The Other Child (17 page)

She had been walking behind them all the way from school and Bud could tell that Taffy was getting nervous. It was strange the way she was keeping back a half a block and just following without saying a word. They were both sure she’d turn at the corner and go toward her house, but she didn’t. She was going out of her way to follow them.

At first they turned around and shouted insults at her to make her go home, but she kept right on pacing them silently. The whole thing had Taffy really spooked.

“Bud, do something!” Taffy glanced back once more and moved closer to Bud. “Make her go home!”

Bud liked it when Taffy depended on him. It made him feel brave and strong, even though it was only skinny little Leslie Houston he had to chase away.

“Get out of here!” Bud called out, stopping in the center of the tree-flanked sidewalk to glare back at Leslie. “Don’t you know when you’re not wanted?”

Leslie stopped, too, and stood there staring back at him. There was a peculiar blank expression on her face and she looked straight into his eyes without blinking.

“She’s weird!” Bud turned back to Taffy in disgust and grabbed her hand to pull her forward. “Don’t let her bug you, Taffy. Just ignore her and she’ll go away. Come on—I’ll walk you all the way home.”

Taffy let Bud hold her hand and did her best to ignore Leslie the rest of the way home. She sighed in relief as she reached her front steps at last.

“There’s something strange about her, Bud.” Taffy stood on her front porch, glancing back up the sidewalk nervously. “Be careful!”

“Aw, come on, Taffy. Leslie Houston doesn’t bother me a bit. She’s just got a couple of screws loose somewhere.”

“I hope so.” Taffy managed a small smile. “Thanks for walking me home, Bud.”

Bud shook his head as Taffy opened the door and stood in the entryway. She really did look scared. He couldn’t imagine being scared of Leslie, but girls were funny sometimes. He’d give Taffy a good laugh to cheer her up before he left.

“Come on, Leslie Doggy!” Bud snapped his fingers and whistled shrilly through his teeth. “Come on, boy ..... time to go! Follow your master now..... Be a good little mutt!”

Taffy giggled, but it was a pale imitation of her usual laugh. She slipped inside and closed the door behind her, snapping on the lock. She could see what was happening through the window and she shivered a bit. Leslie was following Bud, keeping half a block behind him as he swaggered up the street.

Bud glanced back as he rounded the corner. She was still back there. He wished he knew why she was following him. Maybe he shouldn’t have chased her with that snake. She’d been weird ever since.

They were really surprised when she hadn’t squealed on them to Mrs. Ogilvie. Naturally, they were planning to deny it anyway, but she hadn’t said a word to their teacher. Instead she had smiled quietly through the rest of the picnic as if she knew a secret. Taffy was right. Leslie Houston was really strange.

Even though he tried to keep his pace even, Bud was aware of walking faster as he headed toward his father’s car dealership on the edge of town. Of course he wasn’t afraid of a little girl like Leslie, but it was unnerving being followed like this. He didn’t like to admit it, but Leslie had him a little spooked, too.

Bud crossed the used-car lot with its sign,
PREVIOUSLY OWNED AUTOS,
weaving his way in and out of the old clunkers his father sold and traded. He stopped in front of the huge plate-glass window of the showroom and looked back. Leslie was standing across the street, motionless, as if she were waiting for something. The way she was smiling made Bud shudder. He and Taffy would laugh about this whole thing tomorrow at school, but right now it was more than a little scary.

He turned and glanced in the showroom. It was deserted. Three brand-new Fords gleamed behind the glass, chrome sparkling in the sun, but there was no sign of his father. His dad must be in the office with a customer.

When he turned back, she was still there. There was something different about her now, and Bud took a couple of cautious steps closer. Her eyes were different . . . that’s what it was! Earlier he would have sworn that she had blue eyes, but now they were as black as night, shining and cold like a snake’s. He couldn’t help but stare at her. He’d never seen anyone with eyes like that before.

Leslie squeezed the key tightly as her eyes locked with Bud’s. She tingled all over, and there was a rushing in her ears. The sky seemed to lighten and everything was sharp and clear, the focus perfect and the colors so vivid they hurt. She squinted against the brightness, but she knew she couldn’t shut her eyes. She had to see everything.

Bud frowned as Leslie raised her camera. She was taking a picture of him. That was a crazy thing to do. Surely, she couldn’t have followed him here just to take his picture.

He raised his hand and gave her the finger. She could take a picture of that if she wanted. Taffy wasn’t going to believe any of this when he told her. That dumb Leslie Houston had followed him here just to take his picture. Well—she had her picture, and now she could go. He had to get inside and help his dad.

Bud tried to turn to go in the door, but his feet wouldn’t move. It felt as if his shoes were cemented to the sidewalk.

“Hey!” He let out a shout as he struggled to move. What was happening?

Watch, Leslie. It’s going to happen right now.

Leslie watched through the viewfinder as the black car rolled smoothly forward toward the inside of the window. Its heavy chrome bumper pressed against the glass, making it bow out like a giant fish-eye. There was a crack like a pistol shot as the window shattered and huge slivers of glass exploded into the street.

Leslie watched with unblinking eyes as a piece of glass shaped like a gleaming scythe hurtled forward, severing Bud’s arm at the elbow. She saw his mouth open in a silent scream as his other arm was hit and then his legs. His leg flopped grotesquely like a dismembered scarecrow’s as he fell to the sidewalk in a red, writhing heap.

Leslie walked quickly past the streetlight and rounded the corner. There was noise and shouting behind her, but she couldn’t stop. It was late and school had been over for thirty minutes. Mom would be wondering what was keeping her. She would go straight home like a good girl and take a nap. She was tired from her first day at school.

Karen glanced around her and smiled. The dining room was definitely taking shape. She set the antique silver candlestick holders on the sideboard and stood back to admire them. She should run to the store and pick up some candles. The exercise would be good for her. She hadn’t been outside the grounds for days.

It was only seven-thirty, but it was already dark outside. She could run to the store and back before anyone even missed her. Mike was in Duluth for three days, shooting a feature on a solar-energy housing unit, and Mrs. Schmidt had retired to her bedroom to watch TV. Leslie was in her room sleeping. She had come home from school completely exhausted and asked to take a nap. Karen supposed the first day of class was always difficult, especially in a new school.

Karen grabbed a sweater and stepped out the door, breathing in the night air. September was her favorite month. The night was cool and leaves crunched under her feet as she walked through the yard to the gate. The stars were brilliant tonight and she smiled in contentment. Her work on the house was coming along beautifully. The downstairs was practically finished. The parlor was exactly like the miniature and she had found the missing hand-hooked rug in a corner of the ballroom. Mrs. Schmidt had worked all day on it, removing old stains and years of dust from the fibers. Mike would be pleased when he came home. At last the parlor was ready for him to photograph.

Karen turned back to look at the house, huge and sedate against the night sky. The chandelier in the dining room gleamed softly and she was glad she’d found replacements for the broken cut-glass teardrops. The house was so close to being finished that she almost hated to leave it, even for a minute. The moment she got back, she’d try her hand at repairing the canework in the antique rocker she had found. The instruction book had arrived in today’s mail, along with the supplies she’d ordered. When the chair was finished, it would go in William Appleton’s library, along with all his old books and papers.

At the far end of the ground floor was the morning room, Karen’s pride and joy. She had left the light burning, and even from the street it looked cozy and inviting. It had been Dorthea’s favorite room. She had described it in detail in her journals. The room looked out over the side lawn and caught the bright morning sun. The refinished French doors opened directly onto the garden, and Red Fischer was trying to fix the old granite fountain, which had once provided the water for the surrounding flower beds. Now Dorthea’s desk was there, as it had been long ago, and Karen loved to sit with her receipts and papers and look out into the garden. She felt old-fashioned and serene in that spot, much as Dorthea must have felt years ago. It was almost as if, when she placed herself in a completely renovated room, she were communing with the spirit of those days long past.

Resolutely Karen turned her back on the house and glanced at her watch. Eight o’clock! She’d have to hurry to get to the store before it closed. Time seemed to pass so quickly when she was thinking about the house.

The gate squeaked as she opened it, and Karen made a mental note to oil it the next time she went out. She stepped out briskly and started down the sidewalk, then slowed abruptly as a wave of dizziness came over her. She felt her heart pound frantically and the palms of her hands were wet. Her knees trembled and almost buckled as she took another faltering step forward.

“Oh, my head!” Karen leaned weakly against the wrought-iron fence. There was a searing pain at her temples and she felt as if her head were splitting in two. There was no way she could shop tonight. She’d go right back to the house and sit down.

As she slowly retraced her steps, she began to feel better. Her dizziness had all but disappeared by the time she reentered the yard, and her headache was but a dim throbbing memory. That was strange. She felt almost normal now, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She hadn’t really wanted to leave the house anyway. She’d much rather recane the chair and let Mrs. Schmidt pick up the candles tomorrow. If she was coming down with a virus, she had to be careful. She certainly couldn’t afford to get sick when she had the whole second floor to finish.

Leslie was sleeping soundly, a small shape in the big brass bed. Karen bent down to kiss her lightly and smiled. It was nearly midnight and she had finished the chair. If Leslie hadn’t awakened yet, she’d probably sleep through until morning.

As Karen turned to leave, the picture of Dorthea’s son caught her eye. She glanced at her daughter and then back at the picture again. Leslie certainly did look like Dorthea’s son, with her hair cut short this way. Karen picked up the tintype and turned it over, noticing the inscription on the back. Christopher Appleton. That was a nice name. Where had she heard it before?

Karen tried to remember. Leslie had asked about prophetic dreams, that day in the cupola. She had been dreaming about a boy named Christopher. What a strange coincidence.

Karen put the picture back and sighed. Now it would be even more difficult to convince Leslie that dreams didn’t really come true.

“Are you sure you’re feeling all right, Leslie?” Karen stared anxiously at her daughter over the breakfast table. “You look so pale this morning.”

“She looks a bit peaked to me, too.” Mrs. Schmidt poured a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and set it down in front of Leslie. “I’m going to make sure she eats right, Mrs. Houston. There’s nothing like a big bowl of hot cereal for a good start in the morning.”

“I’m all right, Mom.” Leslie smiled politely as Mrs. Schmidt dished up a steaming bowl of oatmeal. She didn’t feel much like eating, but Mrs. Schmidt was trying to be nice. Leslie blew on her spoon to cool it and took a big mouthful so she wouldn’t have to talk. She wasn’t sick, but she almost wished she were. Then she could stay home and not go to school today.

Last night had been awful. She kept waking up, seeing the blood and hearing the screams in her head. She had just wanted Bud to stop teasing her—that was all. She’d never thought something so frightening could happen. It was all her fault for getting mad again. When she got mad, and Christopher came, accidents happened. People were hurt. She could never let herself get mad again.

“You’d better hurry, kitten, or you’ll be late.” Karen gave her daughter an encouraging smile. It was clear that Leslie didn’t want to go to school. School here in Cold Spring was bound to be different and it was natural for Leslie to have adjustment problems at first. Karen decided she’d take time to help Leslie with her homework tonight. That would make her less nervous about her new school.

As soon as Leslie had left, Karen went up to the bedroom and put on her warm-up suit. She hadn’t been taking care of herself lately and a nice run would do her good.

It was a gorgeous day. She ran around the inside perimeter of the fence, checking the grounds. The lawn was beautiful now, thanks to Red Fischer. She felt like just staying in the yard and jogging up and down between the huge old trees, but that was silly. She’d take a nice, long run down the path to the river and back. It would be lovely with the trees changing color.

She arrived at the gate, rosy-faced and smiling. Being out in the air was definitely good for her. She felt better than she had in weeks!

The gate squeaked again as she opened it. She had forgotten the oilcan. She’d take care of it right after she came back.

This time she didn’t even get to the corner. The headache hit with the force of a physical blow. Spots swirled in front of her eyes and she gasped in pain. It was the same way she’d felt the previous night.

She made her way back slowly, stooped over, stopping to lean against the fence, breathing deeply every few steps. She was trembling and could barely pry open the gate.

As soon as Karen reentered the yard, the throbbing eased. She stood upright. It was as if her strength had miraculously returned and now she felt fine again. She stood leaning against the gate, completely mystified. What on earth was wrong with her?

“This has got to stop!” Her voice was weak but determined. She swallowed hard and jogged off toward the side of the house, running at her usual pace. She must be drastically out of condition to feel this way. She’d just run around in the yard for a few minutes and see if it happened again. At least if she got sick, she’d be close to the house.

Karen jogged for ten minutes, back and forth on the side lawn. She felt just fine now. Perhaps it just took a few minutes for her body to get used to the exercise. It should be safe to try the path to the river again if she took it easy.

This time it happened even sooner. The slight dizziness started the moment she stepped out of the gate and got progressively worse as she moved down the sidewalk. Her temples throbbed with pain and Karen turned back in dismay, not quite believing what was happening to her. Every time she left the grounds, she got sick!

She walked around the side of the house and went in through the French doors. She didn’t want to run into Mrs. Schmidt and answer any questions. She had to think this out before she did anything else.

She sat at her desk in the morning room with her head in her hands. She felt a rush of fear as she remembered the other times she had tried to leave the house.

The church bazaar . . . she had gotten sick then, too, without knowing why. And she had felt fine the moment she returned home.

Last night on her walk to the store . . . she hadn’t gone half a block before the headache hit her.

And now, today, she’d been barely able to leave the gate. It was ridiculous—and utterly terrifying.

She drew a deep breath and tried to think. Of course she’d read about things like this in psychology books, but it was another matter to actually experience them. She must have some sort of mental block about leaving this house.

Most mental blocks were caused by guilt. Perhaps she felt guilty about leaving the house with so much work to be done. That had to be it. And if that were true, the solution was simple. She’d finish the house completely and then everything would be fine.

Karen sighed and shook her head. The whole thing made some sort of crazy sense, but she was still upset. It was frightening, being a prisoner of her own emotions. Mike would be convinced she was insane if she ever told him about this!

“I can’t leave this house.” Karen stared at the framed drawing of Dorthea she’d hung over the desk. It was one of the many sketches Kirby Shaw had drawn in preparation for the lovely oil portrait. “You should have had my problem. If you’d stayed here, everything would have been fine.”

“What did you say, Mrs. Houston?” Thelma Schmidt stood in the doorway of the morning room, a cleaning rag in her hand.

“Oh!” Karen looked up, startled. “Nothing, Mrs. Schmidt. I was just talking to myself.”

The housekeeper frowned slightly. “Do you want me to take the wooden cover off the microwave? Mr. Houston spilled coffee on the inside.”

“Yes, the cover just slides to the left.” Karen gave the housekeeper a troubled smile. “Be sure to replace it, though. I can just imagine the expression on Dorthea’s face if she came home and found a microwave in her mother’s kitchen!”

Mrs. Schmidt looked puzzled and Karen sighed. “It’s just a little joke, Mrs. Schmidt. Dorthea is the girl who lived here before the turn of the century.”

“Oh, the Appleton girl.” Mrs. Schmidt nodded. “I remember my grandmother talking about her once. There was some kind of scandal, I think, but that’s all forgotten now. The Appleton girl’s long gone, Mrs. Houston. She probably died before I was even born.”

Karen shivered a little. It upset her somehow to remember that Dorthea was dead. She seemed so close, so alive.

“It feels a bit odd to have the house done up just the way it was then,” Mrs. Schmidt went on. “It makes me feel like I’m living in a time warp, like they used to show on
The Twilight Zone.
I tell you, it gives me a start every time I open that cabinet and see the dishwasher. It sure doesn’t fit with the rest of the house.”

Karen laughed. “That’s why I had that cabinet built,” she explained. “But really, Mrs. Schmidt, don’t you think that an old-fashioned decor is beautiful?”

“Some of it is.” The housekeeper leaned against the door frame. “Take that table in the dining room . . . you don’t find wood like that anymore. All the furniture is beautiful. It must have been wonderful to live in this mansion back then.”

“Exactly!” Karen smiled. “Restoring this house makes me feel like I’m living back then. Sometimes I almost imagine Dorthea’s here, just waiting for me to put the house back the way it was so she can come home again.”

“Well . . . I don’t know if I’d go that far.” Mrs. Schmidt laughed nervously. “That’s almost like wishing for the dead to come back to life.” She paused, looking uncomfortable. “Well, standing here talking isn’t going to get the work done. I’ll go put up that roast now, Mrs. Houston.”

Karen sighed as the housekeeper hurried away. Mrs. Schmidt was a nice woman, but she didn’t really understand about this house. She wasn’t trying to bring the dead back to life; that sounded so grim. Perhaps she was bringing a dead age back to life by restoring the house. She was reliving the times and experiencing the events that had belonged to her house in the past. Was there any harm in that? But sometimes she did feel that Dorthea was alive, watching her and approving the work she was doing. She guessed she was keeping Dorthea’s memory alive, or her spirit, or something like that. In any event she didn’t have time to think about all that now. She had to get to work on the second floor.

Mrs. Schmidt shook her head as she seasoned the roast and turned on the oven. All that talk about Dorthea Appleton was crazy. And Mrs. Houston was forever trying to make everything old-fashioned. There was nothing wrong with antiques, but she was going overboard. And she’d been talking to that picture. It was a good thing Leslie wasn’t home. It wasn’t good for a little girl to hear her mother talk to pictures just as if they could talk back.

“She’s a strange woman,” the housekeeper muttered under her breath. Mrs. Houston didn’t seem to care what Leslie did as long as it didn’t interfere with her decorating. If Leslie were hers, Mrs. Schmidt knew she would have tanned her bottom for cutting her hair, but Mrs. Houston hadn’t even batted an eyelash. The child was running wild and it seemed no one cared but her. Mr. Houston was never home to take charge, and Mrs. Houston was too busy with her antiques and her silly notions. That poor child would be better off anywhere but here.