Nightshade (22 page)

A ROPE HUNG from one of the tree’s branches, and a boy clung to the end of the rope.

Timmy Phelps.

Barely six — two years younger than Joan — Timmy laughed happily as he swung back and forth. As he swung toward her, Joan gave him a gentle push so his motion wouldn’t die down.

But as she pushed, she heard Cynthia — treading water in the middle of the pool — call out to her. “Push him harder, Joan. Push him harder!”

As Cynthia urged her on and Timmy shrieked with excitement, she pushed harder and harder, until each swing took Timmy out over the very center of the pool. Then Cynthia’s urging suddenly changed.

“Let go, Timmy!” she shouted. “Let the rope go! I’ll catch you!”

A split-second later Timmy dropped into the water and the rope suddenly went slack, dangling loosely from the branch.

Cynthia, still treading water, was laughing.

And Timmy Phelps was gone.

Joan stared at the water — where was he?

What had happened? Why hadn’t Cynthia caught him? Everyone knew Timmy couldn’t swim!

Without thinking, Joan plunged into the pool. Beneath the water, she kicked hard, forcing herself down deeper and deeper.

Keeping her eyes open, she twisted around, trying to find Timmy. Then her lungs started to burn, and she knew she could hold her breath only another few seconds.

Where was he?

Her chest felt like it was on fire, and in a few seconds she would have to give up. Then, she saw him.

He was reaching out to her, just a few feet away. She kicked, then kicked again, and just as she knew she could hold out no longer, her fingers closed on his hand. She hurled herself to the surface, expelling air from her lungs all the way.

Her head finally burst out of the water the instant she could resist inhaling no longer.

Somehow, she managed to pull Timmy out of the pool and start pumping the water out of his lungs. Then her mother was there, and Cynthia was telling her what had happened.

“Joan was pushing him on the rope, Mama. I tried to make her stop, but she wouldn’t. She just kept pushing him higher and higher. But she didn’t mean for him to fall, Mama. She was just having fun. It wasn’t really her fault.”

*                                     *                                     *

JOAN STARED AT the spot where she’d saved Timmy Phelps’s life, Cynthia’s words burning once more in her memory.

“Is that what you did?” she finally whispered, her eyes moving once more to the dark waters of the pool. “Did you do the same thing to Mother that you did to Timmy?”

Again she heard her sister’s voice.
“Mama wanted to be with me, Joanie-baby. She always wanted to be with me. But you know that, don’t you? You’ve always known that.”

As Joan stood alone by the pool, Cynthia’s laugh rang out again, harsh and cruel, and though Joan knew it was impossible, she was certain that Cynthia’s laugh had not come from inside her own head.

*                                     *                                     *

MATT’S MOOD WAS even darker than the sky that afternoon, and as he crossed the street he turned to look back at the school. What would happen if the angry clouds overhead suddenly flashed with lightning, hurling a blazing blue bolt right at the school?

Would it burst into flames? Would the windows blow out? And what would happen to all the people inside?

I hope they fry,
he said to himself.
I hope they fry right where they’re standing.

Today had been even worse than yesterday. The only person who spoke to him when he’d arrived at school this morning was Becky Adams; but his friends —

Friends? He didn’t have friends anymore. People had hardly looked at him, at least not when he was looking at them. It was as if he’d become invisible. He told himself it didn’t matter, that he didn’t care, and went to his locker just like he always did.

Mr. Wing had been waiting for him.

He had known right off what that was about: his counselor was going to give him hell about what had happened in the computer class yesterday. But what about all the rest of the kids? The ones who sent him the messages? When they got to Mr. Wing’s office — a little green cubicle that looked out on the Dumpsters next to the cafeteria — it turned out to be even worse. Instead of chewing him out, Mr. Wing told him that he’d talked to all the teachers, and the teachers were going to talk to their classes about what had happened yesterday.

“We’re not going to tolerate anyone accusing you of anything, Matt,” his counselor had said, trying to reassure him. Right then Matt knew what had happened — his mother had called the school. Nobody else would have told Mr. Wing about the messages. By the time he was out the door, they would have been gone from his screen, and no one in the room would admit to having any idea what had happened, any more than he and Eric Holmes and Pete Arneson had ever admitted to knowing how the butter patties had gotten stuck to the ceiling over their table in the cafeteria last spring, melting just in time to drip onto Mr. Wing’s own head at the senior class breakfast.

So Matt knew that when the teachers started talking about him in their classes, everyone would know that he’d told someone what had happened in the computer class.

The reaction was exactly what he expected: It was as if he’d ceased to exist.

No one spoke to him.

No one looked at him.

People even started looking the other way when they saw him coming.

He felt a flicker of hope in P.E., when the coach made Eric and Pete the captains of the football teams. For as long as Matt could remember, he had always been one of the first ones chosen.

But today neither Eric nor Pete had chosen him at all, and when the choosing of sides was done, he found himself standing alone.

Even Nate Harkins, who had never caught a football in his life, was standing in the group around Eric Holmes. “Play on Arneson’s team,” the coach told him.

Pete hadn’t even spoken to him, let alone included him in any of the plays.

At lunch he didn’t bother going to the cafeteria. Instead he found a deserted corner on the second floor of the main building and tried to concentrate on solving the same equation he’d been working on yesterday.

Somehow he had survived the endless hours of the afternoon, but by the end of the day, all he wanted to do was escape.

Escape from the school. Escape from the people who had once been his friends. Escape from everyone and everything.

He started home, moving slowly, his head down. But even with his head down, even with his eyes focused tightly only on the sidewalk, he could feel them.

Feel them watching him from the cars that passed, watching him from the houses he passed himself.

Watching him, judging him.

He could almost feel their thoughts.
We know . . . we know what you did . . . we know . . . we know . . .

The heavy cloak of loneliness that had fallen over him at school wrapped him tighter and tighter in its folds until it felt like he was suffocating.

He hurried his step until he was almost running, but even when he passed through the gates of Hapgood Farm he felt no relief, and when he saw the house itself, he remembered the terrible dreams that had begun to disturb his sleep each night.

Dreams that didn’t feel like dreams at all.

As the rain began to fall, he headed around toward the back door and the mud room, but as he was about to go in, something caught his eye. He turned and looked directly at the shed behind the carriage house.

The shed in which one of the deputies had hung the dressed carcass of the deer he shot the day his father died. He had forgotten it was there until yesterday, when he pulled the door open to see if his grandmother had wandered in. For a moment he hadn’t realized what it was. Its belly had been slit open, its guts removed. It was dangling by its hind legs from a hook. It wasn’t until he saw the head — the head his dad had planned to have mounted as his first trophy — dangling a few inches above the floor, that he recognized it. Then, quickly, he shut the shed door, and tried to shut the image of the dead animal out of his mind.

But this afternoon another animal hung on the shed, on the outside wall.

It was a rabbit. A white rabbit.

It hung upside down from a single nail driven through its hind legs. Just like the deer.

Its belly was slit. Just like the deer.

But unlike the deer, bloody entrails hung from the gaping wound, and blood oozed down the shed wall.

As his eyes locked on the grisly object, Matt’s subconscious opened and a terrible vision rose up from its depths.

*                                     *                                     *

HE WAS FIVE years old. He woke in the night and instantly knew he was not alone. He lay absolutely still, certain that if he moved, whoever — or whatever — had entered his bedroom would surely come and kill him. Then, in dim moonlight that seeped through his window, he saw a figure approaching, emerging from the shadows as if springing from the darkness itself.

He recognized the figure the moment the moonlight fell on its face: his aunt Cynthia. And even though his mother had explained to him long ago that his aunt was dead, Matt knew his grandmother always talked to her just as if she were still alive. As he watched the specter in his room come closer, a strange aroma filled his nostrils — a musky odor that seemed strangely familiar. His aunt knelt beside the bed and began whispering. Though he couldn’t quite make out the words, they sent a chill through his body, and when her fingers touched his skin, he felt his flesh respond. She eased the blankets back and slipped into his bed, her hands never leaving his body, caressing him, her fingers exploring every part of him. Matt wanted to scream, to call his mother to come and help him, but his voice caught in his throat and a strange paralysis held him in its grip. Though he could neither speak nor move, part of his body began to respond to his aunt’s touch. “Love me, Matt,” she whispered then. “Always love me.” She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, then rolled him over and pressed her mouth to his.

He tried to shut it out, told himself it wasn’t happening. And as the caresses and the kisses went on and on, as his aunt guided his hands over her body, Matt turned his mind away.

Don’t think about it, he told himself. Think about something else.

His rabbit!

The white rabbit the man who was going to be his stepfather had given him.

The white rabbit that even now was in its cage in the corner of the room. He focused his mind on the rabbit, clinging to its image, shutting out the terrible reality of what was happening to him.

And it worked. He turned his mind away from what was happening to his body, letting it sink into a darkness that nothing could penetrate.

When he awoke the next morning, everything that happened during the night had vanished from his mind as completely as if it had never happened at all. But when he went to feed his pet, he found the rabbit dead in its cage.

Its belly slit open.

Hanging upside down from the top of its cage, its hind legs bound together.

Sickened — and terrified — Matt stared at it for a long time, trying to imagine what might have happened.

*                                     *                                     *

MATT’S EYES REMAINED fixed on the rabbit as the last fragments of the terrible memory fell into place. He could still hear his aunt’s voice whispering to him; could almost feel her fingers caressing his body; could still smell her musky scent.

It couldn’t have been real — it couldn’t have been!

It must have been a dream, like the dreams he’d been having the last few nights. He backed away from the shed, but couldn’t escape the sound of his aunt’s voice.

“You know what you have to do,”
Cynthia’s voice whispered.
“You want to do it. You know you do.”
Obeying the voice in his head, Matt turned away from the grisly object on the wall of the shed and started toward the house.

*                                     *                                     *

SLOWLY — ALMOST IMPERCEPTIBLY — the gray fog of disease that lay over Emily Moore’s mind began to lift. In a way, it was like awakening from a deep sleep, except that even now, with darkness still surrounding her, she wasn’t certain whether she was conscious or not. Reality, dreams, and memories swirled around in her mind, mixing together until their strands were so tangled that she had no idea from whence any of them came, let alone where they might lead.

She had no idea where she was, nor how long she’d been there.

The blackness surrounding her was utterly impenetrable.

Death . . .

The word drifted out of nowhere, and a corner of her mind reacted to it —

Had she died?

How would she know?

No, not dead — something else.

Cynthia!

Yes! Now she could see Cynthia, smiling to her, beckoning to her.

Her lips worked, and she tried to form a word: “Cynthia.”

But all that emerged from her throat was a formless sound, low, guttural, almost inaudible.

She kept her eyes fixed on Cynthia’s smiling face, her sparkling blue eyes, her flowing blond hair.

Like an angel.

Her daughter was like an angel.

Death . . .

The word floated into her mind again, and more of the fog drifted away. She wondered if perhaps, after all, she was dead.

Wouldn’t that be what death was like? Falling into sleep — a sleep so deep no dreams could penetrate it, no terrors reach through it, no pain disturb it.

A sleep that would finally give way to a first glimpse of eternity.

The radiant smile on Cynthia’s face began to change, her lips twisting cruelly; her sparkling eyes turning to angrily glittering orbs.