The Secret (7 page)

H
is heart thudding in his chest, Jonathan stumbled to the window. The full moon shone on the wide rose trellis—still barren of roses—that climbed the back wall of the house to the second-floor windows.

He could see the backyard clearly—the woodpile, the new iron pump, the stone well, and the woods surrounding them.

What made that horrible sound? Jonathan asked himself, trembling all over. Was it only a dream? A strange wild animal? Or was it something more terrible still?

He pushed that idea from his mind. Rachel's stories are giving
me
nightmares, he scolded himself.

Silence now. The only sounds were the chirping of crickets and the low hooting of an owl. Still shaken, Jonathan climbed back into bed.

He knew he would
never
get to sleep now. He lay awake all night, listening.

Hours later the sky began to lighten. Jonathan heard his mother pass his room on her way downstairs to begin the day's chores. His father and sister were stirring, too.

Yawning and stretching, Jonathan climbed out of bed and sleepily made his way to the washstand. He splashed cold water on his face and ran a comb through his shoulder-length brown hair. After tying his hair back with a black cord, he slipped on his knee breeches.

In the kitchen Jane Fier was setting dishes on the table. “Good morning, Jonathan,” she said brightly. “Would you mind kindling the fire for me?”

Jonathan kissed his mother good morning and went to the hearth. He picked up the bellows and puffed air into the glowing embers left over from the night before.

Rachel skipped into the room in a brown dress and apron, her blond curls bouncing. Ezra followed close behind her. As he poked at the fire, Jonathan wondered whether any of them had heard the terrible cries that had awakened him in the night. Rachel appeared to be cheerful and well rested, but Ezra seemed tired.

“Run out to the well and get me a bucket of water, Rachel,” said Jane.

“Yes, Mama,” Rachel replied. She opened the back door and headed out to the well.

A moment later bloodcurdling cries from the backyard made Jonathan drop his fireplace poker. It clattered to the hearth floor as he turned to run outside. Jane and Ezra were right behind him.

Rachel stood by the well, screaming hysterically.
Her hands, her face, her hair, her clothes were all splattered in red.

“Abigail—what
is
it?” cried Jane. “What has happened?”

Rachel ignored her mother. Her eyes fixed and staring, she pointed at the bucket she had pulled out of the well.

Peering into the bucket, Jonathan gagged.

It was filled with thick, red blood.

H
olding his hand over his mouth, Jonathan reeled backward.

Blood! How could the well be full of blood?

Trying not to vomit, Jonathan raised his eyes to his family. Jane was holding Rachel, trying to comfort her. Ezra's eyes were bulging and his hand shook as he clutched his silver pendant.

“The curse!” he cried. “The Goodes have come for us again!”

Swallowing hard, Jonathan gathered his courage and reluctantly peered into the well. To his relief, the well water was clean.

Only the bucket was filled with blood.

What did it mean?

Her arms around her shoulders, Jane gently guided Rachel inside. Ezra nervously rubbed his fingers over the pendant, as if it would help him somehow.

“It has happened again. They have found us before
we could find them,” Ezra said. “There must be Goodes living nearby—or buried near here.”

“Calm down, Papa,” Jonathan pleaded. “There is no curse. Look—we are all safe.”

“Foolish boy,” Ezra murmured, and he left his son alone.

Still dazed and shaken, Jonathan stared at the bucket of blood. The howl of agony he had heard in the night came rushing back to him.

Who, or what, could have done this? he wondered.

Was it the work of a crazy person? A wild animal?

Or could his father be right after all? Could it really be the curse of the Goodes?

Rachel stayed in her room for the rest of the morning while Ezra paced the house, tense and scowling.

I must get out of here, Jonathan told himself. As long as I sit in this house, I shall keep seeing that bucket of blood.

He decided to pay a call on Delilah.

Jonathan gathered wildflowers as he walked down the road to the little farmhouse. It was very small—only a cabin really—and shabby, made of brown-weathered shingles, with only a few small windows and one chimney.

To the right of the house sat a tumbledown cow shed. A few chickens pecked at the dirt behind a fence. Beyond them were a stand of scraggly fruit trees and an acre or two of stony fields.

Clutching his handful of purple and white flowers, Jonathan knocked on the door. Delilah opened it.

“Hello, Jonathan,” she said, smiling. “What a nice surprise.”

As he handed her the flowers, he felt his face grow hot.

She invited him in. A man with shoulder-length gray hair sat at a writing table in a corner of the room. He stood up when Jonathan entered.

“Father, this is Jonathan Fier,” Delilah said. “Jonathan, this is my father, the Reverend Wilson.”

Delilah's father gave Jonathan a friendly handshake. “I am very pleased to meet you, young man,” the reverend said. “I plan to call on your parents soon to welcome them.”

“They will be delighted,” Jonathan said with a polite bow.

“Father is working on a sermon at the moment,” Delilah said. “Shall we go for a walk?”

Jonathan agreed. He and Delilah went outside and strolled through the orchard of fruit trees.

In the warm sunlight Jonathan thought Delilah was prettier than ever. Her cheeks glowed pink, and she had a lively spring to her step.

But as she looked at his face, he saw her frown. “You look tired, Jonathan,” she said “Are you feeling well?”

Jonathan started to say, “Yes, of course.” But then he thought better of it. Delilah has already heard all about the family history, he thought, and she is not afraid of me. Not in the least afraid. She is an understanding girl. Perhaps I have found someone I can speak with—at last!

“Something disturbed me last night, while I was sleeping,” he told her. “A strange and terrifying noise.”

“A noise?” she asked, puzzled.

“Yes. It was as if some hideous creature were
rushing through the woods, heading straight for our house. It drew closer until it seemed to be right under my window, shrieking. Then suddenly it stopped.”

“What was it?” Delilah asked.

“I do not know,” Jonathan replied. “When I looked outside, I saw nothing.”

“It must have been a dream,” Delilah told him.

“That is what I decided,” Jonathan said. “But this morning Rachel went to the well for water, and when she pulled up the bucket—” He paused, wondering if he should continue. Should he say such a shocking thing to a young lady he hardly knew?

Delilah stopped walking and faced him. “What happened?” she asked. “What did you find in the bucket?”

“It was full of blood,” he told her.

Delilah gasped.

“My father is convinced that it has something to do with the curse,” Jonathan said. “I cannot help but wonder if he is right.”

Now Delilah turned her face away. “Oh, no,” she said, walking ahead of him. Were her hands shaking? Jonathan could not be sure, “He cannot be right about this, can he, Jonathan? There must be some reasonable explanation.”

“There must be,” Jonathan said. “But I cannot think of one. Do you suppose a wounded animal somehow got into the well? But that does not make sense. There was so much blood—and no sign of an animal. And the well water was perfectly clean.”

Delilah stopped again and took Jonathan's hand. “Please, Jonathan,” she pleaded. “Forget about this curse. Let it be your father's obsession, not yours.”

Jonathan put his hand over hers. Her skin was so
soft. Her words echoed in his mind. Forget about this curse, he thought. That is exactly what I would have said—until today.

He and Delilah walked on in silence.

She is a very sensible girl, Jonathan thought. I am glad we have met. It is so good to have someone to confide in.

That night Jonathan went to bed early and immediately fell asleep.

Deep in the night a noise woke him.

Creak.

Jonathan's eyes flew open. He listened, holding his breath.

It was the dead of night. The house lay bathed in darkness.

Creak.

Jonathan's heart began to pound. There it was again.

Creak. Creak.

It came from the hall. His mouth suddenly dry, his temples throbbing, Jonathan slipped out of bed and crept to the door.

He put his ear to the door and listened. I really did hear a noise this time, he thought. I am sure of it.

Creeeeak.

Slowly, silently, he opened the door. The hall was dark. He listened to footsteps quietly coming toward him.

He peered around the door and into the hall.

There it stood.

His blood stopped flowing in his veins.

At the end of the hall he saw a vision in white—floating toward him.

“W
ho is it?” Jonathan cried. But his voice came out a choked whisper.

The pale figure whispered, “Abigail! Abigail!”

It floated closer. Jonathan could see a white nightgown and white nightcap, long gray hair flowing under it. He heard the floorboards creaking under her bare feet.

It cannot be a ghost, he thought.

The apparition called out softly, “Abigail! Abigail! Come back!”

It is Mama, Jonathan realized, alarmed. What is she doing?

His mother stepped quietly past him, not seeing him. Again she called, “Abigail!”

She is walking in her sleep, Jonathan realized.

She started down the stairs and Jonathan followed.

She made her way to the back of the house, the
ghostly white gown trailing along the floor. “Abigail!” she called a little louder this time. “Wait for me!”

She opened the back door. She was going outside.

Jonathan stepped forward and grabbed her arm. “Mama!” he cried in a trembling voice. “What are you doing?”

She turned around, startled. Her eyes were wide open and full of tears.

She is not asleep, Jonathan thought. She is awake. She knows what she is doing.

“It is Abigail,” his mother whispered, tears rolling down her quivering cheeks. “She called to me. She is out there, waiting for me.”

Jonathan pulled his mother inside and closed the door. “No, Mama,” he said, desperate to soothe her. “You must be dreaming.”

“I am not dreaming, Jonathan.” His mother's voice was firm now. “She is in the backyard. My little girl…”

Jonathan opened the door and peered outside. It was a warm, clear night, well lit by the moon. He saw no one outside. No sign of Abigail.

“No one is there, Mama,” Jonathan said. “Please, you must go back to bed.”

He put an arm around his mother's shoulders and began to lead her back to the stairs. She struggled against him.

“No!” she cried. “Abigail needs me!”

Jonathan was stronger and guided his mother upstairs. “You cannot go outside—you will catch cold. You had a bad dream, Mama. That is all,” he said. “Just a bad dream.”

But no matter what he told her, Jane refused to believe that her dead daughter hadn't called to her.

She allowed herself to be taken upstairs, but still she was frantic with grief and worry. She went to bed, and at last, exhausted, fell into a deep sleep.

Jonathan shut the door to his room and went to his window to look out. The yard, with the woods behind it, stretched quiet and peaceful in the moonlight.

In the morning the Fier family went about their chores as if it were any other day. Neither Jonathan nor his mother said a word to anyone about what had happened the night before.