Possess Me Read online

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 0

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  The world is filled with hidden treasures. You just have to know where to look.

  My friend Javier and I have spent our lives scouring every inch of Marshall Junction for oddities and collectibles. We’ve combed through garage sales and flea markets and pawnshops, poked around the woods and the parks, and even brought a metal detector down to the lake to see what we could find. Over the years, we’ve assembled quite the collection of rusted rings and neglected necklaces, discarded dice and creepy cameras. We even found a stuffed squirrel hidden in the trunk of a tree.

  Really, if you’re willing to look in strange places, there’s no telling what treasures you might find.

  But there’s one place we never dared to go. The one place no one in the town dared to go.

  At school, kids called it the Blood Manor.

  It was built by an eccentric old woman in the middle of the woods, just outside town. Bigger and grander than any house in Marshall Junction, filled with artifacts she’d collected from all over the globe. Some said there were treasures in there that were stolen from kings and queens. Some said every artifact was cursed.

  There were hundreds of rumors, but no one knew the truth. Because the old woman never let anyone past the high iron fence that surrounded the property.

  There were other rumors, too. Rumors that kids had gone missing from town. Rumors that, at night, you could hear terrible noises coming from the Manor. Screams for help.

  And then, in the middle of the night, it caught fire.

  This was a long time ago, before I was even born. But my dad once told me: “Kaden, when that place burned, it burned green. And those fires didn’t crackle and burn like normal fires. They screamed like the wails of the dead.”

  The house mostly survived, but no one else did. The owner was never found. Nor was there ever a confirmed cause for the fire. It was a mystery. One everyone in town was more than happy to forget.

  Especially because, at night, rumor had it that people could still hear the owner hammering away, eternally building a house she’d never complete. Waiting for unsuspecting visitors she could trap inside her endless halls.

  Most people have been too scared to enter. Or maybe they were too smart to take such a risk.

  But I knew I had to go in.

  I knew I would find artifacts that would make my own collection complete.

  I just had no way of knowing that what I found would do everything in its power to unmake me.

  “Check this out, Kaden!” Javier calls.

  I look up from the pile of old coins I’d been sorting through to see my best friend hunched over an old dollhouse.

  “What are you …” I mutter, but I drop the coins and walk over. I swear Mr. Hubbard hasn’t gotten any new coins in since the Second World War. I don’t even know why I bother.

  I make it two steps over to Javier before he turns to face me.

  I nearly yelp.

  “What. In the world. Is that?” I ask.

  Javier giggles and bounces his find up and down in front of him.

  It’s a mouse.

  A small white taxidermy mouse. Standing on its hind legs. In a pink tutu. It even has a wand and a tiny pink crown.

  “Isn’t it cute?” he asks. He makes it twirl and dance in the air.

  Javier and me, we’re outcasts around here. Partly because of how we look (him, with his blue-streaked hair, tie-dyed shirts, me with my pastel wardrobe and sequined everything), but mostly because both of us are … weird. And we’re both okay with that. We know who we are.

  “No,” I reply. “It’s creepy. I mean, think about it: Who actually made that thing? Someone had to sew a tiny tutu and”—I look closer—“those are rhinestones on the tiara, dude. Who does that?”

  Javier shrugs.

  “Someone who has a lot of free time on their hands?” he offers. “And likes mice. And The Nutcracker. Oooh, we could collect a bunch of these and make an animatronic scene from The Nutcracker. We could call it the ‘Mice-capades.’ Get it?”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re thinking of the Ice Capades,” I say. “Totally different things.”

  “We can give it little ice skates,” he counters. He swooshes the mouse around in front of me like it’s doing some grand routine.

  “You’ve had way too much sugar,” I say.

  “Maybe a little.”

  I raise my eyebrow.

  “Okay, maybe like a lot. I didn’t realize the extra-large sodas were going to be the size of buckets. Oh, also, do you think Mr. Hubbard will let me use his bathroom? I really have to pee.”

  Like you haven’t gotten the extra-large sodas dozens of times before!

  “Only for paying customers,” I say. We’ve also gone over this a dozen times. I swear, he just drinks the extra-large sodas before coming here so he has to buy something.

  He turns the mouse so it faces him and smiles at it.

  “Looks like you’re coming home with me!” he says, and trots off to the front desk to pay and get the bathroom key.

  I can’t help it—I smile the moment his back is turned, and for a brief second let myself imagine creating a miniature mechanical diorama. I think I already have a few motors in my parents’ garage, which I’ve turned into my own workshop. I definitely have some LEDs I could turn into stage lights.

  I shake my head.

  “No,” I whisper to myself. “No way. We are not going to devote ourselves to taxidermy ice-skating mice.”

  The last time I let myself get distracted by one of Javier’s wilder ideas, I ended up with six boxes of silly string and a toy train. Don’t ask. I’m still trying to get rid of all the silly string.

  For the last few years, Javier and I have been collecting an assortment of oddities. It currently takes up an entire wall of shelves in my room. But we don’t collect just anything. We’re looking for things that stand out, that tell a story. Some kids collect trading cards or figurines. I collect oddities. And if other kids or parents look at me strangely, well, that’s their problem for being boring.

  As I look around Mr. Hubbard’s antique shop for the millionth time, I start to despair that we won’t ever find anything remotely unique or interesting here.

  I stroll past the dusty shelves, peering into glass cabinets filled with old jewelry that’s tarnished beyond recognition. There are wooden boxes of tattered postcards, many of them with cursive sentences addressed to missed lovers or distant friends. I try not to read those. Even though the writers and recipients are probably long gone (and even though, yes, I have plenty of antiques that were surely personal), there’s just something about reading someone’s private life that feels wrong. Like, if a hundred years from now someone was sel
ling my journal in a thrift store, I probably wouldn’t want anyone else reading it, even if I didn’t know they were doing it. I mean, it’s personal. It’s who I am.

  Words are memory made permanent. They’re important.

  I pause in front of a jewelry box I haven’t seen before and slowly open the lid.

  “Just got that in last week,” Mr. Hubbard says from beside me.

  I nearly jump out of my skin.

  “Very valuable,” Mr. Hubbard continues. As though he doesn’t realize he’s scared me half to death. Which is highly possible, because Mr. Hubbard is extremely nearsighted. Every antique here still passes his scrutiny, but he can’t see the customers so well.

  “Oh?” I ask.

  I open the jewelry box.

  “Indeed,” he replies. “Most of those rings are older than you.”

  I am twelve. This is an antiques store—that isn’t hard to do. It sort of goes with the name.

  I just nod, then pick up one of the rings and pretend to examine it. I can already tell that there isn’t anything of interest in here. A few tarnished gold bands, some silver earrings, a string of pearls. Faded stamps, for some reason. This stuff could be valuable. It’s just not valuable to me.

  “Still think it’s a little strange for you two to go rooting around in other people’s things,” he says in his grumbly voice. “Some might see it as meddling in other people’s business.”

  Says the guy who owns an antiques store that only sells other people’s business!

  I don’t say that, though. I hate confrontation, and I can’t have the only peddler of strange things in this town come to hate me.

  “We’re very respectful,” I reply instead.

  “That’s what Miss Hoffweller said, too. And look what happened to her.”

  The name is oddly familiar, but I swear I don’t know anyone called Hoffweller.

  Thankfully, I’m saved by Javier, who comes back with the ballet mouse held lovingly to his chest.

  “Hey, Mr. Hubbard,” Javier says. “Thanks for letting me use the bathroom. I wanted to ask—who donated Ferdinand?”

  “Ferdinand?” I ask.

  Javier holds up the mouse.

  Of course.

  “Strictly confidential,” Mr. Hubbard says. He eyes us up and down. “Remember, kids: Meddling leads to trouble.”

  “We’ll remember,” Javier says. He looks to me. “Ready to go?”

  I nod. “Did you … ?”

  “Oh yeah, Ferdinand is all mine. Come on, little buddy. Adventure time!”

  He heads toward the front door, making the mouse dance around as we go.

  I follow close behind, glancing over my shoulder only once to see Mr. Hubbard standing by the jewelry box, his hands shaking slightly as he hovers them over the lid.

  Something clicks.

  Mr. Hubbard is a widower. I wonder if the box was his wife’s.

  My gut sinks with the thought, but then we’re out in the bright, sticky Nebraska sun, and Javier is dancing around with Ferdinand while humming a waltz, and he looks so ridiculous I can’t help but laugh.

  He just smiles at me and goes back to dancing with his mouse.

  We make our way down the street. Downtown is mostly deserted, a bunch of two-story joined buildings that are filled with more FOR RENT signs than there are shop signs. No one is on the street. No one here walks. Especially not in this heat.

  “What are we doing tonight?” he asks. “Maybe video games and pool party at my house?”

  “I’m in,” I reply. “Just gotta text my parents.”

  They won’t mind. I spend more time at Javier’s than I do at my own house, especially in the summer. Because, pool.

  Besides, there are only a few days of vacation left. My parents know I’d rather spend it with my best—and only—friend.

  “Hey,” I say as I text home. “Do you know a Miss Hoffweller?”

  Javier may act like a big goof, but he actually pays very close attention, and his mind is like Alcatraz—once he’s locked some trivia inside there, it’s never getting out. We’ve both lived in this town our whole lives, but he definitely knows this place’s history better than I do.

  He stops immediately and asks, “What? Why?”

  “Mr. Hubbard mentioned her. Said she used to collect a lot of weird stuff. Like us.”

  “She’s nothing like us,” he says.

  “Why?”

  He looks around. Though, again, there’s no one out. Someone drives past in a pickup, but their windows are up and music is blasting.

  “Because she’s the one who ran the Blood Manor.”

  So that’s why the name’s so familiar.

  “I didn’t realize she was a collector,” I say. “I thought she just built some wacky old house.”

  He nods. “She wasn’t just building it for herself. Some say the antiques she collected compelled her to build. Like they were possessed or something.”

  Huh.

  I’d never heard about that part. Then again, people are pretty tight-lipped about the Blood Manor.

  “Come on,” he says, continuing down the sidewalk. “I have to pee again.”

  I laugh, follow, and poke him in the side once, which makes him squeal and duck away and jog.

  “Hey, wait up!” I say.

  I follow him to his house, already discussing what games we’re going to play. But in the back of my mind, I’m wondering how to convince him to check out the ruins of the Blood Manor with me.

  I have a feeling it’s going to cost me a lot more than a few extra-large sodas.

  Javier and I are floating on our backs in the pool, him in his atrocious tie-dyed board shorts and me in my usual pink T-shirt and trunks. He’s got his phone streaming some trip-hop music station, and there’s a floaty of cheese puffs and candy and more soda in between us. The sky has grown overcast, and heat lightning flickers farther off. Outside of the music, all I can hear are the cicadas buzzing in the endless cornfields surrounding his yard. We probably shouldn’t be out here with the storm approaching, but neither of us moves to leave. We haven’t said a word for at least twenty minutes. And I think that’s one of the things I like most about our friendship—we’ve grown so close, we don’t have to say anything to express ourselves.

  Except I know I’m going to have to say something soon. If I don’t, I’m going to explode.

  Ever since leaving Mr. Hubbard’s shop, all I can think about is going to the Blood Manor.

  The place is outside Marshall Junction by a few miles, hidden in a tangled gnarl of trees and fields that no farmer claims as their own. I’ve ridden past it, like, a million times, and have even gone up to the fence separating it from the rest of the world. I’ve peeked in, just like everyone else. It was sort of a rite of passage when I hit middle school.

  But I haven’t gone inside. No one has.

  And I know, with every fiber of my being, that I have to go if I ever want to find something worth finding.

  “What are you scheming?” Javier asks.

  I jolt and look over. Was I thinking aloud?

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  He grins and grabs a handful of cheese puffs and shoves them in his mouth, then washes his hand off in the pool. A cloud of orange cheese dust billows around him, and I remind myself not to jump back in. That orange is impossible to get out of pastels.

  “You’ve got that look on your face,” he says. That’s it. Like I said, we know each other well.

  I suppose there’s no point delaying. He brought it up.

  “I have a proposition for you,” I say.

  “Oh no.”

  I splash him with water.

  “It’s not that bad,” I say. I try to keep my voice nonchalant as I say: “I want to explore the Blood Manor.”

  Javier laughs.

  When I don’t join in, he stops and says, “Wait, you aren’t serious, are you?”

  “Deadly serious,” I reply.

  “That’s not a p
roposition,” he says. “It’s a death wish.”

  “You didn’t let me finish!” I say. “Look, we both know we aren’t going to find anything cool in Mr. Hubbard’s antiques store anymore, and it’s not like any of the estate sales we’ve been to have turned up anything.”

  “I dunno,” he says, looking to the side of the pool. “I found a new friend.”

  I roll my eyes. He’s staring at Ferdinand. The stuffed tutu-wearing mouse is currently on its own little lounge chair Javier stole from his sister’s dollhouse. There are even a few cheese puffs in a dish beside it.

  “You’re obsessed,” I say.

  “You’re obsessed,” he replies. He finally looks over to me. “Look, Kaden. You know I’ve got your back. You know I’m totally on board with treasure hunting and all that. But I’m not okay with breaking and entering and stealing. Even if the place wasn’t literally called the Blood Manor, I’d be against it.” He raises an eyebrow. “And I thought you would be, too.”

  “It’s not stealing! Miss Hoffweller’s been dead for decades, and she didn’t have any heirs. No one has claimed the place. If anything, we’d be giving everything she collected a new life.”

  “Everything that didn’t burn in a mysterious fire that people say sounded like the screams of the dead,” Javier interjects.

  “Yes. That.”

  He sighs and grabs more cheese puffs.

  “I just … Let me think about it,” he says. “If we ever got caught …”

  “We wouldn’t.”

  He grumbles and stuffs a few more cheese puffs in his mouth.

  I don’t push it. Javier can be bullish when pressured, and the last thing I need is for him to turn on me. That’s one of the biggest problems with having only one friend: When you fight, you don’t have anyone else to turn to.

  * * *

  It’s dark when I finally head home.

  Javier offered to let me stay the night, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Manor, and what it would take to get him to go there.

  Plus, he snores, so that’s not happening.

  It’s only a twenty-minute bike ride, and most of that is through empty farmland, so it doesn’t feel too scary wandering home in the dark. It’s not like anything bad ever happens here. I’ve got my headphones in and my headlight illuminating the road in front of me. Fireflies dance through the cornfields, tiny sparks of yellow flickering as far as I can see. Which isn’t really that far, since the corn is taller than I am.