The Blank Page Read online

Brooke’s eyes widened as she read the words again, over and over. Then she looked around at her classmates who were scurrying into the room under the sound of the bell. Clearly none of them could have written those two eerie sentences, but who did? Who had handwriting like this? It could only have been someone from last period who signed the book and then passed it on before she could see it – but why?

  Art class was interminable that day.

  Brooke hurried back to her locker after the bell rang. Gabby was already there, staring into the little mirror they kept on the inside of the door, dabbing on cherry lip gloss.

  “Look,” Brooke said, opening her yearbook to the second page and shoving it at her.

  Gabby glanced down at it. “Hey, somebody signed on my page. Talk about rude.”

  “No,” Brooke said impatiently. “Read it.”

  Gabby obeyed, and then screwed up one side of her face. “Who wrote that?”

  “Someone in my history class, I guess, but I have no idea who.”

  “Well, is there a man in your house?”

  Brooke gave her a look. “Oh, of course. Strange men always hang out in my house in the middle of the day.”

  Gabby rolled her eyes. “I mean like a plumber or something. Maybe someone saw a man going into your house, but he’s actually supposed to be there.”

  Brooke shook her head. “My mom didn’t say anything about it. Plus, someone would have to be home to let him in, and she has a presentation today and my dad’s in Seattle. They’d never schedule someone to come to the house.”

  Gabby shrugged. “I still think you should check.”

  Brooke sighed. She hated calling her mother at work. Her mother was always brusque, always in a hurry, always making it seem like Brooke was wasting her valuable time. Nevertheless, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed. The voicemail picked up as expected, her mother’s crisp greeting only slightly marred by the poor reception.

  “This is Dana Sheffield. Please leave a message.”

  “Hi, Mom. I was just wondering….” Brooke paused, trying to think how to word it. “Did you say someone was going to be at the house this afternoon? Like a plumber or somebody? I can’t remember. Just call me.”

  She hung up, feeling foolish.

  “You didn’t tell her about the weird writing,” Gabby said.

  “Of course I didn’t. You know my mom.” Brooke shook her head. “She’d flip out if I interrupted her at work because of something in my yearbook.”

  Besides, the idea that a maintenance man could’ve spurred the strange warning was seeming more implausible by the moment. “No one we go to school with lives on my street,” Brooke went on. “So no one who signed my book could’ve seen anyone. And if someone did see something, why wouldn’t they just tell me to my face? And what about the writing?”

  “Yeah,” Gabby conceded. “It looks like Declaration of Independence writing or something.”

  That was a little extreme, although it certainly looked more like the writing of some founding father than of a modern-day high school student.

  “It must be a joke,” Gabby said with conviction, yanking out her biology textbook and tucking it under her arm. “Ooh!” she suddenly gasped. “I bet it was Zoe!”

  Brooke frowned again, although the idea had been bugging her in the back of her mind. Even though Zoe sat in the back corner and didn’t talk to anyone, she still could’ve gotten her hands on the yearbook. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I bet I am. Hey, and she takes art classes!” Gabby said, clutching at Brooke’s arm as though she’d just made the discovery of the century. “Don’t they teach you how to write like that in art – that fancy writing, what’s it called?”

  “Calligraphy,” Brooke said. “But no, we don’t learn it.”

  “Well, whatever. Zoe is such a whack job, who knows what she knows how to do.” Gabby stepped aside so Brooke could get into their locker. “But I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  Brooke didn’t want to worry; it was, after all, just a stupid yearbook message. But she couldn’t help it – something just didn’t add up.

  The rest of the day Brooke viewed everyone through a cloud of suspicion – even people who couldn’t possibly be responsible for the message. But the biggest cloud of all hung over Zoe.

  It had to be her; that was the only thing that made sense. She’d had reason and opportunity, and Gabby was right – she was artistic. And just because they didn’t learn calligraphy at school, that didn’t mean she didn’t know it; she might speak Swahili for all Brooke knew.

  Brooke wasn’t overly confrontational, but the idea of someone trying to frighten her got her hackles up. She didn’t like being intimidated, and she was going to let Zoe know it.

  Her pulse began to rise as the school day drew to an end, but she forced herself to stay calm. She might not be as large or aggressive as Zoe, but she was an athlete and no wimp, and could probably at least avoid being beaten to a pulp if it came down to that.

  Zoe could usually be seen slouched behind the school building after the last bell, having a leisurely cigarette before heading to detention. Today was no different.

  Brooke spotted her from a distance, her torn black clothes standing in stark contrast to the red brick building, her unkempt hair throwing a bizarre, elongated shadow onto the wall.

  As Brooke strode up, Zoe turned and regarded her coldly.

  “Why did you write that in my yearbook?” Brooke demanded, secretly pleased that her voice didn’t shake.

  Zoe stared at her blankly. But after a second her look turned to one of boredom, and she looked away, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I didn’t touch your yearbook, Barbie. So fuck off.”

  “I know it was you, so quit lying. You think telling me there’s a man in my house is going to scare me?”

  Zoe turned back and fixed her with an icy stare. “I said I didn’t touch your fucking yearbook, and you’re starting to piss me off.” She flicked her cigarette away and took a step forward. “If I wanted to scare you, you’d know it.”

  Brook stepped back involuntarily, at a loss for words. She gave Zoe one more reproachful look, and then turned and walked away. As much as she now wished the writing had been Zoe’s – so the mystery would be solved, if nothing else – she had to admit that she believed what the other girl said. The blank look in Zoe’s eyes had seemed real, and creepy messages in strange handwriting were not her style; she was far too in-your-face for that.

  Finally, Brooke knew she just had to suck it up and go home. Her mother hadn’t called her back yet, but how could the message possibly not be a prank? Any other explanation was impossible.

  She lived only a few blocks from the school, but because of her detour to confront Zoe, the sidewalks were mostly empty as she set out.

  Trudging home, Brooke regretted not going out for soccer this year. All of her friends had their sports and activities, but an uncharacteristic lethargy at the end of winter season had led to her taking the spring off. So now, rather than being at practice with Gabby, she was left to walk home alone to a questionably empty house.

  The yearbook felt heavy in her hands. Twice she opened it to stare again at the strange message, and twice she failed to come up with a reasonable explanation.

  When Brooke arrived on her corner, she peered up her street cautiously. It was quiet, and completely still. When she was little, a number of other kids lived here, and she often ran around with them after school. But they’d all since grown up or moved away. Now she lived on a street full of go-getter workaholics like her parents, and two rows of empty houses stood in front of her – except for that of old Mrs. Willoughby, of course. She was retired, and her burgundy Buick sat in her driveway as always, baking in the sun.

  There was nothing in front of Brooke’s house, however – no maintenance truck, no plumber, no one there to spray weed killer on the grass, or cut dead tree branches, or pave the driv
eway. There wasn’t even a UPS truck.

  I’m being stupid, Brooke insisted to herself, pressing on up the street. Of course no one was there. Her yearbook had passed through the hands of twenty people; any one of them could have faked old-fashioned handwriting and played a joke on her. She was beginning to feel foolish for ever being nervous.

  She walked up her driveway, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside.

  The house was as quiet as always. Brooke closed the door behind her and, just to be certain, stood in the foyer at the foot of the stairs for five, ten seconds, listening intently.

  Nothing.

  She peered in at the living room and dining room, then the bathroom and laundry room, and finally the kitchen and breakfast nook.

  Nothing had been touched. The back door in the kitchen was sliding glass, locked and secured by a metal bar lying in the well between the edge of the door and the wall. The glass was intact, the bar undisturbed. Even the jar of money – spare change and loose bills – that sat in plain sight on the kitchen counter was as full as it had been that morning, with the same five-dollar bill wedged on top.

  Nobody had been in the house, that much was clear.

  Brooke sighed with relief, and turned on the television. As the sounds of D-list celebrities bickering on a reality show filtered through the quiet air, she dug a Pop Tart out of the cupboard and texted a few friends. While waiting for their replies, she sprawled out on the sofa and flipped through her yearbook. After checking out the pictures of a few boys she liked, she found her team pictures: field hockey from last fall, and winter gymnastics. She was determined, however, not to look at the old-fashioned writing again; she would only freak herself out unnecessarily.

  But suddenly, after only a minute, she was overcome by the strangest feeling. It was like an internal force – a push or a pull – was compelling her to turn to that page. She didn’t want to, but she felt she had to.

  She flipped to where the writing was scrawled – and gasped.

  Do not go home today. There is a man in your house.

  Do not go inside!

  Do not go upstairs – that’s where he’s hiding!

  Turn off the television or you won’t hear him!

  Put down your phone!

  Get out while you can!

  RUN!!!