Chapter 1
Not long after Dad died, Mom told us we had to go live with Gramma . She said we couldn’t afford our house anymore.
Gramma lived in a big, old house in a far off village I had never heard of called Orchard Hills . G ra y —just like in an old photograph— two stories tall, big windows that looked like giant eyes, and a foundation of mortar an d stone, it was the creepiest house I had ever seen . Just something about it made me think there was something stra nge lurking behind every window, things even older and creepier than Gramma herself.
We weren’t that close to Gramma. In fa ct, my six -year-old sister, Lori , and I had never even met her. Mom always said she had a few screws loose, that maybe she wasn’t all there in the head , perhaps suffering from dementia and was possibly dangerous .
B ut we had nowhere else to go.
Coming into Orchard Hills on our moving day, the first thing I noticed was there didn’t seem to be anything in this village that was separate from the cemetery. There were tombstones as far as the eye could see.
“Mom ,” I asked from the passenger seat, “is this entire town just one big grave yard?”
She began crying, but didn’t answer me . I ass umed she was thinking about Dad . This was going to be tough. I really missed Dad, and I was going to miss all of my friends. I could feel the tears beginning to well in my eyes. I looked away to hide my face.
“Mom,” Lori said from the backseat, “Amanda’s crying.” Sometimes I just wanted to punch her little face in.
“I’m going to kill you!” I screamed, unbuckled my seatbelt, and turned around. Tears were streaming down my face, m y eyes, swollen. I couldn’t see , but that fact didn’t stop me from trying to land a punch .
“Help me! Help me!” Lori cried and undid her own seatbelt. She was trying to open the backdoor.
“You’re not going anywhere!” I screamed.
And then I was flung against the dashboard, my head cracking into the windshield.
“Listen, both of you!” Mom yelled, crying. “I am not having this. You two will behave yourselves or else. You got it?”
We never pushed Mom to be specific with her “or else” threat s . It used to mean “or else Dad is getting involved.” Now it meant “or else you’ll have to live with the fact you made me cry.” Both Lori and I shut up, turned around, and sat back in our seats.
We continued going up the road in silence. This road seemed to be as close to Main Street as anyth ing , in fact, I think it was probably the only road in this entire town . According to a sign we passed , it was called Sharp Road.
E ventually we came to the house as the gravestones thinned out. “Ninety-one eleven Sharp Road,” I said, reading the house number. “That’s our new address. Sounds creepy.”
The day was stormy , with rain threatening to wash us out as we ran our stuff from the car to the house. The lawn appeared as though it hadn’t been mo wed in decades , p er haps centuries, making the trek between the car and the house difficult. The weeds literally reached up to my chest.
The front door opened up into a dining room with wooden floors and white, plaster walls . Directly to my left, I saw something most peculiar. There was a toilet and an old-fashioned bathtub in what looked like a closet not ten feet from the dining room table. How odd. The thought of an open bathroom next to where we were expected to eat our meals made me want to hurl.
“Come in, come in,” the woman I assumed was my gramma greeted us , wearing, strangely enough , what looked like sheepskin died pink . She grabbed me in a tight squeeze, pushing the breath from my lungs. The perfume she wore stunk worse than anything I had ever smelled before . I tried to push her away, but my hands just pushed into rolls of fat and sweat.
“Nice to meet you, Gramma,” I grunted through a flab by arm .
She finally released me and looked at me in the queerest fashion. “ Amanda , you
Not long after Dad died, Mom told us we had to go live with Gramma . She said we couldn’t afford our house anymore.
Gramma lived in a big, old house in a far off village I had never heard of called Orchard Hills . G ra y —just like in an old photograph— two stories tall, big windows that looked like giant eyes, and a foundation of mortar an d stone, it was the creepiest house I had ever seen . Just something about it made me think there was something stra nge lurking behind every window, things even older and creepier than Gramma herself.
We weren’t that close to Gramma. In fa ct, my six -year-old sister, Lori , and I had never even met her. Mom always said she had a few screws loose, that maybe she wasn’t all there in the head , perhaps suffering from dementia and was possibly dangerous .
B ut we had nowhere else to go.
Coming into Orchard Hills on our moving day, the first thing I noticed was there didn’t seem to be anything in this village that was separate from the cemetery. There were tombstones as far as the eye could see.
“Mom ,” I asked from the passenger seat, “is this entire town just one big grave yard?”
She began crying, but didn’t answer me . I ass umed she was thinking about Dad . This was going to be tough. I really missed Dad, and I was going to miss all of my friends. I could feel the tears beginning to well in my eyes. I looked away to hide my face.
“Mom,” Lori said from the backseat, “Amanda’s crying.” Sometimes I just wanted to punch her little face in.
“I’m going to kill you!” I screamed, unbuckled my seatbelt, and turned around. Tears were streaming down my face, m y eyes, swollen. I couldn’t see , but that fact didn’t stop me from trying to land a punch .
“Help me! Help me!” Lori cried and undid her own seatbelt. She was trying to open the backdoor.
“You’re not going anywhere!” I screamed.
And then I was flung against the dashboard, my head cracking into the windshield.
“Listen, both of you!” Mom yelled, crying. “I am not having this. You two will behave yourselves or else. You got it?”
We never pushed Mom to be specific with her “or else” threat s . It used to mean “or else Dad is getting involved.” Now it meant “or else you’ll have to live with the fact you made me cry.” Both Lori and I shut up, turned around, and sat back in our seats.
We continued going up the road in silence. This road seemed to be as close to Main Street as anyth ing , in fact, I think it was probably the only road in this entire town . According to a sign we passed , it was called Sharp Road.
E ventually we came to the house as the gravestones thinned out. “Ninety-one eleven Sharp Road,” I said, reading the house number. “That’s our new address. Sounds creepy.”
The day was stormy , with rain threatening to wash us out as we ran our stuff from the car to the house. The lawn appeared as though it hadn’t been mo wed in decades , p er haps centuries, making the trek between the car and the house difficult. The weeds literally reached up to my chest.
The front door opened up into a dining room with wooden floors and white, plaster walls . Directly to my left, I saw something most peculiar. There was a toilet and an old-fashioned bathtub in what looked like a closet not ten feet from the dining room table. How odd. The thought of an open bathroom next to where we were expected to eat our meals made me want to hurl.
“Come in, come in,” the woman I assumed was my gramma greeted us , wearing, strangely enough , what looked like sheepskin died pink . She grabbed me in a tight squeeze, pushing the breath from my lungs. The perfume she wore stunk worse than anything I had ever smelled before . I tried to push her away, but my hands just pushed into rolls of fat and sweat.
“Nice to meet you, Gramma,” I grunted through a flab by arm .
She finally released me and looked at me in the queerest fashion. “ Amanda , you
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