The Back Door of Midnight

by Elizabeth Chandler

  “Behind the old kitchen.”

  Close to Uncle Will’s den. That made sense.

  “Be careful, girl,” Ms. Sanchez warned. “Evil draws evil. If something tells you to get out of the house, get out.”

  “Don’t worry,” I replied, “I don’t usually argue with voices.”

  Her eyebrows drew together. “Are you hearing them?”

  “Not yet.”

  She touched my arm lightly. “I am here if you need my help.”

  Just what I needed, another crazy lady. “Thanks. G’night.”

  On the back step of the House of Evil, I enjoyed an icy glass of Dr Pepper, then went in and took a shower undisturbed. I called good night to Aunt Iris, who wished me the same from the other side of her bedroom door. Not only did she remember I was Anna, she had thoughtfully set a fan on the bureau by my bed. With a day’s worth of heat trapped beneath the roof, I turned it on full blast and aimed it at my bed, where I lay down, thinking I’d never fall asleep. Less than five minutes later, I closed my eyes.

  I awoke to a low vibrating sound. At first I thought it was the fan, but the sound grew louder, more intense. Remembering my previous dreams, I waited anxiously for what came next. The strange electrical buzz ran through my body, making each nerve ending tingle. I tried to raise my arms and found them as useless as dead things. I couldn’t even blink my eyes.

  Let go, I told myself, recalling the words that had released me once before from the noise and paralysis. Let go, I repeated in my head over and over, until not only my mind but my heart gave up the struggle against something that seemed meant to be.

  For a moment all I knew was darkness, then, at the top of the blackness, I saw a silvery outline, the wall like that of a castle. Immediately, I found the door in the wall and went through it. The maze of paths was there, just as before, and the tall figures, blurred forms. I remembered that during my last dream experience, when I had complained to Aunt Iris about my vision, it had cleared a little.

  “Aunt Iris, I can’t see. I want to see what that is.”

  I found myself gazing at a rabbit. Tall as a person, its posture was almost human, like that of an animal character in a children’s book. I ventured closer, wanting to see what its rough surface was made of, when suddenly, I began to fall—Alice down the rabbit hole!

  When the falling stopped, I knew where I was: the burn site. I heard someone behind me and turned quickly. The scene swam in my head, the images colliding, wobbling, then settling.

  A girl had run past me. A guy was chasing her. Zack.

  He didn’t appear to see me, having eyes only for the girl he had just caught in his arms, the girl who was at Tea Leaves, the girl at his stepmother’s party.

  “Erika, stop! This is crazy!” He pulled her back against him.

  She slumped over the arm he had around her, and for a moment I thought she was hurt, then she straightened up and let him turn her so that she faced him, his big hands handling her gently. I thought she would see me as Aunt Iris had, but she didn’t.

  “I’m afraid,” she said to Zack, tears running down her face. “I’m really afraid.”

  “We’ll figure this out,” he replied, his voice soft and low.

  “Just being here gives me an eerie feeling.”

  “Then why do you keep coming back?” he asked.

  Good question, buddy. Obviously, I didn’t buy the tears.

  “I’ve got to find my cell phone. I must have dropped it along the path.”

  “I told you, Erika, if any evidence was left behind, the police already have it.”

  “I feel like someone is watching us. I feel it, Zack.” She pressed her face into his shoulder.

  Why do guys fall for this stuff? I thought.

  “You’re imagining things.” He stroked her hair as if he were soothing a child.

  I wanted to flap my arms like a ghost and howl at her. Actually, I did, but she hadn’t a clue I was standing there.

  “But what if there is something to this psychic thing?” Erika asked Zack. “What if the old lady knows?”

  “Iris is confused,” Zack replied. “I’ve heard people say she’s been crazy for years. Even if she does know something, nothing she says will be believed by the police.”

  “She scares me.”

  Zack shook his head. “I told you before—”

  “That you were here for me,” Erika said. “Are you still?”

  “I don’t turn my back on friends.”

  “Then I’m counting on you to keep her niece busy.”

  Zack was silent for a moment. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Date her.”

  “What?”

  “Hang out with her. Pretend you’re interested.” She laughed lightly. “Pretend you think she’s the most beautiful girl in the world.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?” Erika asked. “You told me you don’t want to get hooked up with any one girl, not with college ahead. You don’t want commitments, and all that crap. Well, let the freckled little carrot be your bodyguard. Hang out with her.”

  “You’re assuming she’d want to hang out with me,” he said.

  “Oh, puh-lease! There isn’t a girl on this planet who wouldn’t, and you know it! Go ahead, give her a thrill, and help me out at the same time.”

  “There are better ways to get information,” Zack argued.

  “There is no better way to keep tabs on Iris,” she replied. “What’s the problem? Is Anna that bad? You can’t fake it with her?”

  “I can fake it with anyone.”

  “Then do it, okay? Please. For me? Zack, they could nail me with the old man’s death.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Then with arson. Arson doesn’t look good to a college admission board.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  You do that, I thought. You see if you can fake it with the freckled little carrot.

  Obviously, my feelings were hurt. I felt like a fool for letting down my guard, for looking in his eyes, for admiring his shoulders, for enjoying the way he stood close to me on the dock. Why do girls fall for this stuff ? I thought.

  I want to go back! I want to be asleep, having normal dreams like a normal person. I want out of here!

  As before, wanting it badly enough seemed to make it happen. There was a rush of darkness, that same sensation of being reeled back. When I opened my eyes, I was lying in bed, staring at the low ceiling, feeling the breeze of the old fan.

  I pulled myself up on one elbow to look at my clock: 12:30 a.m. I lay back down, hoping it had been nothing more than a weird dream, but believing otherwise. Last time, the morning after, I had found Aunt Iris’s jar of ashes. What would it be this time? I was exhausted from all that was going on and should have been sleeping soundly in this dark and quiet house. Why did some part of me keep slipping out the back door of midnight?

  ten

  THE NEXT MORNING I arrived at Always Christmas at the same time as Marcy. The shop was stuffy and silent when we entered through the back door, but within twenty minutes, the AC had kicked in, potpourri was spicing the air, and carols were playing. My odd summer night seemed far away.

  For the next several hours I ran the cash register, learned the basics of the shop’s computer software, checked out the cleaning supplies, and wiped down the bathroom sink. During my “free” moments, I was expected to study the merchandise, memorizing the names and styles of artists who supplied the shop.

  Marcy waited on customers and introduced me by my first name to two people who were local. I was grateful to her for not mentioning that I was an O’Neill.

  Late in the afternoon a craftsman who supplied her store, a man who made strange little elves—carved and painted figures that looked a lot like himself—studied me as I studied his work.

  “How’s things in the neighborhood?” he asked Marcy, still eyeing me.

  “Fine.”

&
nbsp; “How’s Iris? Behaving herself?”

  “I haven’t seen her recently,” Marcy replied. “The tourist season keeps me busy.”

  “That was bad news, finding Will in a trunk. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “I’m sure it has been very hard for her. So, have you reduced the price on these elves?”

  But the man wasn’t going to be sidestepped. “You’re an O’Neill,” he said to me.

  Denying it would have been an insult to my birth family. “Yes.”

  “Her niece—no, great-niece.”

  I nodded.

  “Are you psychic?”

  “No, sir. Psychotic.”

  The man raised his eyebrows, then laughed. All the little elves on the countertop appeared to laugh with him.

  Marcy remained focused on business, examining the figures, turning each one in her hands. “This one is flawed,” she said, setting it aside.

  “So why did Iris kill William?” the man asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why did she kill him?”

  It was the eyes, I decided, the bulging little eyeballs and the mouth that smiled with cleverness rather than happiness that made the elves look like him.

  “That’s what everyone is saying, that Iris did it,” the man went on. “Some friends of mine take their cats to Iris, and they say she’s—” He made the motion for crazy, winding his bony index finger around his ear. “They say she’s hearing voices these days.”

  “It seems to me,” I replied, “that the kind of people who take their cats to a psychic should expect her to hear voices.”

  “But these are different voices,” he insisted. “Wicked ones, according to her. She yells at the voices and tells them she won’t listen anymore.”

  I couldn’t argue that point, having witnessed her doing it. Still, I felt protective toward her. “If hearing voices and getting confused make you a murderer, retirement homes would be dangerous places.” I turned to Marcy. “Is this a good time to finish unpacking the boxes in the back?”

  She nodded. “I’ll call if I need you.”

  Ten minutes later, when the artist had left, I returned to the front of the store. “I know I should apologize for being rude, especially to someone as important as a supplier. The problem is, he was rude, and I don’t feel very sorry.”

  “I don’t blame you,” said Marcy. “I don’t know why people jump on Iris. I suppose they fear what they don’t understand.”

  “I’m a little afraid of her,” I admitted, “but with Uncle Will gone, somebody has to help.”

  “She’s a lot to handle. Isn’t there another family member who can share the burden? There has to be a cousin somewhere.”

  I shook my head. “Neither she nor Uncle Will had children. My birth mother was their only niece, and I’m my mother’s only child.”

  “Where is your adoptive mother?”

  “In Massachusetts with my younger brother and sisters. I don’t want to interrupt Mom’s vacation. We didn’t take one last year, and she’ll have the kids all by herself when I go to college. She needs a break. I can handle this.”

  Marcy studied me as carefully as she did the little elves, but rather than discarding me as flawed, she smiled. “I knew I hired the right girl.”

  That evening I planned to check out the “burial plot” behind Uncle Will’s den and begin a careful search of his office for anything that might be helpful for me to know. Finding the makeshift grave wasn’t hard. An old shovel had been left propped against the wall, close to an area of soft, upturned earth. The sandy dirt had a black handle sticking out of it, which I pulled: a butcher knife.

  A long, sharp knife wasn’t what I would have chosen to mark a place where I wanted someone to rest in peace. On the other hand, the site wasn’t far from the kitchen and a knife would slide into the earth easily. So which was it, convenience or symbolism? And was anything other than a jar of cinders buried here?

  I glanced toward the window of Aunt Iris’s office. She had said she’d be working there tonight, so this probably wasn’t a good time to dig up Uncle Will. And if she heard me searching his den, the room next to hers, she’d accuse me of scheming with his ghost to get rid of her. I put back the knife. My tasks would have to wait.

  Heading toward the water, I heard a jingling of metal tags. The gate between the Flemings’ house and ours had been left ajar. A dog pushed his nose through, then came bounding toward me, ears flying, tail bobbing. He looked like a beagle, a very friendly one—my knees and then my chin got a good washing.

  Kneeling in the grass, I reached for his tag. HI. I’M CLYDE, it said, and gave a phone number.

  “Hello, Clyde.”

  He sniffed me all over, then gave me a kiss on the ear.

  A shrill whistle split the air. “Clyde!”

  I looked toward the gate. “Your master calls.”

  But Clyde wasn’t all that obedient. He wagged his tail at me as if to say, Ignore him. I want to play with you.

  I heard Zack call again.

  “Come on, buddy.” I walked the dog back to the gate.

  Zack was sitting on the patio—or maybe, when a flagstone area is bigger than my backyard at home, has glass-topped tables, black iron chairs, lanterns, and footed urns of flowers, you are supposed to call it a “terrace.” Anyway, he was sitting there with a spiral pad open on his lap. When he saw me, he smiled. “Good dog! Nice fetch!”

  “He wasn’t fetching.”

  “Bring her here, boy. Good job!”

  The dog looked from Zack to me.

  “I’ve been training him,” Zack said. “Up till now he’s brought home only dead rabbits, but I guess he’s finally getting the hang of it.”

  “Great.” I turned my back to leave.

  Zack jumped up. “Anna! I was kidding, just kidding. I was . . . flirting. Badly, apparently.”

  It wasn’t the joke or the flirting, it was last night’s dream that made me turn my back. Get a grip, Anna, I told myself. You can’t blame someone for what he did in your dream.

  Zack picked up the sketchpad and pencil that had fallen off his lap. “Stay.”

  “Are you talking to me or Clyde?”

  He laughed. “Clyde. And you. Would you like a soda? Or some iced tea?” he offered. “Water with a slice of lime?” That’s what he was drinking.

  “No thanks. You look busy.” One of the patio tables was covered with photos.

  “Just sketching. Stick around. Clyde will be disappointed if you don’t. How’s Iris?” he asked.

  “The same. How’s Erika?” I replied, testing to see if the name in my dream was correct.

  “Okay. How was work today?”

  “It was interesting. I like Marcy.”

  “I’m glad. Do you like to stand when you talk to neighbors?”

  I looked behind me, backed up to a chair, and sat. Zack laughed.

  “Whatever I do seems to amuse you,” I said.

  “It’s just that sometimes you’re kind of fierce, and other times you’re . . . very shy. I think that you are actually very shy.”

  “Maybe.” I turned toward the water, but when I looked at it, all I saw was the color of Zack’s eyes. “Can I take Clyde down to the creek?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Take him for a boat ride if you want.”

  “I can take the boat out, just Clyde and me?”

  “That’s what you’d prefer, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll have to lift him in. Otherwise, he’ll try to jump down to the boat and capsize it. Like someone else we know,” Zack added slyly. “Put on a life jacket,” he called as I headed toward the boat. “And avoid ducks.”

  Clyde stood patiently on the dock as I eased into the boat. He allowed me to lift him down, then settled in the center of the boat while I cast off.

  I practiced rowing and felt good about my progress. I was finally getting the hang of it. After a while I slid down to the bottom of the boat next to Clyde, resting my back a
gainst the seat, drifting along, gazing at the streaky rose and violet sky. Clyde relaxed against my side, his tail lightly thumping against my thigh.

  Suddenly, I felt him tense. I felt an upward surge of muscle, and short, strong legs pushing against me. The sound he made was one I’d never heard before, but I knew immediately it could summon people in red jackets on horseback. I grabbed him. The next moment the boat tipped, and Clyde and I and some very excited ducks were splashing around in the creek.

  “Clyde, no! No, Clyde! Shoo, shoo!” I said to the ducks.

  They flew up from the water, quacking their opinion of the dog and me. Clyde answered, baying for them to come back and play. Finally, he gave up and doggy-paddled toward shore.

  I watched him all the way into the beach, then I swam toward the boat. I knew Zack had heard Clyde’s baying, but I kept my eyes on the rowboat, hoping that Zack would stay focused on his artwork.

  Reaching the rowboat, I discovered that the little maneuver I had seen yesterday—Zack pulling himself up and over the side of the boat—required more arm strength than I had. After three tries, I considered swimming and towing the boat to the dock. But I wanted to get in the way a real boater would. I gave it one more try, propelling myself from the water, kicking till I got my body halfway over the bow, and flopping into the boat like an oversize flounder.

  Hoping that Zack had not been watching, I moved onto the seat, pushed wet hair out of my eyes, and considered rowing around for a while as if nothing had happened. But I was exhausted and eager to get my feet on dry land. I rowed to the dock, where Zack was waiting with Clyde, the dog cheerfully wagging his little beagle tail.

  Zack smiled but perhaps knew better than to crack a joke or act concerned. I silently looped the boat rope around the piling.

  “Want a hand up?” he asked.

  “Okay.”

  He reached down.

  “Thank you.” I stood on the dock, staring down at the boat. “There’s water in it.”

  “Not much,” he said in an easygoing way. “I’ll clean up later.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you want to keep this?” he asked, and I felt his touch on my shoulder. I was wearing a slimy river weed.