Free Annie's Room by Amy Cross Page A

few minutes, okay?”
    As she heads to the bathroom, I can't shake a sense of concern. My mother, my usually rational and level-headed mother, seems to have changed in just half a day; she's obviously shaken now and trying to hold herself together, and I'm pretty damn sure that despite everything she just told me about her experiences in the night, there's a lot more that she kept back for fear of sounding crazy. She's not the kind of person who'd ever want to cause problems for other people, so most likely she's internalizing her fears, but I have no doubt that she's scared.
    I still don't really believe in ghosts, but the fact that my mother's scared of something in the house? That scares me.

Ten
     
    Seventy-one years ago
     
    “I made the potatoes a different way,” I tell Father as I put his plate in front of him. “I hope you like them.”
    Picking up his fork, he nudges the potatoes, smearing them through the gravy. He seems to be making patterns; sometimes I wonder what really goes on in Father's head, and I'm quite certain that he thinks a lot more than he lets on. Men like Father – quiet, hard-working men who don't air their thoughts so much – are easily written off as simple, but I happen to believe that in many cases they're actually the most contemplative people of all. There are definitely currents in Father's moods, and I understand why he never opens up to Mother. Perhaps, however, he'll learn over time that he can talk to me a little more. I'd like that.
    “I used goose fat,” I explain, starting to worry that he won't like the change. “I thought... Well, I know how much you like goose fat on lamb, so I thought it might work equally well on the potatoes.”
    I watch as he cuts off a slice and slips it into his mouth.
    “If you don't like it,” I continue, “I can go back to doing them how Mother used to.”
    He chews for longer than usual, before swallowing.
    “They're fine,” he mutters, as he starts cutting off a section of meat. “You're a good cook, Annie. That's one of the few things I don't mind you learning from your mother. You're actually better than her.”
    I can't help but smile with pride.
    Hearing a faint bump from beneath the floor, I look down and find myself wondering what, exactly, Mother is doing down there. It has been two days now since Father dragged her down, and she hasn't been back up since. Father hasn't explicitly told me that I'm not to check on her, but I feel I need his permission and I'd rather not ask. He'll tell me when he's ready. I know she's still alive, because I can hear her sometimes, but I haven't yet summoned the courage to ask Father about the situation directly. I feel it's his job to discipline her, not mine, and I should be patient. For the past couple of nights, I've heard her screams from down there, so I assume he's getting the job done just fine.
    Right now, however, I can hear a scratching sound. It's almost as if she's reaching up and trying to claw her way out through the ceiling. A moment later I hear a faint snap beneath my feet. Did one of her fingernails just break off?
    “Don't go worrying about her,” Father says after a moment. “Don't think about it.”
    Turning to him, I realize my concern must have been obvious.
    “Sorry,” I reply, heading to the stove to fetch my own food.
    “Some people never learn properly,” he continues. “It's a curse.”
    “How...” I pause. “How long will she be down there?”
    “How long ?” He lets out a loud sniff, which is his way of laughing. “Well, I sure as hell don't have any plans to let her up again today, so I think she'll be waiting a good long time.” He sniffs again. “We'll see.”
    “Of course,” I reply, setting the food on my plate before heading over and taking a seat opposite him. I don't have much appetite, but at the same time I know that Father thinks family meal times are very important. He's a real family man, and I know he appreciates the time we spend