Dream House by Marzia Bisognin

the desk, and let out a soft gasp of surprise.
    I’m lying with my face turned the other way, so I can’t see who it is, but I’m not afraid. In fact, I almost feel like I know who’s sneaking about in the room: the young girl from my dreams.
    Is that who it is?
    I sense movement near the wardrobe, as if the person is trying to quietly open it. Too curious to wait another second, I suddenly sit bolt upright in bed and look in front of me.
    I was right—it’s her again.
    â€œWhat are you doing in my room?” she asks, surprised to see me appear from under the blankets.
    â€œIs this your room?”
    She nods, adding, “You need to leave. If you don’t, he’ll find me.”
    â€œThe Derfla? Is he still after you?” I whisper.
    Obviously terrified by the sound of that name, she starts trembling and nods again, her frightened eyes searching the room.
    â€œWhy do you think he’s looking for you?”
    â€œBecause he created me,” she explains, as though stating the obvious. “And now it’s—it’s time for him to eat me.”
    I can’t hold back my amusement at this childlike logic. It’s like when children who should know better let themselves get so worked up about the Bogeyman that they actually start to believe he exists. Her words provoke an involuntary giggle from me, but it’s obvious straightaway that my reaction has upset her, so I put on a serious face and ask, “What makes you think he created you?”
    â€œBecause—because I don’t have any parents,” she replies.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I say, genuinely taken aback. “Why do you say that?”
    â€œBecause I don’t!” she shouts.

    Another dream.
    What is this mystery all about? Is Alfred the gardener the man that scares her so much, or is it just the idea of this monster that all the village kids are frightened of? Most importantly, who is this girl who keeps appearing to me? Does she need my help? Is she actually in danger?
    Hoping to come across some crucial clue that I might have missed, I mentally run over my conversation with Avery.
    According to the story he told me, Alfred had twin boys—there was no mention of any girls. And the girl said this bedroom belonged to her, but if that’s the case, where is she now? Where is she in real life, I mean—outside of my nightmares?
    My eye falls upon the heart on the wall.
    A+A.
    Might that be a clue?
    If I ever want to get a good night’s sleep in this house, I’m going to have to figure this mystery out, once and for all.
    I’m going to have to help her.

    It’s five thirty in the morning, and I’ve spent the last two hours huddled up under the covers running my brain ragged, trying to work out if there’s some kind of logic linking all these different events. But for the life of me, I can’t—too many pieces of the puzzle are missing.
    The new day’s sun is starting to make its appearance, lighting up the white walls, and although I’ve hardly slept at all, it’s a clear enough sign that it’s time for me to get up and get busy.
    I shuffle tiredly to the bathroom, where I take a quick shower and clean my teeth. As I brush, I look at my reflection in the mirror, and my concerns about my appearance return: I’m losing weight, my skin looks dull, and my cheeks are sunken. My hair is all messy and tangled, and my skin is getting paler and paler by the day, making me look absolutely exhausted—I almost look like I’ve seen a ghost.
    Ready now to head outside, I’m walking towards the front door when a thunderingly loud noise reaches my ears. I gaze up at the ceiling, wondering suddenly if this house has another floor of which I am not aware. From what I’ve been able to make out, there aren’t any corridors or doors that might lead to an upper level—but then again, I haven’t really had time to