Page 79 of The Staircase in the Woods

Maybe the house was alive. Or at least had amind.

Nick tensed up, continued: “So no. I didn’t know shit about shit.”

“Okay. Yeah, okay. Again, I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant. It’s fine.”

At that, Nick went to the door—the only door out of this room—and stood in front of it.

“Nick,” Owen cautioned.

“I know, relax. I’m not walking through. But I want to see.”

Owen stood and crept closer, as if the door might suddenly open all on its own. Because there wassomethingon the other side—at least, in the attic. The thing that sat up in the bed. Like the dead girl.

Maybe the attic was gone.

“Fine, yeah, open it up,” Owen said.

Nick opened it fast.

The attic remained.

At the other end, the sheet-swaddled body remained.

Nick held it open a few more seconds, sucking air through his teeth like he was thinking.He’s thinking of just running through,Owen knew. He could tell. Nick was edgy. Upset. Owen understood. He was tired, too. Hungry, also. At a certain point, this was going to wear them down to nubs. Nick’s instinct to keep moving—just keep swimming,like that Disney fish said—was one Owen understood, even if he thought it was the wrong one.

But then, sighing, Nick let the door drift closed.

“We wait a little while. See if it changes.”

“Okay,” Owen said.

“Maybe try to get a little more sleep. I dunno. I just dunno.”

Nick went and sat in the corner of the room, leaving the chair for Owen.

Owen went back to it and sat down. Over time, he closed his eyes.

And sleep slipped in, creeping like a shadow, and stole him away.

46

Messages from Matty

“That’s Matty’s handwriting,” she said. Given that it was carved, not written, she couldn’t be absolutely sure, but he used to write her these notes between classes, pass them to her in the hallway. It looked like his writing. Then Hamish said, his voice quiet but firm:

“I think you’re right.”

“Means he was here.”

“Yeah.”

“The heart is where the home is.” she said, repeating the phrase. What could that mean? She repeated it a few more times, and each time it felt more and more like gibberish. The words running together into mess. It felt like what they calledsemantic satiation:when you say a word or a phrase so many times it becomes just noise. Repetition until meaninglessness.Like this house,she thought, idly, though even that didn’t make total sense to her. Not yet.

She opened the cabinet next to it.

Another message was carved there:

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