Trick or Treat (22 page)

Conor stirred slightly … and went quiet again.

“Greg,” Wynn said plaintively, “are they going to take me away?”

Greg and Blake exchanged glances. “Yes,” Greg said quietly, “someplace where you’ll be safe.”

Wynn looked from one to the other. “I don’t think I can go. Dennis wouldn’t want me to leave him, you see — that’s why he wanted to come here — so he could be with
me
, and not Elizabeth —”

Martha saw the struggle on Greg’s face as he tried to hide his revulsion … as he tried to avoid looking at the candles ringed around the thing upon the altar … as Wynn reached out her hand to him….

“You won’t let them take me, will you Greg? You won’t, will you?”

Greg stepped away from the outstretched hand.

And Wynn sprang so suddenly that no one even saw her go for the knife.

With a shriek she threw herself on Martha, slamming her to the ground.

Martha felt the crack of stone against her skull….

The shock of cold metal against her throat….

Faraway voices blurred — shadows swarmed with lights and shouts and movements —

“Martha! Martha, can you hear me?”

And suddenly she was in Blake’s arms, and over his shoulder she could see Wynn struggling, Wynn being dragged by three policemen — Wynn’s face a demon’s face, glaring at Martha in poisonous fury.

“Why’d you come back, Elizabeth?” she was shrieking, throwing herself from side to side. “
He’s mine!
You can’t have him! You should have listened to the warnings! You should be
dead
by now! You can’t get away from me — I’ve been in the house all along — listening —
watching
— I killed you, Elizabeth —
you can’t take Dennis away from me!
”

The mad shrieks faded into the night. Martha pulled herself from Blake’s arms as Conor was lifted onto a stretcher.

“Be careful with him!” she pleaded. “Where are you taking him?” There were so many people in there now, so much confusion — glaring lights … flashbulbs popping … voices barking orders … a man with a notebook —

“Just take it easy, Miss. Is he a friend of yours?” The man nodded towards the stretcher being carried away. “Name?”

“My brother,” Martha said. “Conor Wheelwright. My brother.” She saw Greg deep in conversation with more policemen, felt Blake’s arms around her again.

“He’s going to be okay,” he said. “They told me so. I promise.”

“Oh, Blake —” As the horrors crumbled around her, she sagged against his chest, felt his kiss on her forehead. Tears rolled down her face and she shook her head. “Conor knew.”

“Knew what?”

“The first time he and I found the cemetery, he had a bad feeling about the mausoleum,” Martha remembered. “He felt some kind of danger.” She squeezed her eyes shut, held back a sob. “Can we go to the hospital now?”

“Sure we can.” His arms tightened around her. She felt his heart beating against her chest. “I almost lost you tonight,” he said hoarsely. And he kissed her again — long and sweet — and when she finally opened her eyes, he was smiling. “Does Conor know how lucky he is?”

And Martha thought of Conor, so still and pale as he was taken away — how annoyed he’d be when he woke up to find himself in the hospital. And she saw herself beside his bed and Blake there with her, and how that look would creep across Conor’s face, and how she wouldn’t even mind —

She looked into Blake’s warm brown eyes and kissed him tenderly, right on his smile.

“I’m the lucky one,” Martha said.

And she meant it.

Born on April Fool’s Day 1952, Richie Tankersley Cusick was destined at a young age to write scary books. In a career spanning three decades, she has paved the way for young-adult horror writing, a genre she continues to publish in today.

Although born in New Orleans—home to some of the country’s most ancient ghosts—Cusick spent her early years in a small bayou town called Barataria, which once provided a safe haven for the fearsome pirate Jean Lafitte. A true Southern writer, she took early inspiration from the landscape of crumbling mansions, Spanish moss, and aboveground cemeteries, and began writing stories at a young age. For years a ghost lurked in her family’s house, making particular trouble around the holidays, when he would strip the Christmas tree of its ornaments and hurl them to the floor.

After graduating from the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, Cusick took a job at Hallmark and moved to Kansas City, where she once again shared her home with a mischievous spirit. It was then that she started work on her first novel,
Evil on the Bayou
(1984), based on her childhood memories of life in the eerie Louisiana swamps. Its success allowed her to leave Hallmark and begin writing fulltime.

When Cusick’s novel-writing career began, horror fiction for teens was a new genre. Along with authors like Christopher Pike and R. L. Stine, Cusick pioneered the form, finding success writing chilling stories with only a dash of the gore that defines adult thrillers.

Since
Evil on the Bayou
, Cusick has written more than two dozen novels about everything from vampires to pirate ghosts. In 2003 she began
The Unseen
, a four-volume series about a young girl who is tormented by the occult. Cusick currently lives with her three dogs in Missouri, where she enjoys listening to classic horror-movie soundtracks as she writes on an antique roll-top desk once owned by a funeral director. The desk is, of course, haunted.

Richie Tankersley Cusick at age three in front of her grandparents’ house in Rolla, Missouri. From left to right: Richie’s father, Dick; her mother, Lou; Grandma Tankersley; and Aunt Deanie. Richie’s grandmother was the biggest inspiration in her life, and the first one to really encourage her passion for writing.

Richie in her senior year at Riverdale High School in Louisiana in 1970. Richie was editor in chief of the school newspaper, the
Scotichronicon
, and was also voted most creative of her senior class.

Richie’s official press card as editor in chief of the
Scotichronicon
. Her responsibilities included writing editorials, thinking up topics, conducting interviews, and assigning stories to the staff.

Richie started playing guitar at an early age, inspired by her uncles and their love of country music. She has always loved singing, and has written several hundred songs.

Richie in her cubicle at Hallmark Greeting Cards, Inc., where she worked as a writer from 1975 to 1984. In addition to writing every type of greeting card imaginable, Richie wrote poems and prose for posters, puzzle backs, calendars, plaques, key chains, buttons, coloring books, mugs, and more.

Richie with her maid of honor and lifelong friend, Lise, at her wedding in 1980.