Whispers from the Dead (5 page)

We sauntered toward the front door with the usual “I’ll call you later.”

“Come over whenever you want.”

A shadow moved behind Dee Dee, catching my eye. Lupita was peering at me, her eyes dark with a desperate
concern. As my glance met hers she quickly turned away, but I saw her surreptitiously cross herself.

“What’s wrong? What do you know that I don’t know?” I wanted to shout at Dee Dee and Lupita.

But Dee Dee was saying, “I’m going to be late, and Richard is going to kill me!”

The door shut, and I reluctantly trudged toward my own house with the fear that something evil was there waiting for the right moment, waiting for me.

I hoped with all my heart that Mom was home.

A
s I closed the front door the house settled uncomfortably around me. I hurried nervously toward the kitchen, toward the sound of Mom opening and shutting cabinet doors, and burst into the warmth and sunlight that streamed through the wide window over the sink.

Mom straightened and looked surprised. “Where’s Dee Dee?”

“She works each afternoon for two hours as lifeguard at the neighborhood pool.” I began to poke through the cabinet. “What did you get for us to eat? I’m starving.”

“How about a make-your-own sandwich? There’s some Colby cheese and sliced ham.”

“Want me to make one for you?”

Mom sighed. “Thanks. I’d love it. No ham in mine. Just cheese and lettuce.”

She plopped into a chair and rested her chin on her hands. “I met one of our neighbors in the grocery store.
Her name’s Margaret Taylor, and she lives in the corner house. I’d seen her taking her newspaper in yesterday, so when I recognized her in the grocery store, I went over to say hello and introduce myself.”

There was an oddly strained tone in Mom’s voice, so I stopped slapping mayonnaise on the bread and looked at her. “Wasn’t she friendly?”

“I suppose she was friendly enough,” Mom answered. “I’m just a little puzzled by the way she acted. She seemed somewhat embarrassed.”

“Why would she be embarrassed?”

“I can’t imagine. Our conversation was short. She told me what a wonderful friend and neighbor Evelyn Pritchard is, and how everyone on the block would do anything for her, and how she hoped we’d soon feel the same way about her.

“I didn’t know quite how to answer that, so I said I was looking forward to meeting Evelyn and invited Margaret to come by for a cup of coffee. She got so flustered, she dropped the box of cereal she was holding and insisted that I visit
her
instead. She said something about telephoning me soon, and that was that.”

I stumbled across the kitchen, slid into the chair opposite Mom, and reached across the table to grasp her hands. “Mom,” I said, “there’s nothing wrong with Mrs. Whoever-she-is. There’s something wrong with this house.”

Mom gave a little gasp of surprise and asked, “Sarah, what are you talking about?”

“I wish I knew. That neighbor you met isn’t the only one who acts strange. Dee Dee does too. I could tell that
she was curious about what the house looked like inside, but even though she came in with me, she couldn’t wait to get out of here and back to her own house.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Mom said.

“Not to us, it doesn’t, but it does to that neighbor, and it does to Dee Dee.” I leaned back in my chair and sighed. I wished I could tell Mom what I’d felt in this house. Tentatively I tried a test. I wanted to see how Mom would react. “If there’s something wrong with this house, how will we find out?”

Mom pushed back her chair and stood, appraising me. “There’s nothing wrong with this house, Sarah,” she said firmly. “It’s a beautiful house. It’s the most beautiful house we’ve ever lived in. Please, sweetheart, don’t let your imagination—”

She stopped, and I hurried to say, “Mom, I’m okay. All right? You’re the one who brought up the crazy way our neighbor was acting.”

Mom’s cheeks grew pink. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been thinking out loud.” She smiled. “If you’re not going to finish making those sandwiches, then I will.”

“I’ll do it.” I jumped up and began washing the lettuce. It was obvious to me that there was some unhappy story connected with this house, and people who knew it were trying to keep it from us. Mom may have wanted to avoid finding out, but I had to know.
¡Ayúdame!
That desperate, pitiful call for help rushed back into my mind. Something in this house wanted me to know.

As soon as we finished our sandwiches I asked, “What would you like me to do next?”

Mom looked at me gratefully. “How about tackling
the little room and bath next to the kitchen? We put some of the empty moving boxes in there to get them out of the way. You could take them out to the garage and dust and sweep the room. We ought to be able to make good use of it. It might be a good place to put the desk and computer.”

“Dad said it was a maid’s room.”

Mom laughed. “A live-in maid doesn’t fit our budget.”

She went back to her work with the cabinets, and I dragged the big packing boxes out of the maid’s room and into the garage. When the room was empty of clutter, I stopped to examine it. “If we put bookshelves along the walls and a window seat under that one window, this would make a terrific library,” I told Mom. “Wouldn’t it be fun to have our own library? It could be sort of like the ones in British movies.”

“It’s a possibility,” Mom said. She picked up a rag and a can of cleanser and added, “I’m going to give the bathrooms a thorough going-over. If you want me, I’ll be upstairs.”

I leaned against the wall of the small room, just inside the door that leads to the kitchen. I tried to visualize the bookcase-lined walls with a comfortable chair over there, maybe a lamp table. We could use the one with the nick in it that Mom almost gave to a garage sale. But the imaginary layout suddenly disappeared, and a film shimmered across my mind.

Shadows of objects, so softly blurred that I couldn’t make them out, glowed and faded, pulsing like a heartbeat. The air in the room ruffled softly against my face,
and I could smell warm skin and hair. Someone was close by.

¡Ayúdame!
The word, vibrating with terror, blew like a cold breath against my cheek.

Trembling, gasping with fear, I reached out to steady myself against the wall. It was firm and solid. The mist vanished, and once again the room was still and bright, with dust motes lazily drifting inside the band of sunlight that streamed through the uncovered window.

“Who are you?” I managed to whisper to this invisible woman. “What do you want?”

The room was blank, as though the vision and the voice had never taken place. My fear slowly turned to anger. “I don’t want to be involved in this. It’s not fair. Why are you doing this to me?” I demanded.

No answer came, but I didn’t need one. I’d just had more proof that the thread which tied me to an existence beyond this world had not yet been broken. I was still vulnerable, as though I were a link from one world to the next. Did I have to accept this? What were my choices? What was I going to do?

My knees wobbled, so I slid down the wall and sat cross-legged on the bare wooden floor. Was that voice a hallucination? No. It was too real. Those terrified, pitiful cries for help were directed at
me.

I groaned and pressed my palms against my forehead. I wanted to be freed from all this, to be in control of my own mind. Okay, there was a way to handle it. I could tell Mom and Dad everything and ask for help. Maybe a psychiatrist could help me get rid of this spirit.

But how could I turn my back on those heartbreaking
pleas? If I ignored them, what would that poor desperate woman do? Who would help her? I realized I could no more walk away from this unseen spirit than I could if she were flesh and blood standing before me, begging for my help.

But our contact would have to be kept secret. I couldn’t risk people knowing. Remembering the look in Marcie’s eyes, I knew what they’d think. I shivered, realizing what the consequences might be. Did I have enough courage to carry this through?

Deliberately I made the choice.

I put my hands into my lap, straightened my shoulders, and stared into the room, wanting the woman to make contact again. “Listen to me, whoever you are,” I said. “I promise to try to help you, but I can’t help you this way. I need to know what happened to you. I need to know who you are. If you want me to help you, then
you’ve
got to help
me.
Do you understand?”

I waited tensely, almost afraid to breathe, but there was only silence.

I heard the doorbell and Mom’s footsteps as she answered it. “Sarah!” she called. “Dee Dee’s here.”

Staggering to my feet, I dusted off my shorts, tugged my T-shirt into place, and gave one last look around the empty, quiet room. Nothing. “Coming!” I yelled.

It wasn’t just Dee Dee who had come to visit. I followed the sound of voices into the den and saw a guy who was a couple of inches shorter than me standing next to Dee Dee. She’d tied her damp hair back from her face, and her skin still glowed from the sun at the pool.

“Hi, Sarah,” Dee Dee said. “This is Eric Hendrickson.”

Eric studied me so intently, I stared back, hoping he’d get the message to cut it out. He wasn’t bad-looking, but not great-looking, either. His tan was blotchy, red-streaked across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and his short-cropped hair was sun-bleached. He was dressed in white shorts and shirt and carried a tennis racket. I wondered what kind of nut would play tennis during the hottest part of an August day.

“Before I get back to work, would any of you like something cold to drink?” Mom asked.

“Thanks. I could use a beer,” Eric said.

“No,” Mom answered. “No beer.”

“I’m eighteen,” Eric said.

“No beer,” Mom repeated with a smile. “There are soft drinks in the refrigerator. If you’d like, Sarah can get them for you.” She left.

“That was real smart, Eric,” Dee Dee said sarcastically.

“Hey, what’s the matter with you, Chubby?” Eric complained. “She asked, didn’t she?”

“You’re a clod,” Dee Dee muttered.

This was awful. I tried to distract them from their argument by asking, “Why are we just standing here? Why don’t we sit down?”

Dee Dee curled on one end of the sofa, as far away from Eric as she could get. He flopped and slumped, his muscular legs stretched out into the room. “I saw you yesterday when your family was moving in,” Eric said to me. “You gonna go to Memorial?”

“I guess,” I answered, “if that’s where everybody around here goes to high school.”

“Some of the kids go to private schools—St. Agnes, St. John’s, Kinkaid,” Dee Dee said.

“What do you think of the house?” Eric asked me. His expression was so wide-eyed with innocence, it looked fake. I got the feeling he knew it. What was with him?

Dee Dee glared at Eric. “That’s a stupid question. Why don’t we talk about movies? Has anybody seen that new horror one? The one that takes place in a cemetery?”

“It’s not a stupid question. I really want to know what Sarah thinks of the house.” A trace of a smile flickered around his mouth. “Why don’t you want to talk about it, Dee Dee?”

For just an instant I suspected him of mocking me, but it was Dee Dee he was looking at. She was so angry, her face was red.

“You and your cruel sense of humor!” she snapped. “I already told you what Sarah asked me about the house. You’re a creep, Eric!”

I didn’t understand what was disturbing her so much. If Eric wanted an answer, I’d give him one, but I’d hedge. I wished Dee Dee hadn’t told him what I’d asked. “Mom loves this place,” I answered. “I was just cleaning the maid’s room, and we were talking about making it into a library.”

Dee Dee jumped into the conversation as though she’d been reprieved. “A library! Don’t tell me you like to read.”

“I do like to read. A lot.”

“That’s great,” she said. “I’d love to see what books you’ve got.”

“You can help me unpack them,” I told her, “and borrow any you like.” Right now I didn’t want to talk about books. I thought about the woman who had called to me in Spanish. It dawned on me that maybe I could get some information from Eric and Dee Dee. “Did anyone in the Holt family speak Spanish?” I asked.

Dee Dee gave a little start. “Adam probably learned some in school. We all did. Why in the world do you want to know that?”

“What about a Spanish-speaking maid? You lived right next door to the Holts. You’d know if they had a maid.”

“A maid?” She shrugged. “I have no idea. I told you, the Holts kept to themselves. Let’s talk about something else.”

“If they had a maid, you’d see her going in and out, wouldn’t you?”

“Not necessarily,” she answered impatiently. “I suppose I would if the Holts had day help, someone who arrived in a car. But if they had live-in help—especially if she was an illegal alien, like Lupita, and didn’t want to be noticed—that’s a different matter. Mrs. Taylor, who lives on the corner, had a live-in maid for over a year before I knew she was there, and she wasn’t here illegally. And I remember when—”

I interrupted her. In a way I was talking to myself, trying to sort through my own confusion. “Are you
sure there wasn’t someone in this house who spoke Spanish?”