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“A cold spot is a sure sign of supernatural activity,” Mr. Voland replied. “I suspect that a thermometer would show the room reading at a much warmer temperature than it feels.”
“What can we do?” Ollie asked.
“Stay together,” said Mr. Voland. “Keep the fire burning. And hope the night holds answers as well as danger.” He put another log on the sullen flames.
Ollie hoped so too. She touched her watch. It had been silent for hours now. But she hoped it wasn’t done telling her things. She hoped she’d talk to her mom that night. She felt a little thrill of excitement at the thought.
“Ollie!” called her dad from the kitchen.
Ollie, a little reluctantly, left Mr. Voland and the fireplace. With its small windows, the kitchen was even darker than the dining room. Her dad was working by the light of a battery-powered lamp, slathering peanut butter and jelly on bread. “Grab the mayonnaise jar,” he told her, “and throw us together some ham sandwiches. I’m sorry we’re stuck eating cold sandwiches two nights running, but the propane’s not working—we can’t use the stove. At least there’s plenty of dry goods.” He tweaked one of Ollie’s curls. “Can’t live on s’mores.”
Actually, Ollie wasn’t too hungry—she’d eaten a lot of s’mores. But she picked up a spreader and a piece of bread anyway. Making food with her dad was familiar; it made her feel better. Her dad loved to feed people. Mr. Wilson had left him in charge of the cooking. Which made sense, Ollie thought with pride. Her dad was a much better cook.
Ollie spread mayonnaise on bread, laid down neat slices of ham. As she did, she looked around the kitchen. It had big, new metal counters, metal sinks. A giant gas range with eight burners. She wished they could light the stove and have soup. But that wasn’t working either.
In the corner, Ollie caught sight of a skinny door. The knob was dented. It was hard to see it in the shadows.
“Where does that door go?” Ollie asked, pointing.
“Sam says it goes to the basement,” said her dad. “But it’s full of rusty nails and old axes and other sharp things—maybe hold off on exploring until tomorrow?”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” said Ollie with feeling. No way was she going into a moldy old basement.
They finished their sandwiches and took them out to the others, along with chips and apples and oranges. Ms. Zintner was trying to boil water in a pot awkwardly hung over the fire, but it didn’t work. Ollie caught herself thinking, My mom would have known what to do, but she tried to quash the thought. It wasn’t Ms. Zintner’s fault that they couldn’t boil water. The fire didn’t get that hot. It stayed low and sullen and smoky, and the smoke, instead of going straight up, crept sideways into their eyes.
* * *
—
“Dad, do you think the storm will stop tomorrow?” Ollie asked after they’d finished eating their sandwiches. It was inky, snow-filled night by then. A couple of the battery-powered lamps had already died, and none of the fresh batteries could get them to light again. All eight people in the lodge had drawn in close around the fire, staying in its hoop of light and warmth. Ollie was sitting on a blanket next to her dad’s chair, leaning her head on his knee like a little kid. Even her dad looked tired now. He had been joking and singing all that long afternoon as the lodge got colder and colder. He’d kept them all laughing. But now there were purple pouches under his eyes.
“I don’t know, Ollie-pop,” he said simply. “I’ve never seen a storm like this. But it’ll be okay. The storm has to stop eventually. We have walls and a roof and blankets and plenty of food and firewood. We’ll be all right.”
Ollie said, “Dad—have you ever believed in ghosts?”
Her dad frowned down at her, pulling at a splinter that had lodged itself in his thumb. Ollie wished she hadn’t asked. He’d been worried that day too. Worried about different things. About keeping her and Brian and Coco fed and warm and not scared.
Her dad said seriously, “I believe in memory. I believe in remembering someone you love so well that it becomes kind of like a ghost. You remember someone so hard that it feels like they’re in the next room, just around the corner, that they could walk in any minute. But the kind of ghosts that Mr. Voland says he’s looking for? The ghosts that walk up and down, like Jacob Marley in A Christmas Carol? No. I don’t believe in ghosts like that. You have to decide what you believe, Ollie-pop. That’s part of growing up. But . . .” He bent down and whispered in her ear. “I wouldn’t listen too much to Mr. Voland. Dead people, they’re gone. They’ve left us, except for the part of them that we carry around forever.”
Ollie only nodded once. “Okay,” she said very softly. They both stared into the glowing coals of the feeble fire. “I love you.”
Gently, her dad stroked her hair as they watched the fire sputter and sink low in the darkness.
* * *
—
More of the battery-powered lamps had gone out. They were down to two. The small fire made the shadows dance along the walls of the dining room. Coco tried not to watch the
shadows. She kept expecting to see a human figure there, a long arm pointing.
Coco really didn’t want it to get dark.
“Hey, Coco,” said her mom. “Can you help me straighten up these blankets?”
Coco went over. Her mom was rearranging the piles of pillows and comforters so that everyone would have a spot to sleep, as near to the fire as they could get. Ollie, Coco, and Brian, plus Coco’s mom and Mr. Adler, would be on the dining room side of the fire. Mr. Voland and the Wilsons would be on the lobby side.
“How are you doing, sweetie?” her mom asked as Coco shook out blankets. “Here, let’s put you three kids a bit closer to the fire.” Her mom smiled crookedly. “Some vacation, huh?”
