Trust your dreams. Both my parents said that. That's our old way, our Mohawk way. The way of our ancestors. Trust the little voice that speaks to you. That is your speaking. But when those feelings, those dreams, those voices are so confusing, what do you do then? “Help,” I whisper. “Help.”I'm not sure who I'm talking to when I say that, but I hope they're listening. Ever since Molly woke up one morning and discovered that her parents vanished, she has had to depend on herself to survive — and find the reason for their disappearance. Social Services has turned her over to the care of a great-uncle, a mysterious man Molly has never met before. Then Molly starts having dreams about the Skeleton Man from a spooky old Mohawk tale her father used to tell her…dreams that are trying to tell her something…dreams that might save her, if only she can understand them.
Sunday was always his day for making breakfast and he made a big thing about it. Hed thaw out a whole quart of blueberries from the freezer and warm up some real maple syrup. But no noise came from the kitchen, no pans rattling, no seventies music playing on the kitchen CD playermy dad is a freak for the Eagles and says it is impossible for him to cook without them.
I sat up in bed and held my breath. No rhythmic pounding of my mother running in place in their bedroom down the hall. I looked at the clockeight thirty. By now Mom should have been halfway through her first set of aerobics, but there were no sounds of thudding sneakers. The only thumping I could hear was my own heart.
Maybe theyd been out so late that they were still sleeping. It had to have been late when they came back because Id finally drifted off to sleep after midnight, waiting for them.
I stood up and went out into the hall. Mom? Dad? No answer.