Creepers (4 page)

I walked to the center of the basement, which was about ninety feet long and thirty feet wide. It obviously didn't extend under the entire house. Maybe the basement outlined the dimensions of what had been Prudence's house.

“Prudence.” I did not mean to say it out loud. I'm not superstitious, but I could not stop myself from whipping my head around to check out all the corners. Nothing was there, but I touched my chin with my fingers to give the impression that I was calm and thinking, just in case anybody was watching.

I tried to picture the basement as Prudence would have seen it.The walls and floor would look the same, but what did her family keep down here? Jars of preserves like I've seen in movies? Maybe they kept their tools down here and equipment for the horses. Then I remembered what Prudence's father did for a living—a stonecutter, a grave marker, a caretaker for the cemetery. He was like a sculptor, and the basement could have been his workshop. Did he keep his stones down here until they were ready
to be planted in the cemetery? Would any of his tools still be here?

Prudence was my age when she died. I began to slowly pace the floor of the basement. I was not going near any corners, but I was looking along the edges of the floor for pieces of broken stone. What were the tombstones made of? Margaret knew. She had mentioned slate, marble, and limestone. I paused and looked down at the smooth gray slate beneath my feet.

I thought about how Margaret had grabbed my hand to drag me to Prudence's grave. Why did Margaret care so much about Prudence? Was it because they were related? What about the almost three hundred years that separated them in time? How would I feel if I found out information about a girl or boy my age who was a part of my family centuries before I was born? I tried to imagine this and would have yearned to know more, especially if I would have seen a portrait of them or maybe something they wrote. Margaret had seen Prudence's tombstone—the skull, the snake, the bats, and the angels—perhaps she wanted to learn more about Prudence, or maybe it was the story about the ivy. Did she believe that the ivy could bring Prudence back to life? I shivered, as if I were soaked all over again.

I had reached our boxes without discovering anything
interesting. Those moving guys had really packed them in tight and piled them three rows high. I squinted to see what my mom had markered across their sides. A few of them screamed
FRAGILE!
because they contained plates, vases, or picture frames. Putting these items away was my mom's next project, she complained, after she found herself a writing job. She had looked at me sternly, as if to imply that I would be recruited to help. A box in the top row was mine. I saw my name scratched in red. I remembered I had packed my favorite flannel sweatshirt in just that box. My goose bumps reminded me that I could use it now.

I stood on the first row of boxes as I pulled mine from the wall and dropped it on the floor. Nothing fragile in this one, I told myself, as it landed with a thud. I was about to jump down and rummage through it when I noticed that a section of the wall, where the box had been, had some sort of markings on it. I leaned forward on the boxes to get a better look. At first I wished I had brought a flashlight, but by the way that my heart was suddenly thumping, I knew that my fingers were tracing what my eyes weren't seeing.

Ivy. Someone had carved delicate vines of ivy on the wall, whose tendrils curled like baby's hair. Some of the leaves were as long as my thumb, while others were budding shoots.Whoever had carved them here obviously took
their time. The vines were etched deeply into the wall, while the veins of the leaves were fragile and precise. The vines appeared to snake down behind the boxes. Did Christian, Prudence's father, practice his art in the basement? The slap of thunder against the house caused the lights to flicker. I leaped from the boxes to sprint up the basement stairs.

“Dad!” I yelled as I slapped my palms against the basement door and burst into the kitchen. For a moment all I could do was stand there out of breath. The kitchen was huge. Slippery black-and-white tiles had been laid on the floor. My parents' prized copper pots and pans hung from the rafters. They liked to pretend that they were gourmet chefs. My dad was peering into the refrigerator. When my legs could move again, I practically sprinted across the floor to meet him.

“Courtney, be careful! What were you doing in the basement?” He was squatting with a head of lettuce in his hand.

“I just wanted to see if it had changed at all from the time Prudence was here,” I panted. My heart was still threatening to beat right out of my chest. Should I ask my dad what he knew about witches and curses?

He tossed the lettuce into a bowl on the kitchen table and pulled out a chair. “The basement didn't change much,
I'm sure. It's obvious no one has ever renovated it, except to install plumbing and electricity for the house and the basement appliances.” He began pulling the lettuce apart with gusto and motioned for me to take a seat. “Maybe we can make the basement one of my future projects. We can renovate it to create a game room or something. What do you think? Just because this house is old, it doesn't mean that we can't make any changes, as long as your mom agrees.” He laughed.

I gave him a quick, insincere smile. I couldn't imagine Christian or Prudence liking the idea of an entertainment center and a Ping-Pong table sharing their space. Suddenly I did feel that it was truly theirs.

“What do you know about witches, Dad?” I blurted out.

He frowned for a moment. “Witches?
Hmmm
, I
knew
you shouldn't have gone to the cemetery in this bad weather.”

“You're thinking of ghosts, Dad,” I replied impatiently, although that notion had also crossed my mind.

“Oh,” he said. “Well . . .” He brightened as he started tossing carrots and celery slices into the bowl. I could tell that he had decided to make light of the subject. He was so easy to read. “I know they dress in black and have long pointed noses with a wart on the end. And they travel by broom. How's that?” he asked proudly.

“Never mind,” I said disdainfully. “I'll ask Mom when she gets home, or Mr. Geyer if I see him tomorrow.” I grabbed one of the unchopped carrots and began to munch on it. Maybe it was just a weird coincidence, I told myself. Dad was not the right person to ask anyway. He did not take this kind of stuff seriously.

“That ivy is amazing,” Dad announced. I looked up at him in surprise to see him staring out the kitchen's bay window. Ivy was drooping all over the glass, as if the rain were attempting to wash it away by making the windowpanes too slick to grasp. As I stared at it, I almost thought that its leaves were cocking their faces at us in an appeal.
Let us in
, I imagined them begging.

“I pulled the ivy down on this side of the house just last week.” Dad gave a little whistle. “You would never know it by the crowd at our window.”

That was all I had to hear. I jumped up and snatched at the curtain cord, swishing them closed.

“Courtney, what is the matter with you? You're awfully jumpy tonight. I bet you're hungry,” he said as he stood up and pushed out his chair, giving me a long, worried look before he walked to the oven.

“I'm fine, Dad. Like you said, just hungry.” I tried to stare through the curtains, which were not quite sheer.The faintest of shadows could be seen behind them, shadows
that were trembling against the rain. I vowed then that I would talk to Mr. Geyer and Margaret tomorrow about the ivy carvings covering the basement walls. Could the carvings be a clue to the mystery of Prudence—a mystery I still knew nothing about?

I DID NOT GET A CHANCE TO TALK TO MOM LAST NIGHT. She stayed out later than she had expected. She apologized as she gave me a quick kiss the next morning. I was still in bed, squinting at my closed curtains, searching for a hint of sun. Apparently, Angela, my mom's new friend, nabbed a part-time job for my mom at the newspaper, and she had to be out the door by seven o'clock. I would have to track down Mr. Geyer and Margaret to ask them about the ivy in the basement, I realized, still dazed from my mother's morning burst of energy.

I threw on some khaki shorts and a T-shirt and stumbled down the stairs. Not being a morning person, I grunted something at Dad when I saw him sitting comfortably at the kitchen table, finishing his cup of coffee before he went to work.

“Morning, Courtney. I guess you heard the good news about Mom?” he asked as he folded his newspaper. His hand
automatically shot to the briefcase leaning against his chair.

“Uh-huh,” I replied, closing my eyes against a blinding ray of sun. “Dad, do we have a phone book?”

He stood up to carry his coffee mug to the sink.“Phone book? Who are you going to call?” He looked at me quizzically, his eyebrows suddenly perched low over his sockets.

“I'm looking for Margaret Geyer's number. I was hoping I didn't have to hang by myself today.” I knew that would get him.

His features softened. “As a matter of fact, I think we have a book right in this drawer.” He pulled it open and proudly displayed his find.

“Thanks, Dad.You can leave it on the counter.” I did not want to seem too anxious.

He grabbed his tie so it would not flop in my face when he bent to kiss me. “Okay, Court.You be good.You have my work number. It's on the refrigerator door.”

“Yup. I know where it is.”

“Don't forget you promised to do some weeding for me this morning. Just the flower beds in front and on the cemetery side.” His hand was on the kitchen doorknob as he turned to smile.

Cemetery side
, I thought.
We need to come up with a better name for that side of the house. Maybe something like “the wall of the east wing of the house.”

“I won't,” I promised.

As soon as the door closed, I was standing at the counter, flipping through the G's, but I could not find the Geyers.
This town isn't that big
. I'd have to watch for them, and the weeding would give me a good excuse to hang outside.

After my bagel and milk, I went out front to check the weather and to retrieve Mom's gardening gloves. She always leaves them jammed by the roots of the last plant she worked on. That was why she always bought the brightest colors. I spied something red by the azalea bush along the front of the house on the east corner. Unfortunately the color didn't keep them dry. I was holding the gloves as far away from myself as I could, as they were extremely muddy and gross.

Annoyed, I stared up at the clear sky. The sun already looked like a radiating ball of heat. The bark of the trees was still dark from the rain, but I knew they would be dry in a matter of hours. If I was going to fulfill my promise, I had better garden now.

“Just going to pull up some weeds,” I announced. I did not want the ivy thinking that I was coming after it.

After two sweltering hours of crawling around in those flower beds, without gloves, I heard the voice of Mr. Geyer. I turned to see them both walking by my driveway.

“Hey! Wait. Mr. Geyer! Margaret!” I jumped up without thinking, wiping my dirty hands on my shorts. They stood politely as I trotted down our driveway to meet them.

“Hi, Courtney,” said Margaret as she smiled at me. Her hair was still in those braids that looked as if they had the sinewy strength of two shiny snakes. She was wearing a pink sleeveless shirt, white shorts, and brown sandals. Mr. Geyer was even wearing shorts—plaid, of course—and a blue polo short. He was wearing sandals, too, but with black socks.
Why did she let him out of the house that way?

“Courtney, you look much drier than the last time we saw you.” He laughed. His eyes thinned to long lines when he smiled, trapped behind those lenses. He held some brochures in his hand.

“Another tour scheduled?” I asked.

“There's always the possibility of a tour,” Margaret answered for him. “Are you available for one today?”

“Um . . . ” I did not want a full tour, just some quick answers to my question. “Maybe,” I replied. “I have some weeding to finish first.”

“What is it, Courtney?” Mr. Geyer interrupted with a gentle smile. “You have the look of a person bursting to ask a question.”

“I do?” He seemed kind of nerdy, but this guy did not miss a trick. “Well, actually,” I admitted, “I want to show
you something.” I turned to look back at the house. The ivy growing on its walls whispered in the breeze. “Someone carved ivy on our basement wall.”

Margaret nodded as if this was a pleasant thing. “Oh yes.We have seen it. Christian did that, Courtney, not long after he carved the ivy on Prudence's gravestone.”

“We didn't get a chance to mention it to you yesterday. I'm sorry about that,” Mr. Geyer apologized. “Christian actually carved it all over the house—on the walls and the banisters—as if he were carving a trail for Prudence.” He glanced in the direction of Prudence's tombstone. “The house burned soon after that. All that was left was the basement.”