The Whispering House by Rebecca Wade Read Free Book Online

fork. “What’s the problem?”
    Hannah looked down at her own plate and pushed it away. “It’s Maisie Holt,” she said quietly. “I think I’m having her dreams.”
    Sam’s fork drooped, allowing the spaghetti to slowly unwind and slither back to his plate. “What are you talking about?”
    She sighed and took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be easy. “The dreams started about a week after we moved in. Then suddenly they stopped. That’s why I didn’t bother telling you before. Only on Friday night I had another one. And another last night.”
    She glanced up, but Sam wasn’t looking at her. He was winding another forkful. So she went on.
    â€œI’m lying on my back in some kind of wood or forest, because there are green leaves everywhere. Ash leaves, with the sun shining on them. And somewhere there’s a fire lit. I can’t see it, but I can hear it. And there’s somebody with me. It has this weird smile.”
    â€œIt?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt. You said ‘it.’ Why not ‘they’?”
    â€œBecause . . . because it looked exactly like that doll! Okay, okay, I know what you’re going to say,” she went on defensively. “That I dreamed about it because we’d found the doll a couple of days before and it was probably still on my mind, but that doesn’t explain how I came to dream about that face before we found it. I tried to tell myself it was just imagination, but the fact is I saw it, Sam. It was with me in the wood!”
    Sam, having successfully negotiated the laden fork to his mouth, chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. Then he swallowed.
    â€œIs that it?”
    â€œNo. Not quite. Last night, there was another person. They were walking toward me, holding a cup. But when I took the cup, I didn’t drink from it. I just threw it away.”
    â€œWas it a nightmare?” he asked after she seemed to have finished.
    Hannah thought about it. “No,” she said, frowning. “At least, not at the time. It was only after I’d woken up that I was scared, like it had been a nightmare. Does that make sense?”
    â€œMmm. Kind of. What makes you think they’re not your own dreams?”
    â€œBecause last night, after I’d woken up, I saw things in the room . . . old-fashioned things, which weren’t there. Except they were there and they weren’t old, they were quite new, and . . . they were familiar, as if . . .” She paused as her voice shook. “As if I was seeing them through somebody else’s eyes!”
    â€œHow do you know you were awake when you saw them, and not still dreaming?”
    â€œBecause I’d already woken up. My eyes were open. I was still shaking!”
    â€œOr maybe you only dreamed you’d woken up. Isn’t that a bit more likely?”
    She sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know. Those things seemed so real. I could have touched them.” Then she remembered that when she’d tried to pick up the glass, her hand had simply knocked over the lamp. Perhaps Sam was right after all.
    â€œThere’s something else.” She reached into a plastic bag on her lap and produced the book of fairy tales.
    Sam put down his fork and took the book from her. He spent some minutes turning the pages. When he came to the illustrations, he looked searchingly at them. Then he gave the book back and picked up his fork.
    â€œI suppose you’re saying that this kid Maisie read these stories, or maybe had them read to her, at bedtime, with her doll beside her, and they gave her the same nightmares you’re having now?”
    â€œIt’s possible, isn’t it?”
    â€œAnd she would have looked at, or been shown, the pictures?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œRight, then. These leaves you see. The ash leaves. Could you draw them? Were they that clear?”
    â€œI . . . I think so.