Annie's Room Read Free Page A

spooked. Something probably fell over, that's all.” She turns to me. “You should see what it's like down there, we've got packing crates everywhere, we've got things propped against other things, it's going to take days before we're all settled in. I never knew we had so much stuff until we had to move it out here. We should have taken the opportunity to de-clutter, but -”
    She stops speaking as we all hear Dad coming back up the stairs. A moment later he appears in the doorway.
    “I couldn't see anything,” he says. “All the doors and windows are locked, so I guess something just tipped over.” He breathes a sigh of relief as he comes back into the room and sits down, but he seems a little stiff and awkward, less relaxed than a couple of minutes ago. “Come on, guys, it's a new house, let's not go spooking ourselves. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm starting to think about hitting the sack after dinner. It's been a long day, and we've got so much to do tomorrow.”
    “Lucky you,” I mutter.
    “You'll be up and about in no time,” Mom reminds me. “Who wants the last slice of pizza?”
    “Me!” Scott snaps, grabbing the slice and licking the top, which is his customary way of claiming food and ensuring that no-one tries to take it away from him. With a satisfied grin, he takes a bite.
    Looking down at the bare plate, with just a few crumbs left in the middle, I realize with a heavy heart that soon everyone's going to go back downstairs and start getting ready for bed, and I'm going to be left here in my room until they get up again in the morning. I know I shouldn't start feeling sorry for myself, and I know that in normal circumstances I'd want to be alone in my room, but I'd at least like to have the option of getting out of bed. Besides, this isn't my room, not really. It feels more like we've checked into a rotten, rundown hotel.
    “You look sad,” Mom says suddenly, placing a hand on my knee. “Don't be sad, Annie. You'll be -”
    “Up and about in no time,” I reply, “yeah, people keep saying that.” I pause, before looking over at the empty doorway. For a moment, I feel a shiver run down my spine at the thought that someone was out there just now, watching us, but I figure I'm just letting my imagination get cranked up early. “And promise me there are no ghosts,” I mutter, turning to Mom. “Do we even know anything about the people who lived in this house before us?”
    “Nothing,” Dad interjects, a little too quickly. “Come on, don't worry about it.”
    “Fine,” I reply. “I just don't want them haunting us. Whoever they were, this is our house now, not theirs.”

Two
     
    Seventy-one years ago
     
    Father is beating at Mother again tonight. I can hear their argument from my room, although in truth it's not much of an argument at all; Father is simply telling Mother her inadequacies and pressing home his point with his fists.
    As usual, she brought it on herself.
    Their voices aren't raised at all. I can hear Father's voice rumbling along, and then there are the occasional low bumps and impacts, which I know are the moments when he pushes her or hits her. Sometimes, I even hear the sound of a table being pushed aside, as if perhaps she's trying to hide, and a few minutes ago there was a shudder that rattled the glass in my bedroom window. That's when I know he's really hurting her. When the whole house shakes.
    Of course, if she'd just stay still and take the punishment she's earned, I'd have more respect for her.
    I stay on my bed, of course. I know better than to get involved. Besides, Mother is used to such things, so she knows how to handle herself. Sometimes I think that even though she has been married to Father for two decades, I at just sixteen years of age already have a better understanding of how to avoid the brunt of his temper. Why does she not learn? Why does she do things that she knows will earn his ire? If I were her, I would not suffer such