Thirteens Read online

  VIKING

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

  First published in the United States of America by Viking,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2020

  Copyright © 2020 by Kathleen Marshall

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  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA IS AVAILABLE

  Ebook ISBN 9780593117033

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  For my favorite palindrome.

  * * *

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight: The People Who Look Away

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  One

  Eleanor stared at the grandfather clock in the third-floor hall. It stood eight feet tall, made of dark oak. A bone-white pendulum hung within the case, carved like cords woven together in a loose diamond. It reminded her of the end of a key, but maybe that was only because of the keys that were painted on the wood around the clock face: thirteen identical keys in gold. The last key was almost entirely rubbed away.

  The clock must be very old. It felt like it had tracked the passing of years and years. But she was not staring at the clock because it was tall, or impressive, or old. She was staring at for three reasons.

  The first was that the clock hadn’t been there when she went to sleep last night. Eleanor was sure of it. It stood opposite her door, and she felt certain she would have noticed an eight-foot-tall clock outside her bedroom or heard someone moving it into place.

  The second was that those thirteen keys, gleaming against the dark wood, were the precise shape of the birthmark on her wrist.

  The third was that the hands of the clock were running backward.

  It’s just a clock, she told herself. Nothing sinister. Maybe it had belonged to her grandparents, and Aunt Jenny had inherited it along with this house and the old car in the back shed that didn’t run and the rambling, neglected orchard that spilled out behind the house like a half-grown forest.

  Except that it hadn’t been here last night.

  And that wouldn’t explain the keys. Or why the hands were moving backward—the second hand gliding from twelve to eleven to ten, all the way around to one; the minute hand clicking back every sixty seconds as the pendulum went left to right to left to right.

  The clock chimed. The liquid, bottomless sound filled the hall, bouncing off the walls with their faded green wallpaper, spilling down toward the spiral staircase. Eleanor counted the chimes.

  Seven.

  Her phone agreed with the chimes—seven o’clock—but the contrary hands of the clock pointed instead to five and twelve. Seven hours backward from midnight, she thought, and rubbed the birthmark on her wrist reflexively.

  “Eleanor!” Aunt Jenny called. “Come grab some breakfast before the bus comes. You don’t want to be hungry on your first day.”

  Eleanor didn’t want to be anything on her first day of school at Eden Eld Academy. She didn’t want to have a first day at Eden Eld Academy. But she had promised Aunt Jenny and Ben, and she had already broken enough promises.

  She didn’t want to turn her back on the clock, either, but she did, and scurried down the hall with her backpack over one shoulder. The boards creaked and groaned even with the hall rug to cushion her steps, and so did the stairs, which curled in a tight curve down to the first floor. She’d never lived in a house with a spiral staircase. Ashford House, which her grandparents had bought before her mother was born, had two of them. The house was full of odd things like that. Crooked hallways, skewed rooms, a stairway to nowhere. The clock ought to have fit right in.

  Except—except she was sure, absolutely sure, it hadn’t been there last night.

  Aunt Jenny was in the kitchen, her back to the hall, pushing scrambled eggs out of a pan and onto an old china plate covered in a pattern of blue vines. Normally she had a thin face, like Eleanor, but right now it was soft and round, along with the rest of her. Her belly was so big she bumped against the counter, and as she finished with the eggs, she winced and muttered, “Oh, that’s enough of that, you rascal,” which meant the baby was kicking her ribs again.

  Eleanor had always thought she looked more like Jenny than her own mother. They had the same brown hair, though instead of hanging straight down to her shoulders like Eleanor’s, Jenny’s sprang out around her face, escaping her braid. They had the same long nose, the same fair skin and murky green eyes, the same penchant for striped sweaters, and even the exact same glasses, but somehow Jenny always looked romantic and artistic, and Eleanor just felt gawky and plain.

  Eleanor’s step creaked a floorboard, and Jenny turned with a beaming smile. Too bright, Eleanor thought; it meant she was trying, which meant she wasn’t really smiling. “Here you go, hon,” Aunt Jenny said. The eggs steamed. The toast was perfectly toasted, just the right shade of brown. The jam was raspberry, thick and homemade.

  Eleanor’s stomach turned, and so did her mouth, downward in a little frown she couldn’t stop. She pushed her glasses up, trying to use the movement to hide the frown.

  “Nervous belly?” Aunt Jenny asked. She sighed, setting the plate down on the kitchen island between them. “I know it’s tough. But if you don’t start school now, you’re going to get too far behind, and then you might have to stay back a year.”

  “I know,” Eleanor said. She looked down at the Eden Eld Academy uniform she’d put on that morning—blue plaid skirt that fell to her knees, polo shirt, dark blue jacket with the school crest on the front. Everything was a bit too stiff and a touch too large. Aunt Jenny had worked hard to get her into Eden Eld instead of the public middle school, which was farther away and allegedly full of kids who cut school and watched R-rated movies without permission, which passed for juvenile delinquency in a town as sleepy a
s Eden Eld.

  Eleanor was supposed to be grateful that she got into Eden Eld Academy, but it was hard to be grateful for anything these days.

  “Couldn’t you homeschool me, or something? I can learn on my own. It’s all online now—I can design my own classes. You’d hardly have to do a thing.”

  Aunt Jenny put a hand on her belly and looked sad. Eleanor felt a twinge of anger that Aunt Jenny didn’t deserve, but she couldn’t help it. Every time someone looked at her like that, she felt like it was her job to cheer them up. To promise she was okay, even though she wasn’t. Like she had to make them feel better, instead of the other way around.

  “I would, hon. But with the baby due any day, and Ben working such long hours, we just can’t. And Eden Eld is a great school. Your mom and I—” Aunt Jenny stopped. It was an unspoken rule that they didn’t talk about Eleanor’s mom. “Just give it a week or two, okay? And then we can see how it’s going.” She nudged the plate toward Eleanor. “Try some toast, at least?”

  Eleanor bit back the urge to argue. Aunt Jenny was right. She had to go to school. Going to school was normal, and Eleanor needed to be normal. Needed everyone else to think she was normal. She’d made a plan. Her How to Be Normal plan.

  Don’t talk about Mom.

  Go to school.

  Don’t talk about things that aren’t there.

  Smile.

  So Eleanor smiled. She imagined puppet strings on the corners of her mouth, pulling them up. She made her eyes smile, too, wrinkling a little at the edges. That smile was the most useful kind of lie she’d learned to tell in the past couple of months. “Thanks, Aunt Jenny,” she said, taking the toast. “I think I hear the bus. I’d better go.”

  She felt Aunt Jenny’s so, so worried look on her back all the way to the hall.

  She’d stepped out into the brisk late-October air before she realized she’d forgotten to ask about the clock.

  But now she wasn’t sure she should. The clock was strange. All of Ashford House was strange, but the clock seemed different. What if it was one of those things she saw that she shouldn’t see? That wasn’t really there?

  Her mother saw things she shouldn’t. Things she couldn’t. Eleanor used to see them, too, but then she got better. But her mother hadn’t. She didn’t want anyone, especially Jenny, thinking she might be like her mom. Even if it was true.

  Especially if it was true.

  So Eleanor trudged up the driveway, determined to forget about the clock.

  She hadn’t really heard the bus. That was another lie. She kept a list in the back of her mind of the lies she told Aunt Jenny and Uncle Ben. She’d pay off each lie, one by one, but for now she needed them. For now, the lies were what let her breathe and talk without coughing, without feeling smoke in her lungs.

  She reached the end of the long dirt driveway and waited by the mailbox and the huge old pine tree that loomed there.

  A chill wind sent a few dead leaves skittering and scuttering over the road, and the branches above her sighed and swayed. Mixed in with all those noises was another. Something rattling up in the tree: a clacking, hollow noise that sent a line of cold like a finger trailing down her spine. She craned her neck up, peering into the branches. They were drawn tightly together, the needles a prickly curtain hiding the trunk from her, but within them something moved. And the rattle came again. Clackclackclack. Clackclackclack.

  Whatever was moving was big, and dark as the shadows around it. Eleanor’s fingertips were cold, like she’d brushed them against ice. Her breath came out in quick puffs of mist, and she fought the urge to back away or run back to the house.

  She was tired of being afraid. She’d had enough afraid to last her whole life. So instead of stepping back, she stepped forward, closer to the tree, and peered into those caught-together branches.

  Clackclackclack. Clackclackclack.

  The dark thing shifted and lurched. It looked like a crow, but much too big, made of ragged, overlapping shadows. She inched another step closer and then—then a big, yellow eye peered at her from between the branches.

  She yelped, and now she did jump back, almost tripping over her own feet. She barely caught her balance and looked up quick into the tree again—but the eye was gone, and so was the shape, and so was the sound. She held her breath and she watched, but nothing moved. Only the wind making the branches shake.

  The bus pulled up at the end of the drive. The doors hissed open. She still held her toast in one hand, hopelessly cold by now. She glanced back at the tree.

  “Getting on?” the bus driver asked. She was a big woman, her body built in straight lines as if constructed entirely out of rectangles, except for her hair, which was frizzy and yellow and burst out in curls all around her face.

  “Yes,” Eleanor said. She couldn’t see anything in the tree now. Nothing at all. She climbed on board. Normal, she reminded herself.

  She didn’t look back.

  Two

  Ashford House sat a couple miles out of what passed for downtown Eden Eld, far enough that the town border ran right through the middle of it, leaving the house half in and half out. Eleanor was the first one on the bus, and she took a seat all the way in the back, scrunching up in the corner. She watched the landscape flow by. Trees and more trees, mostly, and a few bare meadows, gone gray this late in the season. Not too many houses until they got closer to Eden Eld.

  The bus stopped a few times, letting kids on one and two and three at a time, dressed in matching uniforms. Carefully pleated skirts for the girls, slacks for the boys, everyone wearing jackets bearing school crests, thirteen pine trees in a ring around a rose. They all ignored her. Good. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. She didn’t want to get to know anyone. She just wanted to get through the day and get home.

  Not home. Back to Ashford House, because home was gone.

  “Are you going to eat that?”

  She jerked, startled, and realized that someone had taken the seat in front of her. He hung over the back, pointing at her toast with one hand while the other dangled loose. He had brown skin and glossy black hair that curled and tumbled and coiled every which way, hiding one eye. He looked like a pirate or a poet, or maybe a bit of both. He also looked hungry.

  “I guess not,” she said. “It’s pretty cold.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

  She handed him the toast and he ate it in five massive bites before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then reached out to shake hers. She eyed the smear of crumbs and jam on his knuckles, then shook his hand anyway. She’d promised to be friendly. When her hand touched his, her skin prickled, like a bug running over her wrist. She shivered and pulled away. He looked a little puzzled, but his smile didn’t falter.

  “I’m Otto,” he said. “Otto Ellis.”

  “Eleanor Barton.”

  “You’re new.”

  “I knew that, actually,” she said sharply. But he laughed, a bright, startling sound that made her grin on reflex, forgetting that strange, scuttling sensation in the face of his open friendliness.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t telling, I was just saying. I talk too much and point out the obvious. Or so I’ve been told.”

  “How could you tell? That I’m new?” she asked. Did she stand out? She’d planned on not standing out. It was basically her entire plan for surviving Eden Eld, in fact, and it was off to a bad start.

  “It’s a small school,” he said. “Not that hard to memorize all the faces. Especially all seventeen of us that ride the number seven bus. Eighteen now, I guess.”

  He drummed his fingers on the back of the seat, then seemed to make a decision. He grabbed his backpack and swung himself around, plopping down in the seat right next to her and dumping his worn, dog-hair-covered backpack on top of his feet. She resisted the urge to scrunch farther away.
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br />   “Did you just move here?” he asked.

  “Um. A couple weeks ago,” Eleanor said. “But I was taking some time off.”

  “Was it because of your parents’ jobs or something?”

  “No,” Eleanor said, flushing. Instinctively she pressed her fingertips against the flat, shiny skin on her palm. “It was—I’m staying with my aunt. At Ashford House.”

  His eyebrows went up, vanishing under the beautiful briar of his hair. “Ashford House? That weird, spooky place at the edge of town?”

  “That’s the one,” Eleanor said, trying to sound as casual as she could. Ashford House made normal harder.

  “Awesome,” he said with feeling. “You know it’s supposed to be haunted? Or some people say that, anyway, but I think it’s just because it’s big and old and weird. I went looking and it turns out no one’s ever even died there, so how could it be haunted? And actually that’s really weird given how old it is. Somebody’s died just about anywhere that’s more than a hundred years old. Does it really have nine staircases?”

  “Only seven,” Eleanor corrected. He looked at her with rapt attention. She had to admit it was kind of nice, being the authority on something. “But they’re really strange. There are two spiral staircases, and one that wraps around a corner at the very edge of the house and is so narrow Ben—that’s my uncle—can’t even get in. And one of them you can only get to if you walk through the giant fireplace in the living room, and it doesn’t go anywhere at all. It just stops at a wall. And Uncle Ben says it’s on the original plans that way, too. It never went anywhere.”

  “Cool,” Otto said, grinning, and Eleanor couldn’t help but smile back. “So why are you living with your aunt and uncle?”

  Her smile wavered.

  She could refuse to answer. Then she’d seem weird and rude.

  She could tell him the truth. Then she’d seem weird and tragic.

  Or she could lie.