Dead Voices

Mr. Voland said, still smiling, “Well, there were all those stories about this place. While it was shut up. Didn’t you know? I’m sure someone mentioned it when you bought the building. The orphanage didn’t have the best reputation.” He ate more pancake.

Coco thought of a dark figure on the road, a shadow in an empty hall.

Across the table, Ollie bit her lip. “Old orphanage?” she blurted out. “I thought this used to be a school.”

“It was,” broke in Mr. Wilson. “A fine institution! I don’t know what you are implying . . . what was your name again?”

“Don will do.” Mr. Voland leaned back, cradling his mug of coffee. “And to answer your question,” he added. “It was a school and an orphanage. Apparently it wasn’t all sunshine and roses. Rumors went around that children were being locked in closets and things. No one investigated at the time, though—people didn’t really care about orphans. And after the orphanage was closed, people started seeing strange lights in the windows. Once the police were called because someone heard screaming inside the building. But they never found anyone. Stories about this place started to go up and down the valley. The most common was the story of a little girl named Gretel and a woman called Mother Hemlock. Ever heard the story?”

They shook their heads. Mr. Wilson was red with annoyance; Mrs. Wilson still looked frosty. Ollie looked like she was listening hard.

“Well, Gretel was an orphan at the school, apparently,” said Mr. Voland. “She wasn’t a very good student; she liked to go poking around, instead of paying attention at her lessons. Sometimes she’d even get up at night and wander the halls. Some of the stories say she sleepwalked. Others that she was just curious.” He paused to eat some bacon, then went on. “Mother Hemlock was a teacher who lived at the orphanage. She was quite strict. She got more and more angry each time she found Gretel in the hall when she ought to have been asleep, or in class. Finally, one day, she’d had enough. She caught Gretel wandering about, hauled her upstairs, and locked the girl in a closet. ‘I’ll teach you to go disappearing!’ she said. ‘Sit there and see what happens to bad girls!’ She left. Gretel was afraid of the dark. She screamed and screamed, but no one came. That night, when Mother Hemlock came to let her out, she found that the little girl had died of fright.”

Ollie’s eyes were huge. “A closet?” she asked unexpectedly.

Mr. Voland said, “Well, yes, I believe that is the story.” He went on:

“They say that Gretel has haunted the lodge ever since. People hear her rattling closet doors, skipping and whistling in the hallways. Mother Hemlock, the legend says, threw herself out the attic window in remorse. Now she haunts the building too. Some stories say she collects the souls of all the little girls who ever died in the orphanage. Others say she is eternally trying to keep Gretel’s ghost from running away again. And Gretel is eternally trying to escape.”

No one said anything. There was an uneasy silence. Coco thought suddenly of her dream of a long corridor, and a little dead girl standing in the moonlight.

Mr. Voland sat back, smiled, and shrugged. He took a sip of coffee. “At least,” he said, “that’s the story.”

Mr. Wilson, Coco noticed, was still bright red with annoyance. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You can’t just come and tell these terrible—”

At the same time, Ollie blurted out, “What do they look like?”

Mr. Voland said, frowning, “What do who look like?”

“The ghosts!” said Ollie. “Gretel and—and Mother Hemlock. What do they look like?”

Mr. Voland peered at Ollie over the tops of his glasses. He seemed puzzled by her question. “I don’t know,” he said. “The stories talk more about hearing them than seeing them.” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

Why had Ollie asked? Coco wondered. Her mom and Ollie’s dad were wearing expressions of tolerant amusement. Neither of them, Coco knew, believed in ghosts.

“No reason,” said Ollie, too quickly. Coco wondered if Ollie had seen anything strange in the lodge. Or if Brian had. The three of them needed to talk soon, she decided.

Another little silence went around the table. The wind groaned outside.

“Of course,” Mr. Voland went on, with an apologetic nod

at Mrs. Wilson, “I am sorry to disturb your breakfast with ghost stories. But when I heard that the old building was open again, free to all, this time as a ski lodge, I decided it was the perfect time to look into it. Coming to a lovely ski lodge sounded much better than breaking into an abandoned orphanage. Food’s much better.” He ate some more eggs, happily.

At the words breaking into, Mr. Wilson started looking irritated all over again.

“And I am so delighted to be here and so impressed with what you’ve done with the place, ma’am,” Mr. Voland finished. He swallowed more coffee.

Mrs. Wilson said coldly, “Thank you. And I want to tell you at the outset that all this is quite ridiculous. The building was an orphanage and is now a ski lodge. I don’t know what you’re hoping to find.”

“Me neither,” said Mr. Voland comfortably. “Never know until you look.”

Coco had a sudden, clear memory of a girl’s dry, dead voice saying, I’m looking for my bones. Even though the fire was burning brightly, the dining room suddenly felt cold. Coco wished Mr. Voland hadn’t come. She glanced at the window. The snow was coming down harder and faster than ever. Susie the Subaru was totally buried.

“Don’t you worry, ma’am,” said Mr. Voland reassuringly to Mrs. Wilson. “A good ghost story is great for business, true or no.”

Just then, all the lights in the dining room flickered. Coco looked up. A log crumbled in the fireplace with a shower of sparks, and somewhere out of sight, someone whistled.

“What was that?” Ollie asked. “I thought we were the only people here.”