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

and over about how dangerous outside is. I think this is what he meant. This feels dangerous. From the living room, from the TV, the ted’s little blue coin eyes stare. ‘Everyone has a monster inside them,’ he says.

I need to be hidden. Somewhere dark. I creep up the stairs and along the landing. Overhead, one of the attic ghosts drags a long fingernail all along the length of the floor and now I run.

I gallop into Ted’s room and shoot under the bed. I can still hear the celebrity ted downstairs on the TV, droning, talking about the bad things that people do to little teds, lecturing the empty room. Or is he talking through the door?

When I feel worried, I do one of two things. I consult the Bible, I break something of Ted’s, or I go to sleep. Fine, three things. Well, I’m not going near that Bible again. It was scary. And I have already broken the Russian doll once this week and the music box twice. I feel kind of bad about it.

So I am going to need a long, long nap. I think I have to forgive Ted, too. I haven’t really been speaking to him for the last couple days. But this has been a scary day and my tail’s gone weird. I need to be stroked.

I can’t sleep. I turn around and around and purr and close my eyes. But it all feels too wrong and my buzzing tail won’t let me rest.

Ted

Olivia and I are sitting on the couch watching monster trucks when they come. I am a little worried about Olivia. She seems nervous, unlike herself. It makes me uneasy. Olivia is always OK. That’s the thing about cats, isn’t it? They don’t hold on to things.

Maybe I’m imagining stuff because I miss Lauren so much today. I know she’s better where she is, but it is very hard for a parent to be separated from their child. I call her but she’s punishing me and doesn’t answer. It’s hurtful. It’s worse than hurtful, it’s a vice prying open my heart.

I am still very upset with that neighbour lady. It’s not like I thought we would be friends right away. But I thought we could at least try. I wondered what she would look like in a dress. Something gauzy that floats around her ankles as she walks. Maybe blue. But I sat there at the bar and waited and she didn’t come. I looked dumb. The search for a friend is not going too well in general.

Olivia hears it first. She vanishes under the couch. It takes me a moment longer to understand. The sound is not coming from the TV – it fills the air. Big engines are coming. Diggers, maybe, or tractors? Too loud, too close. What are they doing here? At this end of the street there are only two houses and then the forest. But they come on, closer and closer. I go to a peephole to watch them roaring by, yellow as death, great jaws crusted with earth. They don’t stop. They go past the house, towards the woods. A man hops down out of the cab and takes the chains off the gates. There is something bad, something official about that action. He swings the gates open for the machines to pass through. Then the digger and the bulldozer roar and wheeze their way up the forest path.

I run out of the front door, and I am so upset I almost forget to triple-lock it behind me (but I do remember). The neighbour lady and some other neighbours are standing on the sidewalk, watching the two diggers fade into the trees with their terrible sound.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask her. I am so worried I forget for a moment about how rude she is. ‘They can’t go up there. It’s a wildlife reserve. It’s protected.’

‘They’re making new rest stops off the trail,’ she says. ‘A picnic area. You know, so more hikers, more tourists will come. Hey, I got some more of your mail by mistake this morning. You want me to bring it round later?’

I ignore her. I run into the woods, following the grind of the engines. When I glimpse them, I follow at a distance. After a mile or so they turn off the path and start smashing into the undergrowth. Saplings crack and give. It’s like listening to children screaming. They are tearing up the earth less than three hundred feet from the clearing. They won’t reach it today, but tomorrow they might. A man in a bright orange jacket turns and looks at me. I lift a friendly hand, then turn and walk away, trying to look like a normal person. The sound follows me down the path long after I am out of sight. Jaws, eating the forest.

I could kick myself. I knew it – I left the gods buried in the glade for too long. People sense them there, whether they know it or not. They are drawn to them as if on a string. I can’t tell if my arm is all better yet. Some, I think. The bruising has gone down. Anyway there’s no more time. I’ve got to move them tonight.

The afternoon is so long, it feels like years before the sun goes down. But at last it does, leaving crimson cuts across the sky.

Even in the kind darkness the woods don’t feel like mine any more. I smell the diggers and the work site long before I see them – the black turned earth, the sap of murdered trees. The engines stand quiet among the ruins like big yellow grubs. I want to hurt them. I considered it. Hydrogen peroxide in the gas tank would do a good job. But that would hurt the forest too, and I don’t want that.

In the glade I look around at the white trees. I feel so sad. This has been a