Trick or Treat (13 page)

“But I’m sure you feel much better now,” Conor said diplomatically.

Somehow Martha made it up the stairs to the bedroom.
How she hated him — what had she ever done to deserve this stupid life she had now?
She felt like a caged animal, pacing round and round the room, snatching up her personal belongings, flinging her clothes from the closet until she’d inspected each hidden corner.
Something had been there! No, not something — someone!
It was a
person’s
shape she’d seen hulking there in the shadows —
a human figure
— and she didn’t care
who
wouldn’t believe her, she
knew
what she’d seen.

She threw herself on the bed and screamed into the pillows, and after several good, long, muffled shrieks she rolled over and calmly decided she was having a nervous breakdown.

He must be out there watching … he had to be or how could he know?
Slowly Martha went to the window. What had Blake said about Dennis — “
he’d tell her things he’d seen her do — like he’d been watching the house
….” And where had Dennis hidden, Martha wondered now … out there in the woods … behind any one of those hundreds of trees … in the graveyard….

They never found him
.

Is he still out there even now … just like he was the other night in the woods … watching me?
… “Oh, God.” Martha drew a sharp breath and caught her head between her hands. She couldn’t think about it — she didn’t
dare — because as long as I don’t believe in things, then they can’t be real, they can’t come true, they can’t hurt me
….

Frantically Martha jerked the blanket off the bed and rummaged in her desk for something to hang it with — tacks, pushpins, staples, nails — but there was nothing strong enough for a makeshift curtain. Conor had said nobody could see in, but Conor had been wrong because
somebody
— some horrible, breathing voice — was out there, knowing how terrified she was —

Martha froze.

Behind her the lamp quivered and the light skittered nervously along the ceiling.

This time she
knew
she hadn’t imagined it.

The soft creaking sound….

The soft stalking sound….

Very close to her….

Trying not to be heard.

Her whole body went numb.

She heard the squeak of hinges … the slide of wood against the floor … and still —
still
— she couldn’t turn her head — couldn’t force herself to look in the closet —

From the corner of her eye she watched the door move.

She saw the feet step noiselessly out of the dark —

And only then could she whirl and face the eyes that stared back at her from deep, black shadows.

Chapter 12

“
Conor!
” With a shriek Martha fell on him, all her rage and fear pouring out as she pummeled him with her fists and forced him back against the wall. Conor calmly dodged her blows, then with one expert twist, caught both her hands in his.

“Do you know,” Conor said, “that there’s a secret passageway from the butler’s pantry straight here to your closet?”

Martha promptly kicked his shin. “I
hate
you, Conor! Do you
hear
me? I hate and detest and
despise
you!”

Conor’s look was reproachful. “Oh, come on, don’t gloss it over — tell me how you
really
feel!” He doubled over as a book sailed into his stomach, and just managed to duck the three notebooks that followed in quick succession. “Don’t you at least want to explore it?”

“Get
out
of here —
get out!
” Martha was positively livid and as she lunged for something else to throw, her shoulders were suddenly caught and flattened upon the bed. “Get
off
of me!” she screamed.

Conor shook his head. “Now, Martha, someone’s going to get hurt — and it’s liable to be me.” Her mouth opened but he put a finger to his lips. “Uh-uh … believe me, I
know
you hate me, detest me,
and
despise me, but I think it’s time you and I had a serious talk about what’s going on here.”

Martha gave him her most poisonous look. “I think it’s obvious what’s going on here —
you’ve
been sneaking into my room, making sick phone calls, hiding in the woods, trying to scare the
life
out of me — some
joke
, Conor!”

“I don’t know about this joke,” Conor said. “I
do
know you’re accusing me of some pretty strange things —”

“Conor — you’re a pretty strange person.”

“You don’t even know me. You don’t know anything about me.”

His tone was so serious that the retort Martha was about to make died on her lips. He was bent over her, tawny hair framing his face, the light glowing around his head like a benevolent aura. His eyes were pure, blue pools, and with an effort she pulled her own eyes away.

“I know as much about you as you do about me,” she muttered defensively.

Conor raised his chin, thinking, but his eyes never left her face. It was useless trying to free herself — he was holding her without any effort at all.

“You like Emily Dickinson and rock music, Mexican food, and you love to bake — brownies, mostly. Daisies are your favorite flowers, red’s your favorite color, and you don’t go much for white. You had lots of friends in Chicago — especially some guy named Ken — you love to write, and you’re good at it, but you have absolutely no confidence in yourself. You had a cat you grew up with, you love animals, you feel like nobody takes you seriously, that they never listen, that they think you have an overactive imagination —”

For one horrible minute Martha thought she was going to cry. “They
do
think that!” she blurted out.

“Wrong,” Conor said. “
I
don’t think that.”

She couldn’t seem to break from his stare — then finally she turned her head and felt his hold on her relax.

“No more hysterics?” Conor asked. Martha shook her head, but his expression was still guarded.

“No more. I promise.”

He nodded then and slid away from her, positioning himself on the edge of her bed. Martha lay there a moment longer, regarding him soberly.

“You didn’t come into my room before? Into the closet? Or watch from the window? You swear?”

Conor signed a cross over his heart.

“The scarecrow,” Martha said. “That was first.” She waited for him to rationalize, but when he didn’t, she went on hesitantly. “And then one night when I was outside by myself, I thought I heard someone crying — and I thought someone was there —”

“Where? Doing what?”

“I don’t know … in the woods. Hiding. Watching me.” He nodded encouragement and she sat up. “It was just a feeling — only more than a feeling — I was almost so sure it was real, I was terrified.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I was going to,” Martha said quietly, “only … well … Dad’s call came that night about Hawaii and …”

The all-too-familiar look crept across Conor’s face, and he cast her a sidelong glance. “I get the gist.”

“Well” — shamefaced, Martha hurried on — “then that one night I thought I saw the door move — that same night you smelled smoke —”

“I remember. You were staring at something when I came in your room.”

“And then the other night when you fell asleep and I forgot my key — I was going around to the back of the house, and someone was up here — here in my room. I could see a shadow on the wall, going back and forth — and then he stood at the window.”

“But you couldn’t tell anything specific about him?”

Martha shook her head. “No — the light was sort of flickering, the way a candle does, and the shadow was all distorted. And then,” she took a deep breath, “then tonight I fell asleep and when I woke up, the lamp was out — and it’s happened before — don’t look at me like that, Conor, I
didn’t
turn it off — it was
on
when I dozed off —”

Conor’s lips moved in a slow smile. “Maybe thirteen.”

Martha looked at him blankly. “Maybe thirteen what?”

“Maybe you look thirteen instead of twelve when you’re really passionate about something. Do you get passionate very often?”

“Conor —”

He held up both hands, the smile fading. “I just can’t decide what’s more fascinating — living in an evil house or having a sister.”

“You’re not listening to a thing I’ve said!”

“On the contrary, I’ve heard each word and locked it away in my mind. So when you woke up —”

Martha frowned at him, slowly relenting. “So when I woke up, there was something in my closet — no,
someone
— Conor, I could just make out the shape, and it was definitely human and it was definitely there.” She huddled back against the pillows and pulled her knees up to her chin. “Do you … do
you
believe in dead people coming back to the scenes of their tragedies?”

For a long while there was only the brush of wind against the pane, the soft murmur of a sleepy rain. Conor looked down at the rug beside the bed and stretched out his legs.

“Yes, I believe that can happen.”

Martha didn’t know whether to be surprised or not — part of her wanted to shake him, to make him tell her that ghosts didn’t really exist, that she was being silly, that —

“They never found Dennis,” she reminded him. Was it her imagination, or did Conor look uncomfortable? “And what if I really
do
look like Elizabeth,” she added unhappily, “even if it
is
just from the back?”

“You don’t look like Elizabeth,” Conor said quietly, and her head came up.

“How would you know?”

“That day I went to the newspaper office, I saw her picture. You both have blonde hair. So what?
Lots
of people have blonde hair.”

Martha stared at him.

“It’s just that … well … you know … Blake went
out
with her.”

“I’m sure Blake’s gone out with every girl in Bedford.”

Martha felt her heart splintering, but she managed to keep her voice under control. “Why are you even talking about Blake, anyway?”

“
You
were talking about Blake.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk about him anymore, okay? He … he’s been very nice to me … he’s really very, very sweet….” She glanced over, ready to defend him, but Conor just stared back, his face infuriatingly neutral. “Anyway, you’re just jealous,” Martha muttered.

“Why should I be jealous?
I
don’t want to go out with him.”

“Can we please just talk about something else?” Martha’s voice tightened; she could almost swear that there was a smile right behind Conor’s eyes. “Dennis might be alive, and I look like Elizabeth, and Halloween’s in three more days. Elizabeth was getting phone calls — I’m getting phone calls. She was being watched — and so am I. And there’s a feeling in this house that won’t go away — and I
know
I’m not imagining it.”

“You’re not,” Conor said softly. “I feel it, too.”

Martha’s reply stuck in her throat as she stared at him. “You do? Wait a minute — you —”

“I felt it the first time I came inside — especially in this room.” Conor’s eyes swept the walls, the ceiling, the windowpane. “It’s more than bad memories … something else. Like bad secrets.”

Martha just gaped at him. “
You
felt the coldness in here?”

“Yes. This room’s always been the worst.”

“And you let
me
stay in it?”

“I didn’t know you’d be so receptive.” Conor had the grace to look a little sheepish. “Not many people are, you know.”

“Then … you’ve
believed
me all this time?” Martha felt numb as anger and relief flooded through her.

“I never said I didn’t believe you,” Conor said quietly. “I never said that.”

“No, you just let me believe I was imagining everything.” Martha closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands. She was too numb even to scream at him. “Oh, Conor, how could you?”

“You were just so upset about everything.” Conor went to the window and stood there, arms folded across his chest, staring out into the night. “It’s been so much harder for you than me — having your whole world pulled out from under you. I just … didn’t want to make it any scarier.”

In the long quiet, Martha thought he might have sighed, a weary sound like the rain coursing slowly down the window glass. She watched his shoulders, the easy grace of his body as he slowly leaned against the wall.

“It’s been hard for you, too?” she asked in a small voice.

He gave a vague nod.

“I’m sorry,” Martha said. “I didn’t know. I didn’t even dream —” She fumbled for words, but he looked up again, his face solemn.

“This house —” He waved his hands in an inclusive gesture. “I can’t get rid of the feeling. It’s … oppressive. Not like anything I’ve ever experienced before.”