Dream House by Marzia Bisognin Page B

collecting dust, all seemingly related to religious topics, to judge from their titles.
    Part of me is none too surprised to see all of this—every house hides some secret or other of its owners, after all. But I’m starting to feel worryingly as though I’m embroiled in something sinister—something that I might have been wiser not to get involved in at all.
    Crawling farther into the small space, I stop to look at a framed photograph that I find propped on a chest, showing five people posing for the photographer. I pick it up and, as best I can, clean away the dust.
    Under my right thumb, the Blooms, probably still in their forties, are smiling cheerfully at the camera. Marvin is wearing the same round glasses and a collared sweater and is hand in hand with Amabel, whose dress is as pretty as her freshly done hair. On the opposite side stand a younger couple. They could almost be the Blooms’ grown-up children, if it weren’t for the fact that they are visibly of different ethnicities: the man at the edge of the frame is tall and serious and appears to be Caucasian, but his face looks nothing like those of the Blooms, while the girl he has his arms around is clearly Asian. There’s a sad look in her eyes, but she has a sweet face. She’s left her straight black hair loose and is wearing a long, flowery dress for the event.
    Her attention is not directed towards the camera—in fact, she’s the only one who isn’t holding a pose. Instead, her head is tilted downwards towards where a little girl— the little girl—is standing, smiling with her eyes closed, holding both Amabel’s and the other woman’s hands, right in the middle of the picture.
    She looks much younger than she’s appeared to me in my dreams, but I’m 100 percent certain that it’s her.
    I turn the photo over in the hope of finding a date or a name or something, but whatever was written on the back has been scribbled out and is now impossible to read.
    I place the frame back where I found it and turn my attention to studying the chest itself: it’s safely fastened shut by a heavy padlock hanging from a hasp on the front. I look around me for a key that might open it and spy a bunch of them hanging from a nail under a painting on the wall. I snatch it down and, one by one, try each of them—but none works.
    Tired and frustrated, I decide that the time has come to take a break and get some fresh air.
    I climb down the ladder, pushing the small panel shut behind me, then walk down the corridor and back into the main part of the house.
    The sudden chiming of the clock makes me start, and I realise how long I’ve spent up there—it’s 11:00 p.m.
    It was still morning when I found the door to the attic—is it really possible that I’ve spent the whole day in that room without realising it? It’s true that while I was up there I had no way of knowing what time it was, but it seems pretty unlikely that I could have spent so much of my day inside that pokey, dusty place.
    No reasonable explanation presenting itself, I slip back into my pyjamas, hop into bed, and focus on the fact that I’m finally on the right path—now, I have a lead to follow.
    Despite not feeling drowsy at all, I keep my eyelids firmly shut and try to force myself to fall asleep in the hope of having another of those dreams, but it’s no use—my mind is far too restless and doesn’t calm down enough to let me relax properly until hours later.
    Exhausted by the thoughts racing non-stop through my head, I eventually let go of everything and drift off to join the dream world.

DAY 10
    M Y DISAPPOINTMENT at not having dreamt about the little girl gradually fading, I lie there on my side with my eyes closed and let the rays of light shining through the window caress my cheeks—until the sky starts clouding over and the sunbeams disappear, depriving me of the warmth I’d been