Chapter 1
A New Home
There are times in your life when you stand precariously on the edge of life with only emptiness in front of you. Maggie felt that way every time she stepped into her bedroom, which was an odd reaction considering the room itself was pleasingly large and airy, and it sat on top of the world, which is exactly where Maggie most liked to be—in this case on the sixth floor of an old and very Roman-looking building that housed her family’s newest home, a sprawling, two-floor apartment with three spacious bedrooms, a modern kitchen, and a charming living room that opened onto an iron-railed balcony overlooking a pretty flower garden.
A passionate art student, Maggie should have loved the fine aesthetics of her new bedroom, with its fine, blue-gray walls, its high ceiling softly hued like spring azaleas, its smoothed marble floors, and its floor-to-ceiling casement window that caught the light of the setting sun. All the parts of her room worked together in a way that should have delighted Maggie, and yet none of the room’s pretty features made any difference to Maggie because the room was evil and because it was evil, she hated it and her skin crawled every time she went into it.
Nights were the worst. And tonight was turning into a particularly bad one. It was well after midnight. Maggie was sitting upright in her bed with the end of her lightweight blanket pulled up to her chest. The window’s two casements were wide open, and although the September sky outside was clear and moonless, the stars were obscured by bright, city lights of Rome. Still, Maggie knew the stars were out there somewhere, and the soft breeze wafting through the open window carried the fragrant scent of cedars into her room.
It should have been a charming moment for Maggie as she relaxed in her pretty bedroom, tucked cozily under the bed covers beside the airy window, but it wasn’t charming because evil was in her room, a powerful presence Maggie could feel to her core. And she could smell it, too, the smell of something decaying, the kind of smell you get when you’re standing on the edge of a swamp filled with dead, rotting things.
A chill took hold of Maggie. She could feel her toes growing so cold they hurt. Her hands were trembling and her lips were so numb Maggie could only assume they had turned that shade of purple kids get when they stay in the ocean for too long. Lifting a hand, Maggie touched her right forefinger to her lips. Sure enough, they were icy.
Suddenly, there was a strange sound. Reacting, Maggie pricked her ears and listened carefully, but now there was only silence, making her wonder if she had imagined the sound. But then, from somewhere across the room, there was another sound. This time, it was a small but persistent sound like scratching.
Maggie caught her breath and listened more intently. The sound seemed to be coming from the old armoire in the far corner of her bedroom, the one Maggie had picked out on a shopping trip with her mother on their first full day in the city. She had discovered the armoire in the dark corner of a crammed, old antique store on the far side of the Vatican, in a part of Rome not known for its shops, though this particular shop had a reputation for hidden treasures that drew knowledgeable customers to make special trips to explore its packed rooms.
Maggie had found herself instantly drawn to this particular armoire. Though worn from old age, it had a one-of-a-kind design, with an elegantly carved door made of some kind of exotic wood and a gold-gilt crown above the door that reminded Maggie of a rooster’s top. After being cleaned and moved to her bedroom by fastidious shop workers, the armoire had instantly become the room’s focal piece. Even in her evil bedroom, the sight of it never failed to please Maggie.
Up until tonight, that is. The scratching was undeniably coming from the armoire. It reminded Maggie a little of a mouse shuffling about, scrounging for food, but she knew it wasn’t a mouse making the sound. Maggie shivered and wished with all her heart she could transport herself back to Morocco, back to the last place in her life where she had been happy. Back to exotic Marrakesh where she had spent blissful days hanging out with her best friend, Lydia, the two of them enjoying long, leisurely meals in the courtyard of her family’s gated compound and playing in the small pool behind her house and having lazy sleepovers in her funky, old bedroom and walking together to the nice, laid-back school where she had, for once in her life, felt comfortable and safe.
Oh my gosh, I miss Morocco, thought Maggie as she shivered under her covers.
Why did her stupid parents have to leave the way they always did? The thought was depressing and Maggie felt like crying. I hate Rome, she thought. All of a sudden, the scratching sound grew much louder, drawing Maggie’s attention back to the armoire. The sound had such a regular rhythm that it left Maggie with the feeling it had a purpose—and one that could only be evil.
Maggie knew she had to do something. Just staying in bed and doing nothing to fight the fear was going to kill her. But what? Should she turn on the light? That meant getting out of bed and crossing the dark room to reach the wall switch, which was frighteningly close to the armoire where evil was busily at work, tormenting her. And what if the scratching didn’t stop when she turned on the light? What then? Open the armoire’s door and take a look inside?
No way, Maggie thought.
To calm herself, Maggie tried humming an old Scottish lullaby she had learned in third grade. It was one of her favorite songs, with a melody both sweet and sad at the same time. As she hummed, Maggie’s singing fell into the steady rhythm of the scratching and, somehow, this made the sound feel a little less evil.
Cautiously, Maggie raised the volume of her humming, little by little, and as she did, she began to feel even more in control of her feelings. Then, suddenly, the scratching sound in the armoire stopped, followed by an ominous silence that was worse than the scratching sound. Nervously, Maggie lowered her voice though she kept on humming, only very softly now, her heart beating noticeably in her chest and her hands still trembling.
All at once, a new sound started up and this one was very bad. It was the sound of a girl crying. Only it was not the ordinary crying you hear in most situations, like when a young girl has just skinned her knee or a toddler has broken her favorite toy. No, what Maggie now heard was the agonized whimpering borne of a deep and hopeless despair, the kind of despair Maggie knew all too well because she had felt this kind of despair many times in her life—and she had always cried in exactly this way on those horrible occasions when everything felt totally hopeless and she saw no future. In fact, the crying in the armoire sounded so much the way Maggie cried it was almost as if Maggie herself were crying inside the armoire. Only the girl in the armoire wasn’t Maggie because Maggie knew she was tucked in her bed, her blanket pulled up to her chin. No, she was definitely not in the armoire. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.
Maggie decided the crying in the armoire wasn’t entirely human in sound. Rather, it was about halfway between the sounds made by a human throat and something else, something Maggie couldn’t quite name, though it familiar, a sound she had heard before but couldn’t quite place.
Maggie couldn’t stop shivering. It was obviously going to be a long, sleepless night. The crying in the armoire wasn’t loud but there was no way to escape it. All of a sudden, she became frustrated—and then a little angry.
“Why are you doing this?” she muttered. When there was no answer, she raised her voice, calling to the thing in the armoire. “Please stop,” she begged.
Of course, the thing in the armoire didn’t listen. Damn, she thought. It was going to be a killer of a night. Maggie’s only comfort was that tomorrow held all the hope of a Monday, the beginning of a new week when who knew what good might come, and for once she felt eager to get to school and be among her classmates. She just had to survive the night.
