Hilltop House

Cora, Six

Something had woken her again, and as usual, Cora didn't know quite what it was. Her room was absolutely blissful, in a too-perfect sort of way. The light from the window created a gorgeous, glimmery deep blue; the temperate air seemed to caress her exposed skin like a soft velvet cloth; the sound, even, was almost an imperceptible white noise, separating her from whatever was going on beyond her walls.

Every night she woke and felt the impossible quintessence of her room, and every night she knew it was entirely uncanny.

She'd lie there, pull Grandma Luce's afghan around her, and attempt to convince her mind to drift back into its slumber, and she usually managed within a few minutes, but tonight, a good amount of time passed before she began to slightly panic. If she didn't get back to sleep in a reasonable amount of time, she'd be too tired in the morning to get it together, and she had three tests tomorrow, and—

A sudden jarring sound caused her to sit up so fast she pulled something in her neck. On her dresser rested a small box shaped like an indigo blue crystal, like a huge piece of dark quartz found in some mine. The thing had a small hinge at the back, and when its top half tipped open, a haunting melody emanated from a tiny metal comb held against a turning wheel in its interior. It was this that had made noise--the top of the box had opened and was chiming its tune, like so many tiny bells, a ballet for a spider lifting its delicate legs.

For a moment, Cora stared at the box, which had been a gift from her mother last year. How it had opened was a mystery, and yet beyond the initial shock, the event wasn't entirely unwelcome. The melody was lovely--eerie, but lovely. She hadn't listened to it in quite some time, mostly out of anger toward her mother for their move, and she sat in the strange light of her room, listening until the mechanical wheels slowed to a stop. When the silence suddenly fell once more, Cora recognized the volume of her own breathing. She'd moved somewhat into a trance and had to shake herself awake a little. The girl looked at her blankets swirling around her, slipped out of them, placed her bare feet on the floorboards, which warmed at her touch. Her pajamas consisted of black shorts and tank with little moons and stars scattered across them, the phrase "Sweet dreams, starlight!" weaving across the chest; catching sight of herself in her mirror across the way, Cora suddenly felt her attire was childish and looked away from her reflection.

She stood and went to her dresser, lightly touched the music box to close its lid, and stayed there, uncertain as to why. The back of her neck prickled, and she turned, slowly, to find nothing and no one else in her room, as expected. And yet, the feeling that something was off wouldn't fade. Cora noticed her closet door was ajar. Normally, she would've thought nothing of it, but she had a distinct memory that she'd closed it last night after throwing Ben's llama in there and slamming it. He'd infuriated her--Ben--had grown too insistent about the sorts of pictures and comments he wanted her to send him--and she'd been having none of it. Whatever feelings she thought she'd had for him, they were gone, now, and she'd been unable to bear the sight of that stupid stuffed animal.

But there were a few inches between the door and its frame, now. It could've just popped open, but Cora stepped toward it anyway, reached out a firm hand (there were no shivers, she was not afraid), pulled the door gently toward her, and out rolled the llama at her feet.

What perplexed her, gave the girl pause, was not the door being open or the llama tumbling out but the fact that in place of its head was white batting, frothing from its torn neck. The head was gone. Cora crawled into the closet and searched in vain for it.

When she at last fell back to sleep, she felt, besides perplexed, a strange sense of justice.

"I think you're right," Cora told Brian the following Sunday afternoon. He didn't have to work Saturday nights, so Sundays were usually the best time to hang out with him. During the week, because he worked nights, he slept most days, and Saturdays he still had his little parties, in spite of claiming to dislike them. In fact, Brian often ended up leaving his own gatherings to see what Cora was up to. He'd never come up to her house; he'd text and draw her out, and they'd walk down the street and chat, or she'd sit on her porch swing while he stood at the bottom of the hill, or they'd just send messages back and forth to satiate their boredom. But Sunday afternoons were better. They could sit in Brian's backyard without all the others and just talk.