Creepers (9 page)

Of course, when I burst through our front door, my mom was full of questions. She was still in that state of nervous excitement that possesses her when she conducts an interview. Her yellow interview tablet was still in her hand, as if I was to be her next subject. She was standing near the kitchen table where she and Mr. Geyer had talked over iced tea. I thought of the look on his face, when I nearly knocked him into the dirt as I passed him on the road during my mad charge home. He did not look surprised. He looked worried, but he did not say a word to me.

We were at the kitchen table now, both of us with a mug of coffee in our hands, despite the heat.The air conditioner humming mindlessly in the background made it feasible. My mother hated that I already loved the stuff because she was the one who let me have my first “tastes.”

Now she was going over the same twenty questions she had launched at me last night.

“Why didn't you tell me about the ivy in the basement?” she started incredulously.

“I guess I forgot,” I had said meekly last night, but with
real annoyance this morning. Funny what the sun will do for you.

She leaned a little closer to me, a lock of her blond hair sweeping across an eyebrow. She pursed her lips in doubt.

“Courtney, did you know that Margaret missed a lot of school last year because she was out sick?” Mom asked.

I felt a terrible twinge of guilt.
Out sick?
Margaret was pale but never looked sick to me. “Well, she sort of told me that she wasn't very popular at school. Maybe it was because she missed so much time. . . .” I trailed off. I felt that I was betraying her confidence. I took another gulp of coffee to avoid the discussion.

Mom sighed and pulled her yellow tablet toward her. She glanced at the neat script that expertly filled every line. So unlike the crazed handwriting of Christian Geyer.

“They seem very nice, Courtney,” she started cautiously. “But there is something very strange about them. I can't quite put my finger on it.” She paused to give me a chance to intervene, but I stared out the window, at the shiny bellies of the ivy leaves that flickered against the glass with the breeze.

“In some ways, he seems very old,” she continued. “His mannerisms, a slip of a phrase, even the way he dresses. He looks as if he's stepped right out of the nineteen fifties, so I guess I expect him to be . . . much older than he appears.”

Suddenly I exploded. “Oh please, Mom! You're so critical!” I did not know why she was making me feel angry. I had thought the same things about Mr. Geyer, but I was upset. I did not want
her
saying those things.

She was sitting back in her chair. “Courtney! What's the matter with you? Ever since you came home last night you've barely said two words. Out with it!”

I tried to put on my calm face, the face that would say to her:
Why are you screaming at me?

“Courtney,” she almost growled in response.

I wanted to tell her, but I could not. I saw the witch and was afraid because I did not know what it meant for me to see her. I did not dare go into the basement until I talked to Mr. Geyer and Margaret. I realized now that I needed to make them explain to me what was going on.

The microwave dinged and we both jumped. She had been defrosting some bagels.

“Courtney, is it the cemetery that is bothering you? Would you prefer that I don't cover this story?” She reached across the table now to grab my hand, just to make sure that I was paying attention. “Your dad and I talked last night, after I showed him the ivy carvings in the basement. He thinks we're both getting carried away with our cemetery crusade, especially if it starts making us believe in ghosts and old town legends.”

Had Dad seen me at my window last night, squinting at the cemetery as if I could see the witch dancing around Prudence's grave?
I did expect to see the witch doing something in the cemetery, maybe throwing some more of her potions on the tombstones or carving her own ivy in the bark of a tree. I stayed by the window most of the night watching for her.

“No!” I protested. “I
want
you to work on the cemetery article and Mr. Geyer's interview. I want to work with the Geyers, too, to save . . .”
To save what?
my own thoughts interrupted me.
To save Margaret from moving again? To save Christian and Prudence from the witch? To save the cemetery from development? Yes. All of those things
.

She leaned closer to me, peering at my face. “Courtney, if all this excitement is scaring you in some way. . . .” She glanced at the basement door. “You know, when Mr. Geyer showed me that ivy down there, it gave me goose bumps. Not because I was scared, but because I sensed I was in the presence of something odd and myster ious,” she finished. “Your dad thought it was amazing, too, but I think he was more in awe of the craftsmanship. He kept running his fingers over the vines, wondering just how they were done.”

The idea of Dad's hands touching the ivy made me pause.
Would Christian, or the ivy, mind?
Mom and Dad were
both fine. Maybe the carvings were really just that—carvings done by a heartbroken Christian not knowing what else to do with his pain.

Talking to Mom did make me feel better. There were no answers, but I did not feel so alone.

“Mom, I want to save the cemetery. I'm not going to get weird about anything, really.”
Would saying this make it come true?

She smiled, a smile full of conspiracy. “Are you sure that this cemetery event Mr. Geyer is planning isn't bothering you?” When I nodded, she did the same. “Okay, but you must promise me that if your . . . or my . . . imagination gets us creeped out for some reason, you will tell me immediately. Agreed?”

“Yes, I promise,” I replied, pushing the witch from my memory for the moment. It would not last long.

After Mom went upstairs to change, she circled back to the kitchen and plopped her briefcase onto the kitchen counter.With great ceremony, she placed her printed copy and disk in a folder.

“Okay, Courtney,” she said briskly. “Let's hope this article does what we want it to do—nudge people to care about the cemetery or, at the very least, make them feel a little curious.”

I nodded agreeably. “Why can't you e-mail the article to the editor?” I was not in a hurry to see Mom leave.

“The editor wants to review it with me. Computers and Internet systems aren't the most reliable with local weekly newspapers. The paper comes out on Friday and noon today is the submission deadline.” She gave me a wistful smile. “I shouldn't be long,” she promised, kissing me on the cheek. But in a moment she was back, holding a large brown envelope in her hand. “It's from the Geyers. Addressed to you.”

It took every effort in my body to keep me from jumping up and snatching it. I thought of Margaret and the sympathy in her eyes as she placed Christian's journal just beyond my reach.

“Thanks, Mom. I'll finish my breakfast first.”

She smiled as if she was glad that I was unruffled by the delivery, but as soon as I heard the front door close and the Jeep's ignition turn, I jumped up and grabbed the envelope. I was careful about opening it, not wanting to tear anything. A little note on white loose-leaf paper was clipped to the top.

“Of course I will be there,” I said out loud as I lay Margaret's note carefully aside. There were only three excerpts from Christian's journal, I noticed, a bit disappointed. I recognized Margaret's neat script as I pictured her copying these pages painstakingly from Christian's journal by candlelight.
Candlelight?
Maybe my imagination was getting the best of me.

I looked around the kitchen.The house was completely silent, with the exception of the incessant whir of the air conditioner. My hands were trembling as I picked up the papers. I swear, the house could have burned down all around me, and I would not have noticed as long as those copied pages from Christian's journal were in my hand.

I felt myself flush as I began to read the first entry.

I instinctively looked over my shoulder, out the window and past the clinging ivy, to see if Christian's witch happened to be standing beside our shed. Of course the yard was empty. I greedily took up the second entry.

 

I was not ready to read the final excerpt. This last one had set my heart pounding. What did she mean that the dead are not in their graves? That their essence lives forever? Spirits going to heaven is one thing, but spirits hanging around the earth?

I looked at the ivy on the window, a dull green in the brilliant morning sunlight.
Are those leaves staring at me? Ridiculous.
Just because they seem to be hanging so attentively
from their vines.What else were they supposed to do? Suddenly I wished Mom was home.

I looked at the paper in my hand—Christian's nightmarish thoughts in Margaret's careful script. He sounded scared, and
he
was an adult. He didn't have to listen to the witch. I moved the third journal entry to the top of my thin pile.Would this one tell me just how desperate Christian really was?