’t forgotten you,” I whispered sadly. “Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten.”

  But I kept repeating his name over. And I wrote it twenty times in my notebook in bright-red ink. Just to make sure he didn’t slip away again.

  At noon, I made my way into the lunchroom. Such a blur of faces … trays … laughing, talking kids.

  Such a blur … such a dark blur …

  Dark … darker …

  “Huh?” Someone was shaking me.

  Someone was squeezing my shoulders, squeezing so hard it hurt. Shaking me. Shaking me.

  I blinked open my eyes. I struggled to see. “Addie—?”

  She gripped my shoulders. Her face was bright red. She was breathing hard. “Danielle … Danielle, I—I couldn’t get you to wake up.”

  I squinted at her, feeling dizzy, the lunchroom spinning.

  “I shook you and shook you. You wouldn’t open your eyes. I was so scared.”

  She dropped into a chair across the table from me. Her face was drenched in sweat. “I was so worried,” she said, shuddering. “You—you passed out or something.”

  “I’m fine,” I whispered. I cleared my throat. “Really. I feel perfectly fine. I guess I just … dozed off for a minute.”

  She lowered her gaze to the tabletop. “You’re okay? Well … where’s your lunch?”

  “Huh?” I stared down at the table too. “Oh. Uh … I think I brought one. I … I don’t remember where I put it.”

  She squinted at me. “You’re sitting here with no lunch?”

  I shrugged.

  Addie tugged at a strand of her hair, twisting it around one finger. “Well, do you feel like eating? You can share my lunch.” She shoved the brown paper bag across the table toward me.

  “I’m … not too hungry,” I said.

  “Didn’t you see me waving to you in the auditorium during that boring assembly this morning?” she asked. “Why didn’t you come over?”

  “I didn’t see you,” I said. “I—I’m not too together today, Addie.”

  She rolled her eyes. “As if I couldn’t see that? What is your problem, Danielle? When Mrs. Melton asked you to pass out the test papers, you just stared at her as if you didn’t understand English.”

  I blinked. “I did? Really? I don’t remember.”

  Addie squeezed my hand. “You sure you feel okay?”

  “I’m not okay,” I confessed, my voice breaking with emotion. “I’m not okay. I’m so worried, Addie. About Peter. He—he disappeared in the basement. And when my parents got home, they wouldn’t believe me. They said that—”

  “Wait. Wait.” Addie made a time-out sign. “Who disappeared? Who disappeared in the basement?”

  “Peter,” I said. “He went into a trapdoor, and it closed, and then—”

  “Who?” Addie looked totally bewildered. “Danielle, who is Pete
r?”

  What happened next?

  Did I try to explain to Addie? Or did I jump up from the table and run out of the lunchroom?

  Did I stay in school and go to classes that afternoon? Did I wander around the school grounds until the final bell rang? Did I bolt out of the building at lunchtime with Addie calling after me and run all the way home?

  I don’t know. My mind was a blank.

  When Addie couldn’t remember Peter, something inside me snapped. I guess my fear took over.

  I don’t remember what happened next. My memory vanished in a swirl of terrified thoughts and cold panic.

  Somehow I found myself on the front stoop of our new house. The afternoon sun was lowering itself behind the trees. I saw a squirrel scampering across the gray tiles of our roof.

  I tried the front door. Locked. I had forgotten to take my key.

  Mom was probably home. She usually gets home in the middle of the afternoon. I tried the doorbell. I pressed it hard. Pressed it again. Then I remembered it wasn’t hooked up.

  So I raised my fist and pounded on the solid wood door.

  Please be home, I thought. Please be home, Mom. We’ve got to save Peter. We’ve got to save him before everyone forgets!

  I pounded some more, harder. Until my fist ached.

  Finally, the door swung open. My mother stuck her head out. She squinted at me. “Yes?” she asked. “Can I help you?”

  “Huh? It’s me!” I cried.

  Mom squinted harder. “I’m sorry. What can I do for you, miss?”

  “It’s me! It’s ME!” I shrieked. “I’m your daughter!” I grabbed the storm door and jerked it open all the way.

  Mom gasped. Her face tightened with fear. “Daughter? I don’t understand. What daughter—?”

  “Let me in!” I screamed. “You can’t forget me! You can’t! And you can’t forget Peter, either!”

  I lowered my shoulder and shoved her hard, out of the way.

  She cried out and stumbled back into the entryway.

  I hurtled into the house. The storm door slammed behind me.

  “Get out!” Mom screamed. “What do you want? Get out of my house!”

  “No! You come with me!” I shouted breathlessly. I grabbed her around the waist and pushed her roughly into the back hall.