Shadow Days by Andrea Cremer Read Free Book Online Page A

personality disorder.
    Once I’d posted the sketches, the buzz was all about defining what they were. I had no idea, but Victoria and Liz had some interesting theories. None of which made me feel better about my living situation. I resisted the temptation to ask Liz if she’d accept a transfer student when she mentioned she was a teacher. I’d take mountains of homework over the stuff I was dealing with.
    When Victoria loaded that clip about the assassin angels from Doctor Who, I ran around the mansion double checking that none of the statues had moved. for a few minutes I’d been convinced that each night, when the crash woke me up, it meant the statues were systematically closing in on me. But all the winged, marble people were in the same places they’d been the day I moved in. I pretty much felt like an idiot after sprinting around the house.
    Other theories: gargoyles, but there were gargoyles like the ones I’d seen all over Europe on the outside of the house. These statues seemed different.
    That was all I could take of the house for that day. The sun spilled in through the windows, ridding the dark hallways of their gloom 48
    and beckoning me outside. At first I thought I’d take a stroll through the gardens, only to discover they were filled with more creepy statues. Some of the sculptures were the winged men and women that I’d seen in the house, but others looked like mad scientist experi-ments. In the back of my mind I knew they were creatures of myth: chimeras, griffins, Stymphalian birds, but they only looked like monsters to me.
    The gardens stretched for what looked like a mile until they disappeared into a dense pine forest. Abandoning the idea of exploring the grounds, I headed to my truck and escaped into the foothills for my first hike in Colorado.
    At 5:30 a.m. I sat in the middle of my bed. All the lights were on and I’d turned the hallway lights on too. Radiohead was cranked up so loud that I doubted I’d hear myself even if I shouted. My eyes burned, and it wasn’t the blasting music that made my teeth rattle. I couldn’t take this. How was I supposed to live in a place that wouldn’t let me sleep and was slowly convincing me that poltergeists had rented out the room right above mine?
    Something in the house had to be causing the noise. Supernatu-ral, electrical, whatever it was I had to find it and stop it. If I didn’t, I would be driving back to Portland within a week. Still bleary eyed, I grabbed my video camera and headed into the hallway, watching the screen as I walked. Sure enough, when I reached the statue at the corner, the picture began to wave and then turned to static. I kept walking, gazing at the screen as it flickered back to life like nothing strange had happened. Each time I neared another statue, the screen gave out again. I was passing through the balcony of the foyer, heading toward the west wing, when the screen skipped and went black.
    Not static this time; no image at all.
    I checked the camera, its glowing red light telling me it was still on, still working. The black screen crackled and went still, crackled 49
    again. I stood still, staring at the image. The crackle came again and again in a steady pulse. Each time it happened, the camera vibrated in my hand like I was standing next to a speaker putting out a loud, super-low bass line.
    I looked up to see where I was. The double doors of the library loomed in front of me. My mouth went dry. The library. The place Bosque told me I couldn’t go.
    I took a step forward. The camera jumped in my hand. I swore as I dropped it. It clunked on the floor. When I picked it up and examined it, it didn’t seem to be damaged. That same steady crackle pulsed on the black screen.
    I backed against the rail of the balcony’s landing and slid down until I was sitting. I’m not sure how long I was there, staring at the tall wooden doors.
    He told me not to go in.
    Screw it. I can’t live like this.
    I left the camera on the