greens and blues on its doors and intricate carvings of boars’ heads and wolves on its sides. It looked like something that might have been plucked from a Grimms fairy tale set in the deepest, darkest Black Forest.
I’ve seen this before
. But that was impossible. I had no idea Havenwood even existed two days prior. I had certainly never been here. But I couldn’t shake the feeling. It wasn’t just the armoire, but the house itself seemed all at once foreign and familiar, as though I had read about it…
Ah, yes
. At this, a smile crept to my lips. Of course I had read about it. Mrs. Sinclair often set her tales in enormous old homes just like this one. Perhaps exactly like this one. That was why certain things seemed so familiar. She had probably put certain aspects of Havenwood into her stories. Satisfied with this explanation, I walked on, the déjà vu drifting along behind me as I went.
The library doors stood open at the end of the corridor, and a flickering light from inside the room was casting shadows on the opposite wall. Although the effect was warm and welcoming, a strange feeling of dread spread through my veins as I approached the room’s entrance. This was more than simple déjà vu. I stopped a few feet away and simply could not go on. Goose bumps arose on my arms, and a chill whispered up my spine.
This is silly,
I told myself, longing to see all of those books awaiting me in the library. But something, deep down in the depths of my being, would not let me take even one step closer.
And that was when I heard it, soft and low, almost as soft as a whisper.
“
Sing a song of sixpence / A pocket full of rye.
” It was a small voice, the voice of a child.
I whirled around in a circle. “Who’s there?” I called out, my voice cracking and thin. “Mrs. Sinclair? Marion?”
“
Four and twenty blackbirds…
”
I froze, my heart pounding. The voice seemed to be coming from far away and long ago, as though it were buoyed on the wind from another time, or trapped somehow within these very walls.
“
Baked in a pie…
”
And then laughter, the tinkling, musical laughter of a young girl.
This isn’t a child,
I thought.
A living child, anyway
. I had no idea what was singing at the other end of the hallway, but I wasn’t about to stick around to find out. I backed away, slowly at first, and then turned and hurried down the hallway, hoping to catch Mr. Sinclair before he left. But of course he had gone long ago. I knew that Mrs. Sinclair and Marion, along with other household staff, must be around somewhere, but I had no idea where. All at once, I wished to be back on the streets of Chicago. Even angry reporters would’ve been welcome company just then.
I took several deep breaths, trying to quiet my racing heart, and realized I had made my way back to the formal living room. I ran a hand through my hair and gazed up at the portrait above the fireplace of the man in the kilt. His face seemed so familiar somehow. I could see the laugh lines around his eyes, the kindness. I could almost hear his voice whispering in my ear, the drone of bagpipes floating in the air around me. All at once I knew this was the man who built Havenwood.
“What was that back there?” I asked him, wishing he could give me an answer.
I eyed my watch. With a couple of hours to go until lunchtime, I hurried up the stairs and, after several wrong turns, found my way back to my room. Once I was finally safe inside, I shut the door behind me, sunk into the armchair next to the window, and propped my feet on the ottoman. Covering my legs with an afghan that had been draped over the back of the chair, I turned my face to the window and stared out at the snow, imagining the original owner of the house and his children playing there, the painting come to life. Suddenly I wondered if it was one of theirvoices I heard, a tiny moment in time somehow caught and replayed.
A while later, there was a knock at the door. Marion poked her
I’ve seen this before
. But that was impossible. I had no idea Havenwood even existed two days prior. I had certainly never been here. But I couldn’t shake the feeling. It wasn’t just the armoire, but the house itself seemed all at once foreign and familiar, as though I had read about it…
Ah, yes
. At this, a smile crept to my lips. Of course I had read about it. Mrs. Sinclair often set her tales in enormous old homes just like this one. Perhaps exactly like this one. That was why certain things seemed so familiar. She had probably put certain aspects of Havenwood into her stories. Satisfied with this explanation, I walked on, the déjà vu drifting along behind me as I went.
The library doors stood open at the end of the corridor, and a flickering light from inside the room was casting shadows on the opposite wall. Although the effect was warm and welcoming, a strange feeling of dread spread through my veins as I approached the room’s entrance. This was more than simple déjà vu. I stopped a few feet away and simply could not go on. Goose bumps arose on my arms, and a chill whispered up my spine.
This is silly,
I told myself, longing to see all of those books awaiting me in the library. But something, deep down in the depths of my being, would not let me take even one step closer.
And that was when I heard it, soft and low, almost as soft as a whisper.
“
Sing a song of sixpence / A pocket full of rye.
” It was a small voice, the voice of a child.
I whirled around in a circle. “Who’s there?” I called out, my voice cracking and thin. “Mrs. Sinclair? Marion?”
“
Four and twenty blackbirds…
”
I froze, my heart pounding. The voice seemed to be coming from far away and long ago, as though it were buoyed on the wind from another time, or trapped somehow within these very walls.
“
Baked in a pie…
”
And then laughter, the tinkling, musical laughter of a young girl.
This isn’t a child,
I thought.
A living child, anyway
. I had no idea what was singing at the other end of the hallway, but I wasn’t about to stick around to find out. I backed away, slowly at first, and then turned and hurried down the hallway, hoping to catch Mr. Sinclair before he left. But of course he had gone long ago. I knew that Mrs. Sinclair and Marion, along with other household staff, must be around somewhere, but I had no idea where. All at once, I wished to be back on the streets of Chicago. Even angry reporters would’ve been welcome company just then.
I took several deep breaths, trying to quiet my racing heart, and realized I had made my way back to the formal living room. I ran a hand through my hair and gazed up at the portrait above the fireplace of the man in the kilt. His face seemed so familiar somehow. I could see the laugh lines around his eyes, the kindness. I could almost hear his voice whispering in my ear, the drone of bagpipes floating in the air around me. All at once I knew this was the man who built Havenwood.
“What was that back there?” I asked him, wishing he could give me an answer.
I eyed my watch. With a couple of hours to go until lunchtime, I hurried up the stairs and, after several wrong turns, found my way back to my room. Once I was finally safe inside, I shut the door behind me, sunk into the armchair next to the window, and propped my feet on the ottoman. Covering my legs with an afghan that had been draped over the back of the chair, I turned my face to the window and stared out at the snow, imagining the original owner of the house and his children playing there, the painting come to life. Suddenly I wondered if it was one of theirvoices I heard, a tiny moment in time somehow caught and replayed.
A while later, there was a knock at the door. Marion poked her
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