The Second Horror
Page 6
“Overdo what?” Brandt snapped, even though he knew perfectly well what they were talking about. He’d heard it before.
“You know,” Mrs. McCloy said, “too many girls. It could be too much for you. Look what happened today. Jinny could have been seriously hurt.”
“But that wasn’t my fault!” Brandt protested. “It was an accident.”
“We know that, Brandt,” his father agreed. “But what if we hadn’t come home when we did? It might have taken a lot out of you—”
“Give me a break. I can’t take any more of this,” Brandt muttered. “Call me when dinner’s ready.”
He stomped out of the kitchen.
• • •
Creak, creak, creak.
Brandt lay on his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling.
Creak, creak, creak.
The footsteps again. In the attic.
What did it mean? Who was up there? What was making those mysterious sounds?
Brandt decided to ignore them this time. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Creak, creak, creak.
His eyes flew open. It was no use. He’d never be able to fall asleep. It sounded as if someone were pacing back and forth up there. Back and forth right over his bed.
One more time, he thought. I’m going to sneak up to that attic as quietly as I can.
This time maybe I’ll catch whoever it is up there.
He slipped out of bed and crept up the attic stairs.
Silence.
He switched on the light. No one in view.
But there, in the middle of the floor, lay the diary.
It had been moved.
Brandt stepped toward it. The little book lay open.
Puzzled, Brandt bent down and picked up the diary.
“Huh?” He uttered a low cry when he saw the fresh writing.
A new page. Someone had started a new page.
His hand trembled and his eyes grew wide as he read the words, neatly written in blue ink.
I made Jinny bleed.
Abbie is next.
Chapter 15
Brandt dropped the diary as if it were burning hot.
I don’t believe this! he thought.
His entire body trembled.
Who wrote the new entry? Who wrote these words?
He grabbed the diary and shuffled through the old pages. They were written in the same blue ink, he saw.
In the same handwriting.
Cally Frasier’s handwriting!
But how could Cally Frasier still be writing in the diary? She was dead!
Still trembling, Brandt stared at the newly written words again.
I made Jinny bleed.
Abbie is next.
Such cold, cruel words.
Was it some kind of a joke? Brandt suddenly wondered. Was someone trying to scare him?
No.
No one else had been up in the attic. No one.
So what did it mean?
Was the house really haunted? Haunted by the ghost of Cally Frasier?
Had a ghost written these frightening new words?
Had a ghost killed Ezra and cut Jinny?
And was the ghost really planning to hurt Abbie next?
Brandt shut the diary and tossed it against the wall.
He suddenly remembered the shadowlike figure that had chased him onto the front yard. That was the ghost! he decided.
The ghost was outside. It chased me home. The ghost is outside—and inside the house.
This is crazy, he thought. Totally crazy.
He climbed to his feet. But if it is for real, I can stop it, he told himself. Whatever it is, whoever it is—I won’t let Abbie get hurt.
“I know there’s evil in this house,” he whispered, wondering if the ghost could hear him. “But if anyone can beat it, I can.”
• • •
Brandt woke up early and hurried to the phone to warn Abbie.
He held the receiver in his hand—and realized he didn’t know her number. Or her last name.
Didn’t she tell me her last name? He struggled to remember.
He put down the phone and hurried to the front door. Stepping out into a blustery gray morning that threatened rain, he made his way down the driveway.
Which house is hers? he wondered, turning first to the left, then to the right. Or did Abbie say she lived across the street?
The houses all looked dark. It was a little after eight o’clock, but no lights were on in any of them.
I have to warn Abbie, Brandt told himself. She’ll probably think I’m crazy. But I have to warn her.
As he turned and trudged back into the house, he vowed to tell her the next time he saw her. If I have to, I’ll search door to door, he decided.
I won’t let Abbie get hurt. I won’t.
• • •
“That’s the weirdest thing I ever heard,” Meg said.
Brandt had just told her about the diary. He had to tell someone. And Meg had proven to be a good listener.
She was sitting with her legs tucked under her on a low chair in her den. Brandt sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the couch.
Brandt yawned for the hundredth time. He was exhausted from being awake the entire night. But he hadn’t wanted to cancel his date with Meg.
Meg had rented a movie. She’d pressed the Pause button and stood up to get more popcorn, when she noticed how tired Brandt looked. “Are you okay?” she had asked him.
That’s when he had told her about the footsteps in the attic—and about Cally Frasier’s diary.
“Someone is playing a really mean joke on you,” Meg said. “What else could it be?”
“But who would do it? And how are they doing it?” Brandt wondered aloud. “And why? It doesn’t make sense.”
Meg stared at him, thinking hard. “I’ll bet it’s Jon,” she said finally.
Brandt laughed. “You always want to blame Jon for everything.”
Meg looked hurt. “I’m being serious.” She shoved a strand of auburn hair off her forehead. “You don’t know Jon. He’s jealous of you, Brandt. He—”
“Jon may be very slick on the basketball court. But he isn’t slick enough to sneak up into my attic and write in Cally Frasier’s handwriting,” Brandt told her firmly.
Meg settled back on the chair, frowning.
The closet door suddenly moved with a squeak.
Brandt gasped, staring at the door in terror.
“It’s only Lulu,” Meg told him. A fluffy white cat slinked out of the closet and settled onto Meg’s lap. “Whoa. You’re awfully jumpy today.”
Brandt let out a long, slow breath. I keep expecting shadowy ghosts to jump out at me wherever I go, he thought.
I can’t ever let my guard down for a second.
He decided not to tell Meg about the choking cloud of white smoke that burst from his closet. Or the shadowy ghost that chased him home.
She’ll think I’m a total psycho! he told himself.
And then, a troubling thought—Maybe I am.
Meg set the cat down, crossed the room, and sat down on the floor next to Brandt. “Relax,” she said softly. “Let’s think about something else for a while.”
She leaned forward and kissed him.
Brandt wrapped his arms around her and kissed her too. Her lips were soft and warm. He wanted to be kissed. He needed to be kissed. He pressed his mouth against hers hungrily.
“Hey!” Something jabbed his leg. Something sharp.
Brandt cried out and pulled away from Meg. “What was that?”
Meg reached behind him and pulled Lulu into her arms. “The stupid cat,” she told him. “Did she claw you? Sorry.”
Brandt smiled tensely. “Oh.” He started to pull her close to kiss her again.
But the front doorbell rang.
Meg sighed. “I’ll be right back.” She climbed to her feet and made her way across the living room to the front door. Brandt could see the door from w
here he sat on the den floor.
“Hey, Megster.” Brandt recognized Jinny’s voice.
Uh-oh, Brandt thought, straightening his hair with his fingers. He moved from the floor to the couch, hoping that position would seem more—innocent.
Jinny, in dark green jeans and a pale yellow sweater, strode into the house, Meg at her heels. “I just stopped by for a second to—”
When she spotted Brandt on the couch, her mouth dropped open in surprise. Her face turned red, but she recovered quickly. “Oh. Hi, Brandt. What are you doing here?”
“We’re just studying,” Meg replied for him.
“With no books?” Jinny’s voice grew shrill. Her eyes fell on the TV and she added, “While watching a movie?”
“Want to join us?” Brandt asked lightly. He patted the couch cushion next to him.
“Uh—Meg, could I see you for a minute in the next room?” Jinny demanded. It wasn’t really a question.
Meg followed Jinny into the living room. Brandt could hear them whispering sharply, angrily, to each other.
“Hey, don’t fight over me, girls!” he called, trying to keep it light. “There’s plenty of me to go around!”
They ignored him and kept whispering. A few seconds later Brandt heard the front door slam.
Meg returned to the den, her cheeks bright pink. “What’s Jinny’s problem anyway?” she demanded. “She already has a boyfriend!”
• • •
Brandt left Meg’s house a short while later. Jinny’s appearance had spoiled the afternoon. Brandt liked the idea of having two girls fight over him. But he was too exhausted and stressed out to be able to deal with it then.
His parents were out when he got home. The house sat quiet and dark, mysterious and full of secrets.
Brandt hesitated for a second, feeling weary, worn out—and frightened. Taking a deep breath, he walked up the stairs and straight to the attic.
He had to see the diary.
Would it be where he left it? Would there be any new entries?
He stepped onto the attic floor. A dim shaft of light filtered through the attic window, casting a halo of dust around the diary.
Brandt knelt beside the book. With trembling fingers he opened the cover. Then he turned to the last page.
Was there a new entry?
He raised the open diary, read the last page—and gasped in horror.
Chapter 16
I made Jinny bleed.
Abbie is next.
Brandt, you cannot save Abbie.
“No!” Brandt cried out loud. He slammed the diary shut and squeezed the book in his hand, squeezed it until his hand ached.
“Cally Frasier—can you hear me?” he called.
Silence.
“Are you writing these threats in your diary, Cally?” Brandt demanded in a quivering voice.
Silence.
“I’m taking your diary away!” he shouted. “I’m taking it and hiding it, Cally! So you can’t make any more threats!”
He moved quickly to the stairs, the diary still clasped tightly in his hand.
Have I gone totally crazy? he asked himself. Am I really up here shouting at a ghost?
He clamored heavily down the stairs.
Into his room.
If there is no diary, will the evil still happen? he wondered.
Can I save Abbie by hiding the diary?
He glanced around the room, desperately searching for a hiding place.
The closet?
No. He remembered that green glow, the flash of white that had sprung out at him from the closet.
The diary wouldn’t be safe there.
He pulled open his bottom dresser drawer and tossed the diary under a stack of T-shirts. It would have to do.
As he pushed the drawer closed, Brandt heard a voice.
“Mom? Dad?” he called. “Are you home?”
No answer.
He hurried to the window and checked the driveway. No. No sign of his parents.
He heard the voice again. Tiny. Far away.
“Cally? Is that you? Did you come to find your diary?” he demanded, his eyes searching the room.
A muffled voice. Out in the hall.
He stepped out into the hallway and listened.
Crying? Was someone crying?
“Hello?” he called. “Is someone here?”
The muffled cry grew louder. A whimpering dog? A child?
But where? Where was it coming from?
Gripped with fear, Brandt forced his legs to carry him down the dimly lit hall. The tiny cries seemed to come from an empty bedroom. He stopped outside the door to the room and listened. “Is anybody in there? Can you hear me?”
As he stepped into the empty room, he heard the little boy’s frightened voice. “Mommy, it’s me! Are you there, Mommy?”
“Wh-who is it?” Brandt stammered. “Where are you?”
“Help me, Mommy! Help me! Come get me, Mommy. It’s so dark here. Come get me! It’s me—James!”
Chapter 17
The little boy’s tiny, terrified voice sent a cold shudder down Brandt’s spine.
“Mommy! Mommy! Where are you?” the voice cried. “Come get me, Mommy! Please!”
Brandt switched on the light. A single bare bulb shone in a ceiling fixture.
His eyes darted frantically around the room. No one there.
“Mommy!” the voice pleaded. “Help me! Come get me! It’s so dark here!”
No, Brandt thought. It’s impossible.
The voice seemed to be coming from inside the wall.
Brandt froze, unable to decide what to do. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to the wall and pressed his hands against it.
Was there some kind of trapdoor in the wall? Some kind of secret compartment? He ran his hands all along the wall, pressing hard. But it was solid—plaster.
“Take me home, Mommy! It’s James! Mommy, where are you?”
James. James. Why does that name sound familiar? Brandt asked himself.
The diary, he remembered. Cally wrote about her brother, a little boy named James. She told a horrifying story. About how James and his dog disappeared—and were never found.
But Cally’s family heard James calling to them. Calling from inside the walls.
Could that little boy still be alive? Brandt wondered, staring at the white plaster wall.
No. It was impossible. The house had been empty for more than a year.
“Mommy, I’m scared! It’s so dark in here! I’m so lonely! Get me out, Mommy!”
“I’ll help you, James!” Brandt shouted. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll help you!”
But how?
Somehow he had to open up the wall.
“Please don’t leave me, Mommy! Don’t leave me behind!”
“Don’t worry, James,” Brandt called. “I’ll be right back.”
He hurried downstairs and frantically rummaged through the cartons stacked in the dining room. He knew his father had packed his tools somewhere.
A few minutes later he returned to the room, carrying a large wooden mallet.
“James?” Brandt called. “Are you still here?”
“Mommy! Get me out!” the boy screeched.
“All right,” Brandt called in a soothing voice. “Wherever you are, James, step away from this side of the wall.”
Brandt waited a few seconds. Then he heaved the mallet and swung it at the wall. It cracked a hole in the plaster.
Brandt peered inside the hole.
Nothing but darkness. No sign of the boy.
“James?” Brandt called.
Silence.
Then, “Mommy! I want to come back! Please, Mommy?”
“Hold on, James!” Brandt called breathlessly. He raised the heavy mallet—and swung again. Again. Again.
The plaster crumbled. The hole widened.
Brandt struggled to catch his breath. A sour odor invaded his nostrils. He recognized it at once—the same stench he’d smelle
d in his room a few days before.
The stench of decay, of rotting flesh.
One more swing of the mallet, and the wall fell away.
“Ohhhhh.” Brandt uttered a sickened cry. The mallet dropped from his hands and landed at his feet with a thud.
He was staring at the most gruesome sight he had ever seen in his life.
Chapter 18
As Brandt gaped in horror, the skeleton of a child toppled out of the wall. The child’s bony hands clutched a dog’s skeleton in its arms.
Holding his breath against the foul odor, Brandt forced himself to look. The small body was decomposed.
A ragged little pair of jeans and a shirt clung to the boy’s bones.
The bones tumbled in a heap to the floor.
Brandt turned away, fighting down his nausea.
The room lay in silence now. The pitiful cries had stopped.
Brandt stared at the hideous little skull with its patch of red hair. This boy was calling to me, Brandt knew. That was the tiny voice that I heard.
But how?
Abbie’s words echoed in his mind. The house is evil.
The house is evil.
Maybe, Brandt thought.
Or maybe the house was haunted—by the ghost of James.
• • •
Brandt’s parents returned home about an hour after Brandt discovered the skeleton.
Mrs. McCloy gasped in horror at the sight. But Brandt’s father stared at the two skeletons, fascinated. “This could explain a lot of strange things about the house,” he told Brandt. “The noises you’ve been hearing, your sense that someone’s in the room with you—” He paused.
“It’s not a classic case,” he mused. “But I think we’ve had a poltergeist.”
“What are we going to do with these bones?” Mrs. McCloy moaned. “How can you be talking about poltergeists when we have the skeleton of a child on our floor?”
“Poltergeists are often the ghosts of children,” Mr. McCloy continued, staring at the pile of bones. “They’re mischievous, but they rarely hurt anyone. No one has been hurt in this house, have they?”
“What about Jinny?” Brandt demanded. “And what about poor Ezra?”