Creepers (13 page)

“Of course.” Mr. Geyer smiled. “And while I still have you perched on the edge of your chairs, let me give you an overview of tomorrow's tour,” he teased, pulling a map of the cemetery out of his bag. He pointed out the various grave sites and tombstones that would be visited. I noticed that he didn't stray anywhere near Prudence's grave.

“Then I will direct the
crowd
, and I use the word hopefully,” he interjected, “to stop to see the girls and their posters by the entrance and to ask them about their research.”

“That's our cue,” Margaret said as she nudged me. We dutifully stood up and marched to our posters. Margaret volunteered to explain hers first as Dad and Mom stood beside us, peering intently at the photographs. They made interested or sympathetic noises as we explained the circumstances of each picture. By the end, Mom had tears in her eyes.

“I'm so proud of you both,” she sniffed. Mom had always been an emotional person.

Dad put his arm around her shoulder. “Great work, girls. You'd have to be dead not to be touched by this.” Margaret and I rolled our eyes at his intentional pun. “Anyway, how about some coffee, soda, and dessert? You deserve a reward for all of this hard work.”

Margaret turned to me and said, “Courtney said she wanted to show me something in her bedroom first. Can you all excuse us for a few minutes?”

I looked at Margaret, amazed.
How did she know I needed to talk to her?

“Certainly. We'll be sure to save you some goodies.” My dad was already pouring the coffee and pulling out a chair for Mr. Geyer.

We made it only as far as the hallway when Margaret grabbed my wrist. “What is it, Courtney?” she whispered. “You looked like you were ready to burst as soon as I saw you.” Her green eyes were wide, her gaze penetrating. I looked at the hallway closet and beside it at the closed basement door, shadowed now as the sun had set.

I shivered, suddenly cold as I recalled this afternoon's events. I told her everything—about the cats in our backyard, the witch doing weird things in the woods, the tree with the ivy carved into its bark, and the ivy wrapping itself around my ankles, holding me to the spot. It was like a scary fairy tale—cats luring the unsuspecting girl into the witch's woods.

Her grip loosened and I rubbed my wrist without thinking. Margaret wrinkled her nose, perplexed. She glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the laughter coming from the kitchen.

“I don't think the ivy would harm you, Courtney. Perhaps the witch was using it to tell you something.” Her voice was suddenly breathless. “She uses the cats that way. That's why we feed them. Of course we feed them because they're hungry, too, and it's the humane thing to do,” she added quickly. “But we can tell when the witch is around, because the cats act nervous and stay together. They're always listening to something that we can't hear, as you saw happen in your yard today.”

“I don't know, Margaret. That ivy scared me,” I insisted. If the witch was trying to tell me something, she had a strange way of getting my attention. “And besides, what would she possibly want to tell
me
?”This was the thing that unnerved me the most. I never had believed in wicked witches, invisible ghosts, or haunted ivy.

“I bet you believe now,” Margaret retorted.

Before I had the chance to ask her how she kept reading my mind, she put her finger to her lips to shush me. “We need to check the ivy in the basement,” she said softly, probably afraid that she was going to give me a heart attack. I knew that she was going to suggest this, even though
I
couldn't read minds.

I nodded. “I couldn't go down there without you,” I said.

She peeked around the corner and seemed satisfied that
our parents were still at the table. Then she grabbed my hand and opened the basement door.

I clicked on the light as we tiptoed down the stairs. All of the boards creaked but the laughter and conversation coming from the kitchen smothered our sounds. From the bottom of the steps, the basement appeared as it did the last time. The sickly yellow light cast from the lonely bulbs barely illuminated the stored furniture and the boxes lined up along the far wall.

I thought Margaret was going to crush the bones in my hand as we approached the carved ivy. Dad and Mom had moved the boxes away from the wall enough to give them a better look the last time they were down here. We were only halfway across the basement floor when I saw that the ivy had blossomed from its original patch to spread to the entire wall and part of the ceiling.

“Courtney, when did this happen?” Margaret gazed at the ceiling, her mouth open.

“I don't know,” I replied weakly. My knees felt wobbly. “Why does it look so angry?” I asked.The original carvings had been faint and curved softly as the vines seemed to twine along the wall. I could not find a better way to describe the sharp twists and turns its vines seemed to dig into the stone as if it had gone berserk.

“Courtney, stop,” Margaret warned in a high, unnatural
voice.The sound of it made my hair stand on end. I turned to her. Her face was white. She stared at the floor now.

There, between the ivy-covered wall and the boxes that we had pushed into the center of the basement, ivy was being chiseled by invisible hands into the slate of the floor. The sudden, staccato sound of a hammer on metal reminded me of little firecrackers—snappy and defiant. Before our eyes, the ivy formed a straight line and then took a turn at a right angle. Its work was done within seconds.

I wanted to scream but nothing came out. For the second time today, my heart attempted to bash its way out of my chest. I grabbed Margaret's hand and yanked her toward the basement stairway. All I could think about was the ivy coming alive and wrapping itself around my ankles, angrier now, as it had failed once already today.

But Margaret resisted my tugging. “Courtney, wait,” she pleaded. I could barely hear her above the pounding in my head. She turned her face toward me. It looked drained of all color but she shook her head, trying to slow me down.

“It's the witch,” she insisted. “She's trying to tell us something. We must listen.” She let go of my hand, allowing me to dash up the stairs. She was obviously staying right there.

I stood my ground. I could not leave Margaret. I tried my best to slow my heart as Margaret stared at the newly
carved ivy. “It's forming the outline of a cemetery plot, I think,” she said in wonder. Her hands were now cupped over her mouth. As soon as she said it, I knew she was right, for the chiseled ivy took the exact same shape as the ivy plot that the witch had made beneath the tree in the woods. A map for gravediggers.

“Is this a good thing?” I croaked. Margaret would know, I told myself. Margaret had studied signs from the witch her whole life, but she said nothing. In less than a minute, someone—or something—had finished their work. A carved border of ivy in the shape of a coffin was inscribed forever into the basement floor.

Margaret nodded, never turning from the ivy. “Dad believes that any attempt to communicate is a good thing.” Despite her calm, I could feel her trembling. Or was that me?

Suddenly, more than anything in the world, I wanted to tell my parents everything.

“Is the witch on our side?” I asked her, this time leading her more gently toward the basement door. I did not want to take any chances in case the witch decided to give the ivy life.

“Dad thinks so,” she replied. Her eyes were watery as she looked back at the floor. “I think so,” she added more softly. “But I can't be sure. Read this,” she said fiercely as she pulled a folded paper from her pocket.

I opened the paper, amazed that Margaret and I were having this conversation just yards away from new ivy carvings. It was another excerpt from Christian's journal.

Margaret looked at the ceiling, at the spot where Mr. Geyer might be sitting. “I didn't tell Dad that I copied this page, because I didn't want to worry him.”

“Why couldn't you tell your dad?” I asked. This was unlike Margaret.

“Because I needed to know something. Something that I couldn't ask Dad about.”

Margaret was looking down again at the ivy. This time there was no ambivalence in her face. I wanted to ask Margaret how she could be afraid to tell Mr. Geyer something, and yet have no fear of this ivy blazing its own paths across my basement floor. But I could not ask here, in the presence of the miraculously growing ivy.

“Go ahead. Read it now, before we go upstairs, but don't read it out loud,” she whispered.

The paper contained Margaret's deliberate script. I took a deep breath and began to read.

 

“Margaret,” I looked up from the paper. A sudden realization hit me in the stomach.

“Don't say it,” she commanded, placing her fingers over my lips. “We must go upstairs now.” She took the paper and put it back into her pocket. The banister squealed under the weight of her hand.

“I should tell my parents about this,” I said, more calmly than I would have thought possible minutes ago.

“No, Courtney,” she said, turning to face me.“The witch is active. I've never seen her so active. If you tell your parents, everything could be ruined.” Her eyes were pleading.

I paused, my heart still doing somersaults. Margaret seemed so sure that the witch and her ivy—real or carved—were helping us to solve the mystery of Prudence.

“Margaret, how do you know that the witch is good?” I pleaded.

She put her hand over her mouth and shook her head before she answered me. “I can't tell you yet, Courtney. But I know.Will you trust me? We need your help.”

I knew then that I would not tell my parents, not tonight anyway. Margaret was right. Once they saw the ivy for themselves, they would know something bizarre was going on and they would take me away from here until they could explain it.

I reached for her hand.“I trust you, Margaret. And I want to help you and your dad. I promised I would,” I added.

She took a deep breath and smiled. “You'll see, Courtney. Soon you'll understand.” But just before she opened the basement door, she turned to me, her green eyes fierce. “I
am
going to tell Dad about this,” she said, as if recognizing my need to have some adult informed about today's events. “And if he thinks there is any danger, we will be back tonight.”

I SHOULD HAVE BEEN BLEARY-EYED, BUT INSTEAD I HAD THE worst case of butterflies, just like I do when I have to take an oral test or perform in a school play. It was only nine o'clock as I stood before the cemetery entrance with my poster at my side. We were supposed to meet at ten to prepare, but I needed to be out in the warm air and sunshine. My insides had felt cold all night. Besides, here it was quiet. Only the birds and squirrels could be heard, with the exception of the occasional car as it whooshed by on the open road. There was no breeze, and the cornstalks across the street seemed to be stretching to touch the sky. This was much better than listening to Mom and Dad chattering away over breakfast, giving me public speaking tips, and reminding me to smile. I was not in the mood for a parental pep talk.

Last night I could not sleep for even a minute. I listened all night for the sound of chiseling—of those invisible hands
carving the ivy into something that was now bare—the floorboards, the banisters, and the doors. Of course, I never heard it.

Although I must have carved my own path in my bedroom rug as I paced from my bed to the window to stare into the yard and the cemetery darkness. I squinted at the white ghostly forms—the tombstones—as if I expected them to suddenly uproot and run. I was also looking for the cats, the witch, or the ivy, all of which could suddenly be on the move.

And I thought about Margaret, about the page from Christian's journal, and the witch's vow that Christian's descendants' spirits “will fade and shimmer into dust should they leave this site.” Is that why the people in Murmur did not see Mr. Geyer and Margaret? Their souls or spirits were too far from the ivy and the place of Christian's and Prudence's burial grounds when they were in town
.
Did that mean that Christian and Prudence must be buried somewhere around here? I needed to ask Margaret about this.