Don't Forget Me!

  His gaze was so cold, I felt a chill run down my back. Then he raised his eyes to look behind me into the house. “Are your parents here?” His voice was soft and scratchy, as if he had a sore throat.

  “No,” I said.

  Why did I say that? How stupid! Why did I tell him my parents weren’t home?

  “I mean, they’ll be home really soon. Sorry. I have to go.” My heart pounding, I moved to close the door.

  But he pushed past me, nearly bumping me aside.

  He was in the house!

  He stood in the entryway, still glaring at me with those tiny black eyes. “You ran from me this morning….”

  “Y-yes,” I replied. “I didn’t know—I mean … who are you? What do you want?”

  “Sorry if I frightened you,” he said in that scratchy voice. “I’m a reporter. For the Star-Journal.”

  “Huh? A reporter?”

  I suddenly felt very foolish.

  A newspaper reporter? But why had he been chasing me? And why had he been spying on our house?

  He’s lying, I thought. Why did I open the door without looking first? Why did I let him in the house? Why was I so stupid?

  He glimpsed himself in the hall mirror and pushed back his wavy black hair with one hand. “I’m thinking of doing a story about your house,” he said.

  I studied him, trying to figure out if this was some kind of joke. “Are you selling something?” I asked. “Insurance or something? Because if that’s what you’re trying to do—”

  He raised his right hand. “No. I’m a reporter. Really.” He fumbled in his back pocket and pulled out a worn brown wallet. He flipped it open to show me a card that had his photo on it and said PRESS at the top.

  “I found some old articles at the newspaper office. A big stack of yellowed papers hidden away in a corner cabinet. In the old articles, they call this house Forget-Me House.” His eyes burned into mine.

  I stared hard at him. “Huh? Why?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure. According to the papers I found, the house makes people forget.”

  My heart started to pound. “Forget what?”

  “Forget themselves,” he replied. “One by one, one at a time, the people who live here forget everything. And then … then … they are forgotten too. Forgotten forever.”

  I wanted to scream, but I held it in. I pictured Peter up in his room. Peter didn’t remember me. He couldn’t remember his own sister.

  The reporter leaned closer, narrowing his cold eyes at me. “Has anything strange happened to you?”

  My breath caught in my throat. “N-no,” I choked out. I didn’t want to tell him.

  I had to think. Had to figure this out.

  He studied me. “Are you sure? Have you seen anything strange? Heard anything? Is anyone in your family acting weird?”

  “No!” I cried. “No! Please—you have to leave!”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” the reporter said. “It’s just a bunch of old newspaper stories. Probably not true.”

  He stepped back, shifting his black raincoat on his shoulders. “I see I’ve upset you. I’ll come back. I’ll come back when your parents are home.”

  I heard a noise and turned to the stairs. “Peter—is that you?”

  Silence.

  When I turned back, the reporter was gone.

  I stood staring out at the street, trying to stop my head from spinning. My mind whirred with questions.

  Was he telling the truth? Did those old articles explain what was happening to Peter?

  Was it possible that I never hypnotized my brother? That Peter’s strange behavior wasn’t my fault at all? That it was all the house’s fault?

  Forget-Me House …

  I remembered Peter’s desperate plea. “Danielle, don’t forget me. Please—don’t forget me!”

  “One by one, the people who live here forget everything.”

  The reporter’s words repeated in my ears.

  “They forget everything. Then they are forgotten too.”

  “But that’s crazy!” I muttered. “Crazy.” I realized my whole body was shaking. I turned back into the house and closed the front door behind me.

  To my surprise, Peter stood right behind me.

  “Get out!” he screamed. His eyes were wild. His red hair stood straight up. His body was tensed, as if ready to attack. “Get out! Get out of my house!”

  I didn’t have time to reply.

  He leaped at me—and wrapped his hands around my throat.

  “Get out! Get out!”

  “Peter, no!” I shrieked. His hands tightened, cutting off my words.

  “Peter, stop! You’re choking me! I … can’t … breathe….”

  He opened his mouth in an animal growl. His fingers tightened around my throat.

  I dropped to my knees, struggling to free myself. I wheezed as I struggled to take in air.

  I grabbed his arms and tried to pull his hands off me. But he was suddenly so strong, so strong.

  “Can’t breathe!” I gasped. “Please!”

  I staggered to my feet. Frantically grabbed him around the waist. And falling forward, stumbling, choking, I slammed him into the wall.

  His hands slid off me. He uttered a startled cry.

  I shoved him out of the way and burst out the front door. Sucking in breath after breath, I jumped off the front stoop and kept running. Down the front lawn, leaping over a coiled garden hose my dad had left there. Over the sidewalk, onto the street.

  I ran. Not thinking. Not feeling anything. My throat aching, throbbing.

  Peter … Peter … Peter …

  His name repeated in my mind like some kind of terrifying chant. I couldn’t stop it. I heard his name each time my shoes thudded on the pavement.

  Peter … Peter … Peter …

  My brother had become a wild animal. A wild animal in a rage.

  Why was he suddenly so angry? Was it because of what the reporter had told me? Because he was forgetting everything? Losing himself?

  Was Peter in a total rage because of what the house was doing to him?

  I ran through an intersection without stopping, without seeing anything. I heard a car horn honk. I heard an angry shout.

  “Danielle, you’ve got to think clearly,” I scolded myself. But how could I think clearly? My own brother didn’t remember me. And now he had nearly strangled me.

  I kept running.

  I can’t go home, I told myself. It isn’t safe. It isn’t safe with Peter there.

  But I have to go back! I argued with myself. I’m in charge. I’m responsible for Peter. I can’t just leave him there all alone, prowling around like a lost animal.

  It was nearly dinnertime. My parents were on their way home. They would be back in an hour or two.

  And then what?

  How could I explain to them what had happened?

  Would they blame me for Peter? Would they believe me about the reporter’s story? Could they do anything to save my poor brother?

  Without realizing it, I had run to Addie’s house. I rang the bell and pounded on the door at the same time. “Addie, are you home? Addie—?” I called in a high, shrill voice.

  After a few seconds, the door swung open. Addie gaped at me. “Danielle? What’s wrong? You look horrible!”

  “I—I—” I couldn’t talk. I stumbled past her, into the front room. The TV was on. A local newscast.

  Am I going to be on the news too? I suddenly wondered. Talking about how my poor brother went crazy because we live in Forget-Me House?

  “Danielle—?” Addie placed a hand on my trembling shoulder. “What is it? It’s cold out. You don’t have a jacket or anything?”

  I shook my head, still struggling to catch my breath. “I just ran,” I finally choked out. “I had to run. Peter!”

  Addie narrowed her green eyes. “Peter?”

  “Yeah,” I rushed on. “I don’t think he was ever hypnotized. I think it’s something else. Somethin
g much more scary.”

  “Oh. Right. Peter!” Addie stared at me. “Is he still acting weird?”

  I nodded. “He—he tried to choke me.”

  She gasped. “Where are your parents? They’re not back yet?”

  I glanced at the clock above the TV. Nearly six. “Soon,” I said. “They should be home soon.”

  “Do you want to wait here until they get back?” Addie asked.

  I sighed. “I guess.” I dropped onto her couch. I shut my eyes and buried my head in my hands.

  And saw them. The eerie, slime-covered kids in the basement. I saw their sad faces. Heard them chanting my brother’s name. And suddenly I knew. I knew who they were.

  They were the forgotten ones.

  They were the victims of Forget-Me House.

  And now the forgotten kids were calling for Peter.

  I jumped to my feet and let out a shrill scream. “Nooooo!” And without even realizing it, I was running again. Out the door and down Addie’s front yard.

  I heard Addie calling to me. But I didn’t stop or look back.

  Once again I ran without seeing, my mind a blur. I ran the whole way home.

  What would I find there?

  Would my brother try to attack me again? Would he still be a wild, raging animal?

  I fought back my fear. I knew I had no choice. I had to be there. I had to save Peter. I had to be home when Mom and Dad returned. To warn them. To explain to them.

  As I turned the corner onto our block, I heard a sharp animal cry. A dog bark. Without slowing down, I turned and saw our neighbor’s large gray German shepherd racing after me.

  “No, boy! Go home! Go home!” I pleaded. Why was he acting like this?

  And what was his name?

  Why couldn’t I remember his name?

  Running hard, the big dog barked a warning, its tail wagging furiously. It caught up to me easily. And then it jumped in front of me.

  I stumbled over it.

  It leaped up, panting hard, pushing its paws against my waist.

  I screamed at him, “Go home! Please—down! Get down!”

  Then I realized the dog only wanted to play.

  “Not now. Please—not now.” I grabbed its front paws and lowered them to the pavement. I petted the dog’s head.

  Why couldn’t I remember its name?

  “Not now, boy. Go home!”

  I started running again, the dog yapping at my heels. I had the sudden hope that my parents’ car would be in the driveway. Please, I thought, be there. Be home to help me. Maybe the three of us working together can do something to help Peter.

  But … no car. The driveway stood empty. The front door to the house was wide-open, just as I’d left it when I ran from Peter.

  My heart pounding, I started up the front lawn. And realized the dog was no longer at my feet. I turned and saw it at the curb. It gazed up at the house, uttering low, whimpering sounds. Its ears were down, tail between its legs, its whole body hunched, trembling.

  It’s terrified, I realized. The dog won’t come up here. It’s terrified.

  Finally the dog lowered its gaze. It shook itself hard, and still whimpering, slinked away.

  I had the sudden impulse to follow it. To run away. To find a place that was safe, a place that didn’t make dogs tremble and cry.

  But my brother was inside the house. And he was in trouble.

  I had no choice.

  I took a deep breath and went inside.

  And as soon as I entered, I saw the basement door. Wide-open.

  And I heard the whispered voices, harsh and raspy. The voices rising up from the basement.

  But this time they weren’t chanting my brother’s name.

  This time they were chanting my name, over and over.

  “Danielle … Danielle … Danielle …”

  I pressed my hands against my cheeks—and cried out in horror.

  My face—it felt wet. Wet and sticky.

  Frantically I clawed at the goo, tearing at it, pulling it, rubbing it off my face.

  And all the while, the voices droned on: “Danielle … Danielle … Danielle …”

  “Noooo!” A cry of terror escaped my throat as I pulled the last of the slime away. “You’re not going to get me. You’re not going to get Peter.”

  Somehow I had to save Peter—if I wasn’t already too late!

  “Peter?” I choked out. My voice sounded tiny and hollow. I grabbed the banister and called up the front stairs. “Peter? Are you in your room?”

  No reply.

  I ran upstairs. Checked his room. Then mine. No sign of him.

  “Peter?”

  I hurried downstairs. I had no choice. A wave of cold dread swept over me as I approached the basement door.

  The chanting had stopped. Silence now. A deep silence that rang in my ears.

  It took all my strength to step into the stairwell and peer down to the basement. “Peter?”

  I knew he was down there.

  I knew I had to go down and bring him back upstairs.

  “Peter, this is your sister. Danielle,” I called down. “I know you don’t remember me. But this is Danielle. I’m coming down now. I’m coming to help you.”

  I listened hard. No reply.

  Then I heard a creaking sound. Very slow. A low grinding. Like a heavy door opening.

  “Peter? Did you hear me? This is your sister. I’m coming down to help you.”

  I took a deep, shuddering breath. I spotted the long metal flashlight on the top step. I picked it up. A good weapon. I hoped I wouldn’t need to use it.

  “Peter, here I come.”

  My legs were shaking so badly, I had to take the stairs one at a time. I stopped every few steps and listened. Wind rattled the windowpanes at ground level. The only sound except for my shallow breaths.

  Halfway down the stairs, I heard another creak. Then a soft, scraping sound. “Peter? Is that you? Can you hear me?”

  No reply.

  I forced myself down the rest of the way. Gripping the flashlight tightly in my right hand, I spun away from the stairs and gazed into the basement.

  In the darkening evening light from the narrow windows above, I could see the clutter of junk, old furniture, stacks of old newspapers.

  “Oh.” My mouth dropped open as I turned to the far wall, the wall across from the enormous, time-blackened furnace, and saw the scrawled words.

  Words at least a foot tall, scrawled in red paint. Still wet, dripping over the jagged, cracked stones.

  DON’T FORGET ME.

  Still wet. Just painted. Dark red paint. Red as blood.

  DON’T FORGET ME.

  And before I got over the shock of seeing that—I saw Peter.

  I blinked once. Twice. Not quite believing.

  Yes. Peter. In a doorway to a smaller room beyond the furnace.

  Peter, bathed in a strange, silvery light. His back to me. His hair still on end. His shirt untucked over baggy jeans. Peter, not moving. Caught in the eerie light, standing so still in the tiny back room.

  I opened my mouth to call to him. But no sound came out.

  My cold, wet hand slid over the metal flashlight. I gripped it tighter. And took a trembling step toward him. And then another.

  Stepping around the clutter of junk in the center of the room. The painted words, the dripping, bloodred words still in view at my side.

  DON’T FORGET ME.

  “Peter? Can you hear me?”

  He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

  “I’m coming to help you. I am your sister. Danielle. Do you remember me? Do you?”

  I stopped just outside the low doorway to the back room. And realized that Peter was leaning down into another opening. A dark opening. At first, I thought it was some kind of hole in the basement wall.

  But as I blinked it into focus, I realized that Peter was standing in front of a tall trapdoor. A door that had raised up from the basement floor.

  A door that led—where
?

  Leaning into the black opening, he took a step down.

  “Nooooo!” I screeched. “Stop! Listen to me! Turn around! Peter, turn around!”

  He froze. He didn’t move.

  I screamed again. I begged him to turn around.

  And then, slowly … so slowly … he took a step back from the dark opening. He took a step back and then … slowly … bathed in the eerie light, turned to face me.

  And as he turned, I uttered a sick cry. My stomach heaved. My knees buckled.

  And I stared at him in horror.

  Stared at the thick layer of mucus over his face. The clear gelatin that covered his hair, his face, his eyes!

  His mouth!

  The thick layer of goo glistened wetly under the silvery light.

  And as I gaped in horror, unable to speak, unable to move, Peter opened his mouth. The gelatin bubbled over his mouth.

  And I heard his muffled word!

  “Good-bye.”

  “Stop!” I screamed. “Where are you going? What are you doing?”

  But he didn’t seem to hear me.

  The thick jelly bubbled over his mouth. His eyes stared out from behind the shimmering layer of goo.

  Then he turned and stepped into the darkness.

  “Stop! No—stop!” I pleaded. I took off, racing to him, my shoes sliding on the dusty, concrete floor.

  He lowered himself into a black pit beyond the trapdoor.

  As I ran, I reached out to him, stretched out my arms to grab him and pull him back.

  But the trapdoor snapped shut with a thundering bang.

  Dust flew up all around me.

  I covered my eyes, waiting for it to settle. I could taste it in my mouth, feel it in my lungs.

  Then, forcing my eyes open, I dropped to my knees. I reached for the door to pry it up. To open it and free my brother.

  But the basement floor was solid and smooth. I couldn’t see the door. I couldn’t see any trace of a door.

  Frantically I slid my hands over the floor, searching … searching.

  “Peter, where are you? Where did you go?”

  No door. No door. Not the tiniest crack in the floor. I uttered an angry cry. I slapped the floor with both fists, sending up another cloud of dust.