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Three Mississippi…
Then I realize that’s not the only thing missing. My father’s dead body has disappeared, just like Nana’s did before.
Conor steps forward. “What. The. F—”
Thunder rumbles in the distance, and we all stare at one another in the darkness. Our faces are mostly in shadow but look equally scared. Lily steps closer to Rose and holds her hand, the way she did when they were children. The rain that has been lashing the windows seems to pause for thought, and there are a few brief seconds of total silence.
Until we all hear the sound of scratching—like nails on a chalkboard—out in the hall.
21
October 31, 2:25 a.m.
less than four hours until low tide
Conor snatches the flashlight from Rose’s hand and rushes out into the hallway. None of us are far behind, and when we catch up, we see the source of the sound.
Poppins is scratching at the cupboard under the stairs, and she starts to whimper.
Lily steps forward and tries to open the door, but it’s locked.
“Trixie?” she calls, banging her fist against it. “Are you in there?”
There is no answer. Lily bangs on the door again, louder this time, and the wooden door rattles on its elderly hinges. She shakes the handle in frustration.
“Let me try,” says Conor, giving the flashlight back to Rose. But he can’t open the door either.
“Where is the key for this bloody cupboard?” Lily asks, but I suspect none of us know.
The dog barks and scratches at the door again.
“Be quiet, Poppins!” Lily shouts.
“She has the key,” Rose whispers.
“What?”
“Poppins has the key.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“It’s attached to her collar. Look!” Rose says, shining the flashlight down at the dog.
We seem to stare at Poppins for a long time before anyone says anything else. She blinks back in our direction, peering out from behind the two little plaits that keep her hair away from her eyes. Looking a smidgen guilty, if I’m honest. But it doesn’t seem rational—even to my irrational family—that an Old English sheepdog could be behind everything that has happened here tonight. Rose bends down to remove the key from the collar. It’s hard to see anything in the dim light, and it takes her a while to untie it.
“Hurry up!” says Lily.
“I’m trying my best,” Rose replies calmly. When she finally removes the key, she slots it into the locked door and we hold our breath. We were all afraid of this cupboard as children. We knew that there were mice and cobwebs in there. I used to imagine a family of giant spiders living in the shadows, waiting to feed on anyone foolish enough to enter.
Rose turns the key, and the door creaks as she slowly pulls it open.
It’s too dark to see inside. There was never a light.
The rest of us peer over her shoulder from the imagined safety of the hallway as Rose steps forward, shining the flashlight.
The first thing I register is the smell; bad things happen when people die. The first thing Iseeis Nana. She’s sitting on the floor of the cupboard, leaning against the exposed brick wall in the gloom. She would look like someone taking a nap—in a cupboard—if it weren’t for the gray coloring of her skin, the giant bloody gash onher head, and the blood that has spilled all down her cheek and onto the shoulder of her white cotton nightdress. The piece of chalk she was holding when we first found her has been replaced with a pen and paintbrush, tied to her hand with a red ribbon. My father’s body has been moved in here too, with his broken conductor’s baton still tied to his right hand the same way. It hovers in midair, presumably thanks to rigor mortis, as if he is conducting an invisible orchestra in the cupboard under the stairs. The surreal image creates a flashback in my mind, one I would rather not picture. I think it must have been early 1983. The third time I died was the first time I lied about it.
My dad had a series of ornamental girlfriends after my parents parted company. They were almost always the same person in my memory: someone pretty and half his age who played in his orchestra. Men are infinitely more predictable than women, and the way my father behaved before and after the divorce was borderline clichéd. But there is really no telling what an angry woman will do. My mother stored up her anger until it was as much a part of her as we were.
