The Last Writer by Adriane Leigh (books like harry potter .txt) 📕

caught me off guard when he used my first name. “Good night, Thax.”

He pulled a clove cigarette from its pack and sniffed it with a smile. “See you at dawn.”

He took the steps two at a time then, whistling as he slid deeper into the depths of the library.

I paused, thinking how weird that I’d found myself here of all places. I pulled the tiny journal from my pocket, slipping my fingertip along the hard Z of Zara again. “Did you live here?”

I climbed the steps, not expecting a response and asking the question more out loud to myself than anything else. I climbed slowly, forcing the usual chill from my bones as I imagined all of the people that must have lived behind these walls.

I wondered what it would be like, leading such an isolated childhood like the kids in Lilies in the Cellar did. Homeschooled by a stern governess turned murderer.

Just as I reached the landing of the third floor, I heard the soft snick of a door opening, followed by a short pause and a surly grunt. Yarrow, I was sure of it. I could almost sense his presence and see the look of annoyance on his face as he bent to pick up the notebooks Thax and I had tossed so carelessly.

And I couldn’t help but wonder: could it be true that Yarrow and Yara shared this dozen-bedroom, three-story private apartment...and yet live in the same single room together? A grin split my face as I imagined them on grown-up bunk beds.

And then something darker flirted at the edges of my psyche. They were oddly intimate, remarkably close all of these years.

Just like a married couple.

PAST

Zara - Spring 1964

“Yarrrra!” my whiny half-brother yelled through the house.

I heard the pounding of footsteps as Yara appeared at my open bedroom door, eyes wide with fear.

“Hide these.” She held a mesh bag of dormant lily bulbs in the air, sprinkles of wood chips falling on the floor as she did.

“Get out of here, rat,” I hissed.

She huffed. “He’s going to kill me.”

I stuck my tongue out.

And then I heard Yarrow’s loud footsteps on the stairs. “Yarrra! You’re cheating! If Mother thinks I’m short a bag of bulbs for today she’ll kill both of us.”

“I can’t do any more bulbs, Yarrow, my fingers are bleeding.” She wiggled her dainty fingers in the air, calluses replacing the elegant creamy cast of her skin. They’d been at the new chores for less than two weeks; already the dark circles under their eyes and even more pallid skin made clear they didn’t see much sunshine, or soap and water for that matter.

By the time they were finished after sunset each evening, they were forced to pick the spidery-gray cobwebs out of each other’s hair.

“Toughen up,” Yarrow spit, shoving his sister in the chest. He swiped the bag of bulbs as she fell, the crash of a door banging against the jamb as it gave way to her featherlight weight.

“Geez, you broke the hinge. Stupid.” Yarrow kicked his sister in the ankle and then stepped over her. “Hey, what’s this?”

Curiosity burned brighter than my hatred for the little monsters and I shot off my bed, shuttling out my door and over Yara to discover what Yarrow had found in yet another unexplored room.

“Whoa,” I breathed.

“This is creepy.” Yarrow stood in the middle of the room, abandoned classroom desks around him, and hospital beds covered in stained sheets lining all four walls.

“Imagine learning arithmetic here.” I fingered a handheld chalkboard that was propped against an outdated globe.

“Got your bulbs.” Yara breezed by me and yanked the bulbs from Yarrow’s hands. “I’m going to tell Mother I packed an entire dozen bags today just to get extra pudding after dinner tonight.”

“Nice try, I ate it all after you went to bed last night.”

“No you didn’t, I saw—”

“Ugh, don’t you two ever shut up?” I rifled through a stack of photos on the desk before pulling on a drawer.

It rattled against my knuckles. Locked.

I yanked harder, expecting it not to budge, when instead it gave easily and I fell back against the wall. A puff of dust erupted around my face. I blew the cloud out of my way and then took in the treasures I’d found contained within the drawer.

More photos.

But not like the kind I’d found in the other room.

These were all dated at the same time, but as I picked them up, I discovered evidence of medical experiments. Children wrapped in white restraint jackets, buckles tied at their waists and fear in their eyes. One doctor, a mask covering all but his eyes, waved at whoever was behind the camera as he held a large vial of a clear liquid in his other hand.

I squinted, pulling one black-and-white polaroid closer to identify the chalkboard that was at my back, hospital beds lining the walls of this very room, only the beds in the photo were occupied with two, sometimes even three kids.

Tiny shaved heads peeked over crisp white, hospital-grade sheets.

All of these kids looked sick.

Is this why this door had been locked? Had someone sealed it? And did Mother know about the things that’d been done here?

“What is this?” Yarrow leaned over my shoulder, swiping a palmful of photos.

“Evidence of weird.” Was all I could muster.

“I hate this place.”

“Me too,” Yara bellowed from her seat on the floor, legs stretching into the hallway.

“Where’s Mother?” I whispered.

“She’s been gone all day.” Yarrow shrugged.

I remembered then that after breakfast this morning she’d mentioned going to the hardware store in the village for cleaning supplies and a hammer.

“I wonder what other secrets this house holds,” I mused, sliding a few stacks of photos into my breast pocket and then tipping the drawer over in my hand.

Curiosity shot through me when I saw a tiny envelope taped to the underside, the edges of the adhesive turned a deep yellow and curling. I slipped my fingernail under and it gave way easily. I turned it