The deep violet sky loomed over the Watkins’ house with spectacular grace that night. The moon and stars illuminated the yard in pale gray. Orange light from the street lamps carved circles into the darkness. It was spring and the remnants winter could be felt in a breeze that showed itself once or twice an hour.
Nine-year-old Gretchen Watkins, the younger of the two Watkins girls, was lying asleep in her bed. The breeze swept in through an open window, which faced the back yard. She tossed a bit, turned away from the window, bunched up her sheets, and fell back to sleep.
The Watkins’ house was an old colonial with a fresh coat of white paint. It emitted an angelic glow under the stars. Nightfall’s eerie silence engulfed the house and the surrounding yard. No dishes clanged in the kitchen. The yelping of neighborhood children at play could not be heard. All creatures were asleep. The house, however, made sounds of its own. The old heating system clanged, moaned, sputtered, gasped, and crackled. The walls and floorboards stretched to their ends.
Outside of Gretchen’s window, down two stories, and past the cedar porch was the garden. Gretchen’s grandmother, Mary Watkins, spent the last few years of her life obsessing over the expansion of what was once a simple flowerbed. Despite constant nay saying from several landscaping consultants, Mary had every flower perched just the way she wanted. In the first two years even she lent a hand in the planting.
Beyond the rows of flowers and through the maze of plants sat the groundskeeper, Rudolph Berkeley’s, shack. Rudolph had tended the Watkins’ garden since Mary first needed help. He started trimming and watering the flowers as a young man. The routine of working in solitude became therapeutic to him.
Ten years before Mary died, she asked Rudolph to move in and tend the garden full-time. She offered to pay him a consistent salary for as long as he would agree to stay. He was twenty-nine at the time and had been living in a one-bedroom apartment with two other men. He gladly took the offer and moved in during the following weeks.
When Mary died, her son Avery inherited the house along with a heap of money. He was a struggling Lawyer at the time and had recently married his high school sweetheart, Beatrice. She was finishing up her final year of college when they moved in. They had been living in Beatrice’s parents’ house for the two years prior. It was an uncomfortable arrangement, so the two of them jumped at the chance to have a home of their own.
Avery and Beatrice had grown trusting of Rudolph, or Mr. Berkeley as they called him, so they let him stay. His wages were raised to eight hundred dollars a week, which nearly doubled what Mary had paid him. They also fixed up the old shack that he lived in. They installed adequate insulation, rewired the electricity, and gave him new furniture.
Rudolph was a short, chubby man. He didn’t weigh much, but he filled out his frame. When Avery and Beatrice decided to renew his job as groundskeeper, he started following a strict schedule, leaving little time for himself during the week. He would not rest until every plant was watered, pruned, and weeded. When he did finally sit down to relax at the end of the day, he read at his desk late into the night. The light from the shack would be the only sign of life on the Watkins’s property.
Two
Gretchen awoke with cold hands and feet. She got out of bed and closed the window. Avery had taken her comforter to the attic because the weather was getting warm. He left only the white flannel sheets, which could not defend against the wind’s touch.
There was a little wooden horse that sat on the windowsill. Seeing it sparked a smile on her face. Her grandfather, Phillip Watkins, had carved it himself and gave it to Beatrice many years ago. Mary gave him hell about carving and whittling. She told him it was a waste of time and that the oak trees in the woods behind the house were doomed because of him. Beatrice gave Gretchen the horse one day when she had been asking about her grandfather. Phillip had died long before Gretchen was born and all she knew of him was from the stories her parents would tell. Beatrice told Gretchen that the horse represented one of his greatest gifts: creativity.
As Gretchen glanced out the window, she spotted the light from Mr. Berkeley’s shack. She wondered what he was doing out in the garden this late. There was something sacred about the garden at night. The moonlight made it appear as an enchanted jungle. Whenever Beatrice would read Alice in Wonderland to her, Gretchen would picture the garden as the scenery. The characters in the book were lost in the paths and shrubberies. She wanted to believe that Mr. Berkeley was living a second life in his shack – that he was doing something magical.
Gretchen climbed back into bed. She sank deep into the mattress. Her body relaxed and she quickly fell asleep. She dreamt of worlds hidden in her backyard. She imagined that the mystical beings of her garden were drawn to the shack’s singular light.
Three
Eggs and toast were waiting for Gretchen in the morning. Beatrice would make French toast on Saturdays and eggs on Sundays. On the weekdays they would have oatmeal or cereal. Avery was already at morning mass, but Beatrice stayed behind with the girls. Daisy, Gretchen's older sister, was reading a book on the red sofa in the living room.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” said Beatrice.
Gretchen stretched and yawned, “Morning Mom.”
Daisy looked up from her book for a moment and smiled at Gretchen. “You slept late,” She said.
Beatrice chuckled and placed a plate of eggs and toast on the table for Gretchen.
It was 9:00 am and the sun was shining throughout the house. The windows were open to let fresh air circulate. From the front porch, wind chimes rang in the breeze. Gretchen went to the table and sat in her favorite seat. The wooden chair had been sitting in the sun all morning, so when she sat down it was already warm.
“So, Dad is out at church?” Gretchen asked.
“Yes, he should be home soon. He went at seven. Mr. Waltman and his bunch have probably been chatting his ear off.” Beatrice said.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing, he is just late because he is talking to his friends, that’s all.”
“Ohhh, okay.” Gretchen went back to her plate of eggs. The toast, buttered to perfection, melted in her mouth.
The front door burst open and Avery rushed through the doorway. He walked with heavy feet, his arms held stiff at his side. His face held an expression of immense pain. His dark hair was sticking up in every direction. The wrinkles around his mouth were twisted in a snarl.
Beatrice stopped washing the dishes and stared at him. Gretchen looked up from her plate. Even Daisy pulled her nose from the bindings of her book to look at him.
Avery went straight to Beatrice. “Honey, can you come into the study with me.”
“Yes, just a-”
“Please, now.” said Avery, cutting her off. He had never been so short with Beatrice before – not in front of the children.
She followed him into the study, glancing back to see the two girls looking at her with concern. He turned to the children and said, “Don’t worry, girls, we just need to speak for a moment,” then latched the door behind him.
The walls of the study were made of tightly packed bookshelves. Both Avery and Beatrice had read through the books vigorously over the years. Their pages fall limp and most are torn. The bindings have become weak. If any one of them were opened, you would find dog-eared corners and notes in the margins.
“Beatrice, I need to tell you something, but you mustn’t overreact,” said Avery.
Beatrice nodded.
The two girls had, by now, pressed their ears against the wall. Something this urgent called for a little eavesdropping. They were careful not to creak the floorboards on their way across the room. Daisy left her book behind and Gretchen deserted the remaining slice of toast, leaving it to cool on the table.
Avery lowered his voice, but couldn’t mask it through the walls. “Last Monday, someone broke into the church. They painted satanic symbols on the walls. Father Kinsley thought it was some high school kids, so he didn’t call the police, but it’s become something far worse than we predicted.”
“What happened?” Beatrice asked.
“When we arrived at mass this morning, Dr. Mitchell was lying on the podium. His throat and stomach were cut open. Above him, the killer wrote ‘There will be more’ in his blood. All of it was dried, so we think he was killed last night. The police were as shocked as the rest of us.”
“Oh, Christ!” Beatrice said. She tried to cover her mouth, but it did not muffle the scream. She started sobbing and stared into Avery’s eyes with horror.
Avery grabbed her shoulders. “The town is in uproar, but the children mustn’t know. They won’t be able to handle it. We certainly won’t be bringing them to mass for a while, but Father Kinsley said that he would come to the house if we wanted – just not today.”
“Of course. That would be fine.” Beatrice said.
The girls listened and their hearts raced. They heard a hand on the doorknob, so they ran back to their places. Avery opened the door and let Beatrice out first. Gretchen sopped up some of the cold egg yolk with her toast. She stood to clear her plate as her parents reentered the kitchen. Daisy stuck her nose back into the book’s binding.
Gretchen smiled at her parents as she placed her plate into the dishwasher. She walked up the stairs and down the hall toward her bedroom to continue her morning routine by getting dressed. She played the conversation over in her head. Dr. Mitchell had been her physician since early childhood. ‘Dead?’ she thought, ‘What monster would kill him?’ She could see him lying on the podium, lifeless.
Before she could get to the dresser, she fell onto her bed and started crying. ‘I have to be quiet,’ she told herself, ‘Mom and dad can’t know I heard them.’
After her tears stopped and her breathing relaxed Gretchen got up and dressed herself. She walked down the stairs and strutted as if she hadn’t a problem on her mind. It was enough to fool Beatrice and Avery, but Daisy knew what was going on. She knew because she felt the same gut-wrenching sadness. As she stared at the pages in front of her, she saw no words. The same horrific images were circling around in her mind, but she was older than Gretchen and knew more of death. She sat, slowly wearing fingerprints into the front and back covers of the book, thinking about Dr. Mitchell on the podium.
“I’m going to play in the garden, mom, okay?” said Gretchen.
“Sure Gretchen, just don’t go far. Stay within shouting distance,” replied Beatrice.
The garden began at the bottom of the porch. A row of rose bushes guided the stone pathway that cut through the rest of the shrubs and flowers. Rudolph was watering the roses and whistling to himself when Gretchen stormed out of the house. She started to cry again, unable to contain herself. Rudolph stopped what he was doing.
“What’s the matter, Gretchen?” he asked.
“Something terrible happened, I know it, but mom and dad won’t tell me what it is. Dad was acting strange this morning when he came home from church. They talked in the study and now mom is quiet and looks sad. Something went wrong. I know it did.” It was all the truth Gretchen could bring herself to tell.
“Well, your parents are good people and your father is smart. I’m sure they’ll take care of everything. I know it’s hard to imagine, but the only reason they would keep something from you is to protect you.” He sat down on the steps beside her and added, “You know, they love you very much.”
“I know.” Gretchen said, staring blankly ahead of her. Dr. Mitchell’s death weighed her down. “I’m going for a walk. Thanks for talking to me, Mr. Berkeley.” She got up and wandered into the garden. Rudolph went back to watering the roses and started whistling again.
Gretchen followed the path through the shrubberies. She stopped when she reached Mr. Berkeley’s shack. She remembered how mystical the shack seemed the night before. It had only two rooms – the living space and a bathroom - but the shack had its own gutter, shingles, wood siding, and doorbell.
She grabbed the door-handle and tried twisting it. No luck. She snuck through the shrubs and crept around the side of the shack. A window sat at the midpoint of the shack’s wall. Gretchen got on her tiptoes and grabbed the bottom lip of the window. She pulled herself up just high enough to peek in and get a quick look around. The first thing she noticed was the pure white color of the carpet. It was brighter than snow and Mr. Berkley kept it shining clean.
She moved her eyes to the furniture. There was an old television directly across from her and a couch, which was once in her living room, sat along the wall where she stood. On the far wall, near the door, was an old rusted gas-stove. On the shelf next to the stove sat a set of kitchen knives and a spatula. Beside the knives was the door to the bathroom, which was the smallest space that a stall shower, a toilet, and a sink could fit in. Along the back wall were three bookshelves. They made the rest of the second-hand furniture look like bean bags and lawn chairs.
On the desk, which crowded the corner between the television and the farthest bookshelf, was the only object out of place in the whole room. It was a large book with leather bindings and sand-colored paper. Gretchen couldn’t make out the words on the page, but it looked like a bible.
‘I should go,’ Gretchen thought, ‘He’ll be done with the plants soon and I should start my schoolwork.’ She took a deep breath and accepted that the book would remain a mystery for the time being.
On her way back to the house, Gretchen went over the layout of the shack in her head. She memorized every inch of what she saw – the furniture, the carpet, the book, and the three bookshelves that towered against the back wall. Something struck her as odd. The wall outside was around fifteen feet long. The bookshelves stopped the room inside at about ten. ‘Maybe,’ she thought, ‘there’s a secret passageway behind them.’ She wandered around the garden for a while longer, getting herself excited about the prospect of a secret lair at the shack’s rear.
Gretchen eventually walked back up the cedar steps of the porch. She opened the glass doors and found that her mother had already made lunch. Time disappeared in the garden and Gretchen was late for yet another meal. Nevertheless, there was a plate set for her beside Daisy. Avery had already begun eating, but the other two were bickering about Daisy’s dress for the school dance.
“I still don’t see why I can’t wear that shorter skirt; it’s just above my knees. No one will even notice.” Daisy said.
“That’s exactly the kind of attitude that is ripping the morality in this world to shreds. Besides, it’s not only the skirt; your chest is on a shelf for the whole world to see. Is that really the reaction you’re trying to get? Do you want the whole world staring at you? No. You want that Bobby boy to notice you, and he will regardless of your outfit. The final answer is no and I don’t want to hear any more of it.”
“But!” Daisy said.
“No, Daisy. I mean it.”
Daisy took her plate to the sink and washed it off. She understood what her mother meant, but her resentment overcame understanding. This fight had been going on for a week now. Others of similar nature had sprung up about 8 months ago, when she turned twelve. The boy, Bobby Harris, was the reason she wants the dress, but Daisy won’t admit it to herself anymore. Her mother had made that point, rendering it irrelevant.
As the silent tension between Daisy and Beatrice grew, Gretchen kept quiet. She would occasionally look up from her plate at her father, searching for confirmation that the other two were out of their gourds. Avery would roll his eyes or smile and raise his eyebrows whenever she looked at him. His expression would say, “I don’t know, Gretchen. You probably understand this better than I do.” And she did.
When Gretchen finished her meal, she slid her chair back and stood up. She didn’t say anything to her family, but exchanged one last look of shared astonishment with her father. Daisy and Beatrice still hadn’t said a word to each other. Gretchen felt like telling them both to grow up, but as the youngest in the house, it didn’t make much sense. Instead, she quietly made her way upstairs to do her afternoon schoolwork.
The chair was cold as Gretchen sat down at her desk. She got out her math lesson-book and worksheets. The gray shingles of Mr. Berkeley’s shack reflected small rays of sunlight at her. She could barely make out the window that had been a lonely beacon the night before. Gretchen shook her head and looked back down at the papers on her desk. She focused and got to work on the first of several lessons for the day.
Four
Night came quickly. Gretchen still had one subject to study after returning from dinner. She could not quiet her daydreaming. Mr. Berkeley’s secret passageway behind the bookshelves had become a world of its own. She closed her books, put her papers away, and placed the necessary materials for Monday’s lessons into her book bag.
Before going to sleep she would always read a chapter or so out of a book from her own bookshelf. She had accumulated a modest collection of books over the past three years. Most of them were copies that neither her father or sister wanted; books like Treasure Island, The Hobbit, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. She grabbed The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, which she had only previously known by the sound of her mother’s voice, and sat back at the desk. She glanced down at the book for half a second before realizing that the light in Mr. Berkeley’s shack was on again.
An impulse started at Gretchen’s stomach and burst into her veins and arteries. It tingled up her spine and seized control of her brain. Her body rose from the chair and grabbed the black raincoat from a hook on the back of her closet door. She watched her feet tiptoe down the stairs, quiet as a mouse. They carried her through the hallway, to the back door, and out onto the porch without being noticed. She moved with a ghostly grace, making only fluid motions. The back door’s latch did not make so much as a click when she closed it.
When she regained control of herself, she was standing five feet away from the shack. There was no turning back. Curiosity conquered reason. Her heart pounded with anticipation. Finally, she would answer the question that had been occupying her consciousness since the night before: What is Mr. Berkeley doing in there?
‘Okay, Gretchen,’ she thought, ‘this is it, now. Just walk up and open that door.’
The first few steps were the most difficult. Gretchen glared at her legs and forced them to move: one, two, three. The strides became easier once she got going. By seven, eight, and nine, they were a synch.
She stood with the doorway towering in front of her. Sensations of curious excitement and fear chased each other in her mind, as a dog would chase its own tail. ‘Wait,’ she stopped herself from grabbing the doorknob, ‘I should knock first.’ She nodded, affirming that it was a good idea.
She tapped the door three times. There was no answer. She knocked again with more force. The door crept open on the third blow. There was no noise from inside. Other than the door, nothing moved. Gretchen could see one side of the television from where she stood. She placed a hand on the door and pushed it a little further.
“Hello?” She said. “Mr. Berkeley?”
Silence.
“It’s me, Gretchen.” She pushed the door open halfway, “I just wanted to see if everything was okay out here. I-”
Gretchen stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. As she looked around, she noticed that one of the three bookshelves sat at an awkward angle. It was parted from the others and projected a small shadow on the bookshelf to its right. As Gretchen stepped closer, she realized that it was not a bookshelf, but a cleverly disguised door. Her stomach rose into her throat. ‘I was right!’ she thought, ‘there is a passage!’
Gretchen could not bring herself to open the door right away. The mystery was too perfect to spoil. She walked to the desk instead. The black book sat open, just as it had been earlier that afternoon. It beckoned her to sit down and read.
She sat in the chair and stared at the sand-colored paper. Thin blue letters across the top of the open pages spelled out a word that she had never seen before. She had to revert to what her first grade teacher, Mrs. Adams, had taught her. She sounded the word out in her head, from the first syllable to the last. ‘Neck-Row-Mans-See,’ she thought, ‘Neckrow-Man-See. Neckromancey? Necromancy. Okay, what the heck is that?’ Gretchen looked down at the words on the pages in front of her. She gathered that these two pages were the last in the chapter. She thumbed through the pages, back to the start of the chapter, and began scanning the text. The title read: “Eternal Life: The Soul’s Energy”. There were brilliant white drawings of inverted crosses on either side of the title. The Bible-school teacher at her church had warned Gretchen and the other children about symbols of evil. The inverted cross was one that she remembered vividly.
Gretchen looked at the door. She considered running away that second, but curiosity held her. She remained in the seat and thumbed through the chapter. Her eyes darted from one line to the other. She grasped only spurts of the information, but it was enough to send pangs of fear through her chest. The phrases conveyed directions as casually as a cookbook. One phrase read: “Death ensues through the impurity of the soul. Grasp the Dagger of Souls and drive it within the hearts of those who hold the purity you seek. Once The Beast consumes them, you shall be granted their remaining days.”
Gretchen looked up at the wall. Beads of freezing sweat began to pour down her face. She did not remember how much time had passed since she entered the shack. Her fear changed shape and allowed her to rise to her feet. She stood on the beautiful white carpet, waiting for her body make the next move. ‘Come on Gretchen! You got up, now run!’ she thought.
The deep cough of an old man came from outside of the shack. Rudolph approached the front door. Gretchen ran to the bookshelf, opened the door, and went inside. She was careful not to make a sound as she entered the tiny, dark room. She left the door open an inch, as it had been when she arrived.
The room was much smaller than she had perceived. The distinct scent of sour milk rose from the patches of damp cardboard and plastic below her. She couldn’t see a thing in the darkness. She felt around for a hiding place, in case Mr. Berkeley opened the door. From a crouched position, she hobbled to the left side of the room, her feet sticking to the cardboard as she moved.
Clink. The front door latched shut. Mr. Berkeley was breathing heavily. Gretchen could hear his footsteps across the floor.
Thump.
Thump.
He was whispering a phrase over and over again, but Gretchen couldn’t understand what it was. He sat down at the desk. The whispering turned to mumbling. He was repeating the sentence: “And as The Beast consumes the souls, you must consume the heart.” It was a line that Gretchen had missed when reading, but would not soon forget.
Gretchen had made her way over to the right side of the room by now. She found a large lidless crate in the rear right corner. She waited until Mr. Berkeley’s mumbling grew loud, and climbed inside. When she landed, she felt more of the nearly solidified liquid that had been covering the cardboard and plastic.
As she crouched into the box, she felt a small round object beside her. She grabbed it. It felt like a sponge filled with thick, drying paint. When she picked it up, some of the liquid oozed out and covered her arm. As it was running down her forearm, she realized that what Mr. Berkeley was mumbling, he meant literally. What she was holding was a human heart. 'Someone had murdered Dr. Mitchell. He was found at the church. This could be his heart!' Gretchen thought. If she had been looking for a pure soul, he would be the first man on the list.
‘****,’ she though. It was the only word that popped into her head. She heard her mother say it once when Avery’s best friend, Marcus Steinberg, died in a plane crash. She held the heart in her hand and stared into the darkness as her brain became numb. Shock took over her senses.
Mr. Berkeley opened the door to the back room. He blindly tossed a half-eaten heart into the crate and slammed the door shut. The heart landed on Gretchen’s thigh, snapping her out of her senses. She wanted to disappear into nothingness. She knew that if Mr. Berkeley found her, her heart would be the next one in the box. She was trying to quiet her breathing. She needed to relax or Mr. Berkeley would hear her. ‘Collect the stars,’ she thought, ‘collect the stars and forget that you’re here’.
When Gretchen was young, she had a difficult time falling asleep. Her mother had told her about an exercise that could help her relax. “Picture a meadow that stretches to every horizon, Gretchen.” Beatrice had said, “Pretend that somewhere in this meadow is a single hill. You are standing on the hill with a bag in one hand and your feet planted firmly on the ground. Now picture one hundred stars in the sky. As you reach your hand up, you realize you can grab the stars in your hands. You got it so far?”
“Yes, mommy.” Gretchen had said with her eyes closed tight. Her eyelids were wrinkled together as she was tying to picture what her mother was saying.
“Now count every star as you put it in your bag, sweetheart, all hundred of them. I will be back to check on you when you’re done.”
Gretchen nodded and started counting down. She only got to 71 before falling asleep that night, and she never had a problem sleeping since.
This situation was much different. Gretchen tried collecting the stars, but every star she grabbed turned into an oozing, throbbing heart. She stopped herself short of screaming aloud with each attempt.
The counting was not working, so she tried thinking of something else. She thought about how the inside of the shack had looked when she peered through the window earlier. From front to back, she went over it all again. She tried to piece together a way out, then she remembered the knives. There had been a set of kitchen knives between the stove and the bathroom door. ‘If I can get to that big one, maybe Mr. Berkeley will let me run away.’
The time for waiting was over. She heard Mr. Berkeley turn on the Television and change channels to the late-night newscast. She slowly got up from the crate and walked across the cardboard again. Vomit was creping up her throat, but she was too scared to let it out.
Gretchen stood in front of the door for only a second before she threw it open. She thought about one thing: Dr. Mitchell. She pictured his body on the altar at church earlier that morning. The reflection brought something she had not expected. It brought rage.
She burst through the door and ran for the massive kitchen knife. Rudolph jumped and coughed up some of the blood that remained in his throat. The last thing he expected was to see the blur of Gretchen Watkins’ body fly by unannounced. The next thing he knew, Gretchen was holding the kitchen knife. He was standing, growing a sneer that made Gretchen tremble.
“Okay, Gretchen, give me the knife.” Rudolph said, “Or I’m going to tell your parents what happened here.” Some of the blood had dried on his chin and neck. It was a faded brick red that flaked off onto the floor as his mouth moved. His grin revealed small remnants of heart tissue in his teeth. He looked around for his dagger and noticed that he had left it on the desk.
“You!” Tears rolled down Gretchen’s face, “You killed Dr. Mitchell! Why? Wh-What is wrong with you?” Her shouts were loud enough to carry through the garden and to the house.
Rudolph decided to take action. This little girl couldn’t get the best of him – no way, no how. He killed Dr. Mitchell easily enough, and tonight there was the drugstore keeper, Walter Schultz. Plus, he knew that her parents were going to get up if she shouted again. He lunged at her with all of his might. All 192 pounds of him flew through the air and across the room.
The newscaster on the television was rambling about a local policy that no one could agree on. Outside, six sprinklers were watering the garden. The two hearts in the back room were slowly drying out, and Rudolph had just cleared the coffee table when Gretchen swung the knife from her side.
She did not know how to react consciously, but the same instinct that kept her quiet in the crate was calling to her. It told her to hold the knife up and let Mr. Berkeley do the rest. She held on to the handle with both hands and positioned the point and an upward angle.
Mr. Berkeley’s throat landed on the blade. It pierced his skin in one smooth motion. His arms wrapped around Gretchen’s torso and knocked her backward. He landed on top of Gretchen’s legs. The knife slid into his throat and out the side of his neck. The blade came through in a gushing burst of red, which landed in spurts on the white carpet.
Gretchen watched as Mr. Berkeley bled to death on top of her. He gurgled and gasped for air, but none came. The look in his eyes went from anger to pain, and then they started at her in amazement. The shock from being stabbed paralyzed him on top of her. His breathing grew shallow and his eyes glazed over. His only movement became the slight twitching of his muscles.
When Rudolph stopped moving, Gretchen started screaming. She screamed anything that came into her head. “Mom! Dad! Help!” She screamed, “Now! Please! DOCTOR MITCHELL!” Gretchen wriggled herself out from under Rudolph and ran outside screaming again, “****! HELP!” A light went on inside her house. It was from her parents' bedroom. She could see Beatrice moving around inside.
Gretchen threw herself to the ground. She dropped face-first into the dark soil beside the walkway and started wailing. She imagined herself in the open meadow again, standing atop the single hill. The night sky was full of radiant starlight. Gretchen had her bag in one hand and was grabbing stars with the other. “Ninety-nine!” she shouted, “Ninety-eight!” All she had to do was count, and soon her mother would come.
