Free The Woman in the Wall by Patrice Kindl Page B

had bought this house before I was born (no doubt the reason why the terrible Mr. Albright wanted to remove my mother from it). But it had never occurred to me that anyone in the family would consider
selling
our home.
    What would I do if they did? I would be alone in the world. Even worse, I
wouldn't
be alone; I would have a whole new set of people moving in. I wept louder. I wanted my own people—Mother and Andrea and Kirsty—not some alien family with whom I had nothing in common.
    And F. I would certainly lose him as well. The new family probably wouldn't even be acquainted with him; they'd never ask him to visit. I would be cut off from everyone and everything I held dear.
    Then there was the fact that I had, over the years, taken over so much of the house. The new people might notice that the interior dimensions of the house did not match the exterior dimensions and decide to investigate. When they realized that nearly half the square footage of the building was inaccessible to them, they might quite reasonably resent the fact.
    And they probably wouldn't much care for my eating their food. My appetite was still unfortunately rather hearty. Unless they had numerous children or flocks of visitors (as we had), they would be bound to realize before long that someone else was sharing the groceries. Or unless I went on a rather drastic diet. I sighed.
That
wouldn't last long. I was feeling rather empty right now.
    So it amounted to this: even if the State of New York didn't try to hunt me down, once the new owners found that they had an unwelcome guest, they would probably hire an exterminator to evict me. One morning I would wake up dead; gassed, trapped, poisoned, I would be entombed within the walls. And who would there be to grieve for me?
    At this pathetic picture I howled aloud with rage and self-pity. I flung myself down on the floor and drummed my heels against the walls of the house, careless of who might hear. I
wanted
them to hear. I wanted them to know that I, Anna, was taking this very personally. How
dare
they treat me like this? After everything I'd done for them!
    "I hate you!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, "I hate all of you! Selfish
pigs!
" I shrieked. I screamed every insult I could think of until the words began to run together. Finally the power of speech failed me and I simply howled. There seemed to be an almost limitless fund of fury in me; more anger than one would think that a small person like myself could possibly hold. It came streaming out of me in a steady, hot ribbon of sound.
    After a time I quieted a little. For one thing, with all this uninhibited thrashing around, I was a mass of slivers, bumps, and bruises. My head throbbed. It was still sore from where I had banged it earlier as well as from emotion. I ached in every joint. Life between the walls didn't afford enough space for this sort of behavior.
    Great shuddering sobs convulsed my body, and the floor became wet with tears, but I stopped shouting and kicking. I felt tired and ill, as though I was coming down with the flu. Gradually my crying slowed; my chest stopped heaving, my breath stilled. My nose was completely stuffed up, but I had neither the energy to blow it nor the handkerchief to blow it on. I closed my hot, swollen eyelids and, breathing noisily through my mouth, lay inert for a long time, not thinking, not moving. Very slowly I drifted off into an exhausted slumber.
    I slept. And as I slept I dreamt that the house was on fire.
    In my dream, I awakened into a queer yellowish-gray half-light. The air around me was thick and heavy and bitter to taste. When I gasped for breath, I began coughing weakly. I tried to get up but fell back again, dizzy and nauseous.
What's the matter with you, Anna?
I scolded myself, and with an enormous effort of will, I sat up. The murky air swirled thickly about me. Far off I heard a vast roaring, sucking sound.
    Suddenly I was standing, not in any of my passageways or rooms, but in