The Last House on Needless Street by Catriona Ward (guided reading books .TXT) 📕

of ants back to the main entrances to their nest. They’re almost translucent in the sunlight, harmless-looking little things. You’d never think they could cause such pain. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. I pour the pyrethrin over the nest, into the holes, and into the trash bag containing the groundsheet.

I didn’t know whether the fire ant nest would still be here, in the north-west corner. But I thought it probably would. They’re territorial creatures. It was difficult for me to listen to Lauren’s cries, to hear her pain as they stung her. But it was necessary – she has to learn.

I have to admit that Lauren is much better, these days. There have been no repeats of that time at the mall.

I stand in the centre of the glade, which is also the centre of the pattern. A pool of sunlight falls there. I greet the gods and feel their power. They reach out from where they lie beneath the forest floor. It’s like being tugged in different directions by slender threads. Mommy is right. As soon as my arm is better I have to find them a new home. People are beginning to feel them. That family got way too close.

As I climb my front steps I notice that they’re bare. The wind has blown them clear of leaves and such. That won’t do. If people come up to the house I need to hear it. What I do is, I crush a couple of Christmas ornaments and sprinkle them over the steps. This produces a crisp high tinkle that gives me plenty of warning of approaching visitors. It’s not dangerous. People wear shoes. I mean, I know I went out in my bare feet the other day but most people don’t. That’s just a fact.

As I’m scattering the broken shards of fibreglass I catch movement at the corner of my eye. I turn to look, hoping I’m wrong. But I’m not. The newspaper is gone from one of the downstairs windows in the abandoned house next door. As I watch, a pale hand pulls more yellowing newsprint away, leaving the window unlidded like a dark deep eye. The sash is pushed up and a business-like hand dumps a panful of dust out of the window. Then there comes the sound of vigorous sweeping.

I go into my house and lock the front door behind me. I put my eye to the peephole that faces east, towards the vacant house. Overgrown timothy grass nods against the glass, but I still have a good enough view. I watch as a white truck pulls up. It says EZ Moving in orange letters on the side. A woman comes out the front door, lopes down the steps in easy strides and unhooks the gate at the back of the truck. She has a fixed look around her mouth. It makes her seem older than she probably is. She doesn’t look like she sleeps much. A man in a brown uniform gets out of the driver’s side of the truck. Together they begin to unload. Boxes, lamps, a toaster. An easy chair. Not much stuff.

The woman looks towards me, where I lie in wait. Her eyes seem to pierce through the screen of timothy into the dark room where I sit. I duck even though there is no way she can see me. This is very bad. People have eyes to look and ears to listen, and women look and listen more carefully than men.

I am so upset I have to go to the kitchen and make bullshots. I’m sad to say I didn’t invent these. You can probably find the recipe but I’ve made some little changes of my own so I’ll record this.

After a long hunt I find the machine under the bed. I kicked it there by accident I guess.

Recipe for Bannerman’s bullshots. Boil up a little beef bouillon and season it with pepper and Tabasco. You can add a teaspoon of mustard. I like to add celery salt too. Then put in a shot of bourbon. Or two, maybe. You are supposed to add lemon juice but people who like lemon juice are the same kind of people who love salad. I won’t have it in the house.

I have three before I feel any better. I follow it up with my pill, and before I know it I’m nodding pleasantly. Like Mommy used to say, if you have pain you take medicine. If you have a cut you get stitches. Everyone knows that.

Mommy used to tell me the story of the ankou, the god with many faces who lives in the graveyards of her home. It’s so frightening to have more than one face. How can you know who you really are? When I was little I sometimes thought I saw the ankou in my room at night, hanging in the dark; an old man with a long knife, the blade reflected in his eyes. Then he was a horned stag, sharp prongs anointed with blood. Then a gazing owl, still as stone. He was my monster. I can’t even remember exactly what Mommy told me about him – or which parts my mind added in the night. The thought of him still makes me tremble. But these days I have Olivia. When I stroke her fur or even just hear her little annoyed scufflings around the house, I remember that I am safe and the ankou is far away.

As I drift, the bug man’s words go round and round in my head like ticker tape. It can be lonely, keeping secrets. It’s weird because in one way I am very lonely, and in another I’ve got more company than I can handle.

I am almost asleep when the doorbell cuts through the air like a jackhammer.

Olivia

The gd doorbell is ringing, and Ted won’t get up. He always sleeps late after he has been to the woods. I can hear him snoring like a snare drum. There it