Towering Read Online Free PDF Page A

more, then left.
    As soon as she was gone, I dove for the book. I kept reading. It was long-lost Cathy at the window, and then, as with last night (Had it been a dream?), Lockwood’s cries woke his host, Heathcliff. Heathcliff ran into the room, scolded Lockwood, and then, after Lockwood left, Heathcliff rushed to the window, screaming, “Come in! Come in! Cathy, do come. Oh, do— once more!”
    Just as Mrs. Greenwood had.
    Clearly, it had all been a dream, a dream born from reading Wuthering Heights while half asleep. The only thing was, I didn’t remember reading it.
    Whatever.
    I realized I was hungry, really hungry. I hadn’t eaten anything on the train, and I couldn’t remember what I’d eaten before that either. In fact, the past few weeks were sort of a blur. So I wolfed down the breakfast, hoping that food would replace doubt as central in my mind. It almost did. Almost.
    In fact, the food was delicious. It had been a long time since I’d really enjoyed food or anything else, but Mrs. Greenwood’s biscuits might have broken the barrier. Maybe coming here hadn’t been a bad idea. At least, I was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt that she wasn’t crazy, hadn’t killed her daughter, and hadn’t creeped me out last night. I mean, did crazy people make biscuits like this?
    After I finished breakfast, I walked to the window and opened it to see if the cell phone service was any better (or existed) there. It wasn’t, but the view was pretty. The snow had finally finished falling, and the sky was bright, reflecting blue on the white. I stared at the vast, snowy lawn.
    Maybe my mother had been right. For once. It was a new start, a new place, decent food, a friendly old lady who knew nothing about me. I could be anything, anyone I wanted. I could be better.
    Then, I noticed something weird. On the lawn, below the room next to mine, were footprints. Footprints barely hidden in the snow. Even though it had been snowing all night, I could make them out as if they’d been made only hours, not days, earlier.
    I opened the window to see something else, the walkway leading to the door where I’d come in. I’d agreed to shovel the walk, and even from a distance, I could tell it was completely blank, white. I’d come in after midnight. That meant the footprints under the window had been made even later.
    Through the trees, I heard a sound. At first, I thought it was birds, or the tinkling of a wind chime. It was so blank and white and empty here, I bet you could hear noises from miles away. But, as I listened, the sound put itself together in my mind, and I recognized it.
    A human voice.
    Singing.
    Then, the wind shifted, and the voice was gone.

Wyatt
    After it became obvious I wasn’t going to find service no matter how many times I raised the phone in the air, I decided to get dressed and go downstairs. I took my plate with me and hunted for the kitchen.
    Mrs. Greenwood was there. “Did you enjoy your breakfast?” She was cleaning up after what looked like a baking project. At least, there was a big bowl and flour scattered on the counter and a delicious cinnamony smell coming from the oven. “Wyatt?”
    “What? Oh, breakfast was great.” Normally, I resented this type of meaningless, extraneous question when it came from my mother. She didn’t actually want to know how my breakfast was, after all, just wanted to force me to talk. But Mrs. Greenwood hadn’t cooked for anyone in years, and really did want my opinion about the biscuits. And, more to the point, I wanted to interrogate her about 1) cell phone service; 2) internet; and 3) the possibility of going to town and seeing some people, even if those people would probably be backwoods hicks. So I said, “Best biscuits I ever had.”
    She beamed, so I laid it on thicker. I’d actually been good at that. “Is that pie I smell? Apple?”
    “Actually, it’s apfelkuchen . Apple cake. My mother’s recipe. It’s so nice to have someone to cook