Trick or Treat (5 page)

“Of course. How could I forget Blake Chambers?”

Martha ignored him. “Well, anyway, Wynn and I have class together — she’s the one who was on the ladder in the store. I really like her.”

“So do we at least know who or what is supposed to be making the house so evil?”

“Some ghost, I guess.”

“Aah.”

Martha bristled. “Look, I don’t know any more about it than you do. I don’t even want to talk about it anymore.” She closed her eyes, fighting panicky thoughts away — the body in the tree … the cold in her room … the invisible watcher in the woods….
Tell him! Tell him what happened!
“It’s probably just a lie, anyway. It’s probably something that got started, and it’s not even true. Don’t you think so?”

Conor didn’t answer, so Martha stared out the window the rest of the way home. Compared to this dreary countryside, school had seemed so normal … so alive … full of noise and activity and real people. Now it was already starting to get dark, and the longer they drove, the more lonely she felt. There was nothing out here …
nothing
. And again, the heavy sky dripped with almost-rain, shrouding the world in gray. As they finally made the turn onto their road, Martha pulled her jacket around her like a cocoon, bracing herself for the sight of the house. As soon as Conor parked the car she ran inside and up to her room.

Oh, God, I can’t stand this!
Weeks in this hideous place with only Conor to keep her company! Martha threw herself across her bed and lay there, drained. How could life get any worse? If Conor only knew about what had happened near the woods last night, he wouldn’t be nearly so unconcerned about the evil house stories.
Then why don’t you tell him? ’Cause he’d never believe me. I don’t have any kind of proof. In fact, I’m not even sure anymore that I believe it myself
….

Martha groaned and went to the window, rubbing her arms against the nagging chill. She couldn’t even relax in this room — no matter what she did to it, she just couldn’t seem to make it comfortable. She stared down into the backyard and was startled to see Conor go into the woods.
Now what is he doing down there?

The thought of being in the house alone wasn’t a pleasant one. Before Martha even realized what she was doing, she was standing on the back porch, staring off towards the trees where she’d seen him disappear.

“Conor!”

Her voice came to her eerily on the wind, as if the trees had caught it in their twisted arms and thrown it back. There was no other sound, though Martha held her breath, straining to hear. Heavy rain clouds still hung stubbornly in the sky, making the air unbearably clammy. She hunched her shoulders and started resolutely across the yard.

“Conor! Where are you?”

But she might as well have been the only living person in the world, the evening lay so gray and empty around her. Nervously Martha glanced behind her at the house. Only one light was visible through the half-open curtains of the kitchen; the rest of the rooms stood lifelessly behind blank windows. Cautiously she tried to peer through the trees, then parted a web of branches and saw a narrow path beyond. “Conor, I know you’re in there — I saw you from the window!”

What is he doing in there?

Martha moved deeper into the trees, deeper info the thickening dusk, her thoughts whirling. Was this where she’d seen the movement last night? Right about here? In her fear, in the dark, it was impossible to remember the exact spot…. Drawing a shaky breath she stopped, confused. Suddenly she was afraid to go on. Afraid to go on and afraid to go back.
What if it’s still here? Watching me … even now —

“Martha —”

Martha screamed and collapsed against a tree, her hand to her heart. “
Conor!
Where
were
you? I couldn’t —”

“What are you doing following me around without a jacket?” he said, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

“I wasn’t following you around — I was —”

“And if you get pneumonia, I’ll get blamed for it.”

“Why should
you
get blamed for it?”

“Because I’m supposed to be looking after you, that’s why.” He set his jaw and began shrugging out of his jacket.

Martha drew herself up indignantly. “Looking after me! I beg your pardon, but —”

“Yeah, I know.” Conor bundled her into his jacket as if she were a sack of potatoes. “You don’t need looking after; you can take care of yourself. Zip that up and come on.”

“Why?” Martha asked suspiciously. “Where are we going?”

“I want to show you something.” He took off through the trees before she could respond, and she had no choice but to follow him.

The air was sharp and wet in her lungs. As Conor’s long legs moved him effortlessly ahead of her, Martha found it harder and harder to breathe and keep up. The pathway had long since disappeared beneath a carpet of leaves, yet Conor seemed to know the way. Every so often, Martha noticed, he would pause, tilting his face into the wind as if listening for some direction she was unable to hear. And as they wove their way deeper and deeper into the murky forest, Martha’s apprehension grew until the tight band around her heart was as much from fear as from cold.

“Conor, where are we —?”

“Look.”

He stopped abruptly, bent low beneath a knotted overhang of branches, and as Martha stumbled up beside him, his arm went around her shoulders. Wedged against him, Martha stared where he was pointing, the icy cold creeping all through her body.

The cemetery lay before them like the ruins of some ghostly garden, headstones toppled and staggered across the leaf-strewn ground. Where shrubs and vines had once flowered, now there were only masses of brown stems, and the low-sweeping trees looked grossly misshapen in the fast-falling twilight. A light fog had begun to snake among the headstones and old, crumbling statues stared back at the intruders through stone eyes. Martha took it all in, not even aware of how she was pressing back against Conor. She felt him squeeze her shoulders and give her a slight turn, and as her eyes fell upon the magnificent stone structure at the far end of the cemetery, she wondered crazily if she could possibly be dreaming.

“What is that?” she gasped.

“It’s a mausoleum. Come on.”

“No — wait —” But he strode off again, pulling her along, and Martha’s eyes stayed glued to the huge tomb as they came up beside it.

“Conor — please — let’s get out of here —”

“Look at the inscription.” Conor let go of her at last, and pointed to the foot-high letters carved in the black stone wall. The tomb itself had to be at least twenty feet tall and equally as wide, but its double doors were barred by thick iron gates which looked like they hadn’t been opened in many, many years. “Isn’t Bedford supposed to be the name of our house?” He glanced back to see Martha nodding. “They must have been pretty important. It’s the fanciest grave in the whole place.”

Martha pulled his jacket tightly around her, and glanced back nervously over her shoulder. “How did you ever find this place? Have you been looking for it all this time?”

For several moments he didn’t answer. He planted his feet firmly apart on the ground, his body braced against the wind as he stared up at the Bedford name. Watching him, Martha was seized with a violent trembling — he could almost have been one of the lifeless statues keeping vigil around them.

“No, I haven’t been looking for it,” he said quietly.

“Then what? You found it by accident, getting wood?”

“No. I never came this far.”

He had such a strange look on his face. Martha felt her knees weaken, and she leaned back against a tree.

“It was so strong,” Conor murmured, more to himself than to her. He glanced back at her, a look so puzzled that suddenly Martha was angry.

“
Damn
you, Conor — why did you bring me here? If you think you can scare me, it won’t —”

He reached out for the doors, as if to shake them, then his hand froze, a slow stiffening creeping over his body.

“Conor — what
is
it?”

And as she stared at his outstretched hand, Martha felt an irrational rush of terror through her heart.

“Conor — let’s go back — please!” She hadn’t even realized that she’d grabbed his arm, and now as she tried to turn him around, he looked down at her, remotely amused.

“You’re pretty strong for being so little.”

“Conor, I mean it — this isn’t a bit funny —”

Nodding, he reached down and gently pried her fingers from his arm. “Let’s go back to the house. It’s gone now, anyway.”

“What’s gone?”

“Nothing. Never mind.” He backed away from the tomb and began striding off rapidly towards the trees.

“We’ll never find our way back!” Martha’s voice rose anxiously. “It all looks alike out here — we don’t even have a light —”

“Trust me,” Conor said. “I know the way.”

Martha didn’t argue. She took off after him, keeping close behind, amazed that he could make any sense at all of their hopelessly tangled surroundings. When they reached the house at last, she sank gratefully into a kitchen chair, laying her head down on the table, watching as Conor busied himself at the stove, making omelettes.

“I’m not hungry,” Martha said.

“Give me a break. I’m a great cook.”

She gave a long sigh and pulled slowly out of his jacket. “It’s getting worse. It’s just getting worse and worse every minute.”

“What is?”

“This.” Martha threw up her arms. “All this — this house — and — and — everything about it. Now you.”

“What about me?”

“I knew you were weird before. But tonight was a classic. Do you want to tell me what happened out there?”

“Nothing happened.” He avoided her eyes. “I just thought you’d enjoy sightseeing by twilight, that’s all.”

“Yeah, right. Conor, don’t treat me like I don’t have a brain — and don’t
look
at me like that — I
hate
when you look at me with that look —”

“What look?”

“It’s a conspiracy, isn’t it?” Martha glared. “Something you and Dad dreamed up before he left, just to have fun with me.”

“You don’t look like you’re having much fun,” Conor said.

“I can’t stand this. I just can’t.” Martha pushed herself up and tossed his jacket at him. Conor caught it neatly, without even turning around. “Oh, fine. Great. I’m going to bed. I need to rest my overactive imagination.”

She went to her room and turned her TV on as loud as she could stand it. The noise brought little comfort, however, and she lay across her bed, thumbing through her books, making a halfhearted stab at her homework. But her thoughts weren’t on school. Her thoughts were on that huge monument in the woods and Conor’s strange behavior, and on what Wynn had said as she’d left her that afternoon:

“
Everyone knows the old Bedford place is evil
….”

Martha stared at the wall, her schoolwork forgotten. What had happened here to make people talk? To make people afraid? What horrible thing had gone on inside these walls? Did it have something to do with the old cemetery … or the hidden watcher in the woods….

Troubled, she climbed into bed and lay there in the dark, her eyes riveted on the shadows beneath her window.
Why didn’t you tell him? Why didn’t you tell him about the something watching you?
Yet she knew why. Because maybe she really
had
imagined it. And maybe … if she never said it out loud … then it could never, ever be real….

She wondered what Conor was doing, if he’d finished eating, if he was nearby in his own room. She couldn’t hear him moving around anywhere — only the house shifting … sighing in the wind … whispering its secrets … lulling her into a restless sleep….

Yet even in her dreams the house was still with her … in deep wells of darkness she tossed and turned, vaguely aware of every creak and groan … every rustling…. On every side of her the walls were breathing … louder … louder … until she thought she’d scream if they didn’t stop. And then they began to squeeze in … closer and closer … squeezing and creaking with every labored breath — and a deathly cold seeped from every hidden corner — and though she fought to open her eyes, a weight pressed down on her eyelids, rendering her blind and helpless….

“Dad?” Martha murmured, and at last she broke through to consciousness, away from the nightmare sounds, the sighings and creakings….

Except that she was wide awake now….

And the creaking was still there.

Very close to her.

Here in her room.

As Martha sat up in bed, a light suddenly came on in the hall, glowing in beneath the bedroom door so that shadows went slithering off into corners. In confusion, she glanced around her room and a cry lodged in her throat.

Something was moving beside the closet.

And slowly … slowly … the half-open closet door began to close.

“Oh, no,” Martha whispered, “no —”

And she didn’t even realize at first that the door to the hall had opened or that Conor was throwing the covers back, pulling her from the bed.