Towering

made it sound that way. Also, why would she even let me stay? Obviously, she’d been doing okay until now. What if she was a whack job who would murder me in my sleep? What if she’d murdered Danielle?
    I fumbled for my cell and, absent anyone else who cared, tried to text my mother.
    No bars. Still.
    I tried again.
    Nothing. Maybe I could go to town or somewhere today, to try and see if it worked. Doubtful. Besides, who did I want to speak to? This place was like one of those novels we read in English class, where people were out on the moors with no one around anywhere and nothing to do but read. You know, like two hundred years ago.
    Speaking of which . . . I took out the novel I was supposed to be reading for my online school class, Wuthering Heights . I’d tried several times to start it on the train, but it was just too boring, so boring I kept falling asleep. I started again. The chapters where Lockwood arrives at the house he’s renting but first stops to meet his landlord were still the same, still boring. No surprises until I came to a part that made me sit upright.
    My fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand!
    The intense horror of nightmare came over me; I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed,
    “Let me in—let me in!”
    Impossible. It was what had happened last night, exactly what had happened. Now, I dimly recalled that Lockwood in the story had done as I had, gone into a bedroom and found an old diary. But I hadn’t read this part. I was sure.
    Or had I?
    No time to think! My thoughts were interrupted by a knocking on my door, not a desperate knocking like last night, but a calm, businesslike knocking and a chipper voice.
    “Wake up, sleepyhead! Everyone must wake sometime!”
    It was Mrs. Greenwood. I looked down, found myself still in jeans and a T-shirt from last night. Would she think I was lazy, lock me in a room?
    “Are you dressed? I made biscuits!”
    I shrugged. No need to prolong the inevitable. “Sure.” I opened the door.
    The old lady standing there looked nothing like the one I’d met last night. This one could have been in a commercial for Hallmark cards or stuffing or something, a sweet, blue-eyed old lady in a red dress and white apron. She held a tray with what looked like a Denny’s Grand Slam on it: eggs, bacon, and biscuits. She smiled. She had dimples and all her teeth.
    “I let you sleep in. You must have been tired from your journey.” She placed the tray on a small table with a ruffled cloth. “Oh, it’s so nice to have someone to cook for. It’s been years.”
    She gave no sign of having met me the night before, much less having yelled at me. In fact, she said, “I see you found your room all right then?”
    “Of course. This looks great.” So weird.
    “Well, don’t expect room service every day. This is a special occasion. You can’t stay in bed all the time, or soon, you’ll find you can’t get up. I know.”
    She must mean when her daughter disappeared, that she’d been depressed.
    “Dig in.” She spied the book on the bed. “ Wuthering Heights! Do you like gothic novels?”
    Being male, no . “I just started it. It’s for school.” This was sooo weird. Had last night been all a dream? But then, how had I gotten in this room, in this bed? Had I been here all the time? Was something wrong with me, even more than I’d imagined?
    “When you’ve read a bit more, we can have a nice, long talk about it. And if you enjoy it, I have Jane Eyre and The Woman in White .”
    “That’s great.” I’d given up on thinking about this.
    “Oh, forgive my babbling. It’s just so nice to have someone to talk to. I’ll let you eat and then, perhaps later, you can help me shovel the walk.”
    This was part of the deal, I knew. My mother had said I’d help around the house. I didn’t mind that, but I was weirded out. Mrs. Greenwood gestured toward the tray, urging me to eat more, then left.
    As soon as she was gone, I dove for the book. I kept reading. It was long-lost Cathy at the window, and then, as with last night (Had it been a dream?), Lockwood’s cries woke his host, Heathcliff. Heathcliff ran into the room, scolded Lockwood, and then, after Lockwood left, Heathcliff rushed to the window, screaming, “Come in! Come in! Cathy, do come. Oh, do— once more!”
    Just as Mrs. Greenwood had.
    Clearly, it had all been a dream, a dream born from reading Wuthering Heights while