The Secret

by R. L. Stine

  Swallowing hard, Jonathan gathered his courage and reluctantly peered into the well. To his relief, the well water was clean.

  Only the bucket was filled with blood.

  What did it mean?

  Her arms around her shoulders, Jane gently guided Rachel inside. Ezra nervously rubbed his fingers over the pendant, as if it would help him somehow.

  “It has happened again. They have found us before we could find them,” Ezra said. “There must be Goodes living nearby—or buried near here.”

  “Calm down, Papa,” Jonathan pleaded. “There is no curse. Look—we are all safe.”

  “Foolish boy,” Ezra murmured, and he left his son alone.

  Still dazed and shaken, Jonathan stared at the bucket of blood. The howl of agony he had heard in the night came rushing back to him.

  Who, or what, could have done this? he wondered.

  Was it the work of a crazy person? A wild animal?

  Or could his father be right after all? Could it really be the curse of the Goodes?

  Rachel stayed in her room for the rest of the morning while Ezra paced the house, tense and scowling.

  I must get out of here, Jonathan told himself. As long as I sit in this house, I shall keep seeing that bucket of blood.

  He decided to pay a call on Delilah.

  Jonathan gathered wildflowers as he walked down the road to the little farmhouse. It was very small—only a cabin really—and shabby, made of brown-weathered shingles, with only a few small windows and one chimney.

  To the right of the house sat a tumbledown cow shed. A few chickens pecked at the dirt behind a fence. Beyond them were a stand of scraggly fruit trees and an acre or two of stony fields.

  Clutching his handful of purple and white flowers, Jonathan knocked on the door. Delilah opened it.

  “Hello, Jonathan,” she said, smiling. “What a nice surprise.”

  As he handed her the flowers, he felt his face grow hot.

  She invited him in. A man with shoulder-length gray hair sat at a writing table in a corner of the room. He stood up when Jonathan entered.

  “Father, this is Jonathan Fier,” Delilah said. “Jonathan, this is my father, the Reverend Wilson.”

  Delilah’s father gave Jonathan a friendly handshake. “I am very pleased to meet you, young man,” the reverend said. “I plan to call on your parents soon to welcome them.”

  “They will be delighted,” Jonathan said with a polite bow.

  “Father is working on a sermon at the moment,” Delilah said. “Shall we go for a walk?”

  Jonathan agreed. He and Delilah went outside and strolled through the orchard of fruit trees.

  In the warm sunlight Jonathan thought Delilah was prettier than ever. Her cheeks glowed pink, and she had a lively spring to her step.

  But as she looked at his face, he saw her frown. “You look tired, Jonathan,” she said “Are you feeling well?”

  Jonathan started to say, “Yes, of course.” But then he thought better of it. Delilah has already heard all about the family history, he thought, and she is not afraid of me. Not in the least afraid. She is an understanding girl. Perhaps I have found someone I can speak with—at last!

  “Something disturbed me last night, while I was sleeping,” he told her. “A strange and terrifying noise.”

  “A noise?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Yes. It was as if some hideous creature were rushing through the woods, heading straight for our house. It drew closer until it seemed to be right under my window, shrieking. Then suddenly it stopped.”

  “What was it?” Delilah asked.

  “I do not know,” Jonathan replied. “When I looked outside, I saw nothing.”

  “It must have been a dream,” Delilah told him.

  “That is what I decided,” Jonathan said. “But this morning Rachel went to the well for water, and when she pulled up the bucket—” He paused, wondering if he should continue. Should he say such a shocking thing to a young lady he hardly knew?

  Delilah stopped walking and faced him. “What happened?” she asked. “What did you find in the bucket?”

  “It was full of blood,” he told her.

  Delilah gasped.

  “My father is convinced that it has something to do with the curse,” Jonathan said. “I cannot help but wonder if he is right.”

  Now Delilah turned her face away. “Oh, no,” she said, walking ahead of him. Were her hands shaking? Jonathan could not be sure, “He cannot be right about this, can he, Jonathan? There must be some reasonable explanation.”

  “There must be,” Jonathan said. “But I cannot think of one. Do you suppose a wounded animal somehow got into the well? But that does not make sense. There was so much blood—and no sign of an animal. And the well water was perfectly clean.”

  Delilah stopped again and took Jonathan’s hand. “Please, Jonathan,” she pleaded. “Forget about this curse. Let it be your father’s obsession, not yours.”

  Jonathan put his hand over hers. Her skin was so soft. Her words echoed in his mind. Forget about this curse, he thought. That is exactly what I would have said—until today.

  He and Delilah walked on in silence.

  She is a very sensible girl, Jonathan thought. I am glad we have met. It is so good to have someone to confide in.

  That night Jonathan went to bed early and immediately fell asleep.

  Deep in the night a noise woke him.

  Creak.

  Jonathan’s eyes flew open. He listened, holding his breath.

  It was the dead of night. The house lay bathed in darkness.

  Creak.

  Jonathan’s heart began to pound. There it was again.

  Creak. Creak.

  It came from the hall. His mouth suddenly dry, his temples throbbing, Jonathan slipped out of bed and crept to the door.

  He put his ear to the door and listened. I really did hear a noise this time, he thought. I am sure of it.

  Creeeeak.

  Slowly, silently, he opened the door. The hall was dark. He listened to footsteps quietly coming toward him.

  He peered around the door and into the hall.

  There it stood.

  His blood stopped flowing in his veins.

  At the end of the hall he saw a vision in white—floating toward him.

  Chapter 11

  “Who is it?” Jonathan cried. But his voice came out a choked whisper.

  The pale figure whispered, “Abigail! Abigail!”

  It floated closer. Jonathan could see a white nightgown and white nightcap, long gray hair flowing under it. He heard the floorboards creaking under her bare feet.

  It cannot be a ghost, he thought.

  The apparition called out softly, “Abigail! Abigail! Come back!”

  It is Mama, Jonathan realized, alarmed. What is she doing?

  His mother stepped quietly past him, not seeing him. Again she called, “Abigail!”

  She is walking in her sleep, Jonathan realized.

  She started down the stairs and Jonathan followed.

  She made her way to the back of the house, the ghostly white gown trailing along the floor. “Abigail!” she called a little louder this time. “Wait for me!”

  She opened the back door. She was going outside.

  Jonathan stepped forward and grabbed her arm. “Mama!” he cried in a trembling voice. “What are you doing?”

  She turned around, startled. Her eyes were wide open and full of tears.

  She is not asleep, Jonathan thought. She is awake. She knows what she is doing.

  “It is Abigail,” his mother whispered, tears rolling down her quivering cheeks. “She called to me. She is out there, waiting for me.”

  Jonathan pulled his mother inside and closed the door. “No, Mama,” he said, desperate to soothe her. “You must be dreaming.”

  “I am not dreaming, Jonathan.” His mother’s voice was firm now. “She is in the backyard. My little girl…”

  Jonathan opene
d the door and peered outside. It was a warm, clear night, well lit by the moon. He saw no one outside. No sign of Abigail.

  “No one is there, Mama,” Jonathan said. “Please, you must go back to bed.”

  He put an arm around his mother’s shoulders and began to lead her back to the stairs. She struggled against him.

  “No!” she cried. “Abigail needs me!”

  Jonathan was stronger and guided his mother upstairs. “You cannot go outside—you will catch cold. You had a bad dream, Mama. That is all,” he said. “Just a bad dream.”

  But no matter what he told her, Jane refused to believe that her dead daughter hadn’t called to her.

  She allowed herself to be taken upstairs, but still she was frantic with grief and worry. She went to bed, and at last, exhausted, fell into a deep sleep.

  Jonathan shut the door to his room and went to his window to look out. The yard, with the woods behind it, stretched quiet and peaceful in the moonlight.

  In the morning the Fier family went about their chores as if it were any other day. Neither Jonathan nor his mother said a word to anyone about what had happened the night before.

  It was almost as if it really had been a dream. Jonathan knew better.

  Mama has been shaken since Abigail died, Jonathan thought. But it has always been a matter of a momentary confusion. She has never gone this far before.

  The next night he lay awake, waiting for a noise. Hours passed in peaceful stillness. Jonathan’s body began to relax. Then, just as he began to feel drowsy, he heard it.

  Creak.

  “Abigail! Abigail!” came the whispered cry.

  He heard his father’s heavier tread on the floorboards.

  “Jane, come back to bed,” Ezra whispered. “You will wake up the children.”

  Jonathan heard his father take his mother back into their room and shut the door. He heard their muffled voices, then his mother crying.

  Jonathan’s mother stayed in bed all the next day, and the next. But at night she roamed the house, calling for her dead daughter.

  “I want to do something for her,” Rachel told Jonathan. “Something to cheer her up.”

  Jonathan sighed. He doubted anything he or Rachel could do would make their mother happy.

  “What about the trellis?” Rachel suggested. “We could plant roses. Someday they will grow so high they will reach her bedroom window.”

  “All right,” Jonathan agreed. He was glad to get out of the house, at least.

  Jonathan took a shovel and Rachel took a spade. They began to dig holes for the rosebushes.

  Feeling a light tap on his shoulder, Jonathan whirled around to see who was there.

  He found himself staring into Delilah’s pretty face.

  “Good afternoon,” she said.

  “Good afternoon,” Jonathan answered.

  “Hello, Delilah!” Rachel called.

  Jonathan wiped his dirty hands on his work pants and wished Delilah had not found him so muddy. But she did not seem to mind.

  “Do you two have time for a visitor?” Delilah asked.

  “Of course,” said Jonathan.

  “I need a rest anyway,” Rachel said. “I am tired of digging.”

  “Shall we sit in the shade?” Jonathan suggested.

  Jonathan and Delilah sat under an apple tree while Rachel ran off and was soon back with a pitcher of lemon water.

  “I have come to see how the two of you are doing,” said Delilah. “I have been worried about you.”

  Jonathan was silent. But Rachel said, “Oh, Delilah—Mama is not well. She walks through the house every night, calling for Abigail. We think she sees Abigail’s ghost!”

  Delilah’s eyes widened, and she raised a hand to her throat. She turned to Jonathan. “Can this be truer”

  “It is true that Mama is upset,” Jonathan told her. “Every night she cries out for Abigail. She—she says she sees Abigail in the yard, beckoning to her.”

  Delilah sucked in her breath and shut her eyes. “This is dreadful,” she murmured, almost as if she were talking to herself.

  Jonathan leaned closer to her. “But I am sure it is not a ghost,” he said to reassure her. “Please do not worry about us, Delilah. Rachel exaggerates sometimes.”

  “I do not!” cried Rachel.

  A bit of color returned to Delilah’s face, and she grew calmer.

  “She could be dreaming, could she not?” she suggested. “The same dream, night after night?”

  Jonathan sipped his lemon water thoughtfully. He studied Delilah’s face, and she smiled at him.

  She is so brave, he thought. She is trying to make Rachel and me feel better.

  Rachel is afraid of a ghost, and I am afraid that my mother is going insane. Delilah does not want us to be frightened, so she assures us it is a dream.

  “Jonathan.”

  Jonathan’s eyes flew open. It was the middle of the night.

  Another sound.

  Mama?

  “Jonathan,” came the eerie whisper. “Jonathan—beware!”

  Jonathan froze as he stared into the darkness.

  It was not his mother, but the soft, sweet voice of a girl.

  “Who is there?” he whispered.

  “Beware, my brother,” came the girl’s voice. It seemed to be coming from outside the open window. But that was impossible….

  “Beware, my brother,” the voice said again. “Or your fate will be worse than mine!”

  Jonathan sat up. “Rachel?” he called. “Rachel? Where are you?”

  “No,” whispered the little girl. “No, not Rachel. I am Abigail.”

  Chapter 12

  Jonathan jumped out of bed. “Abigail!” he cried frantically. “Abigail! Where are you?”

  He froze in the center of the room and listened.

  No one answered. The voice was gone.

  His hands trembling, Jonathan lit a candle from the smoldering embers in the fireplace. The candlelight made his shadow rise eerily on the wall.

  Jonathan searched every corner of the room. He threw open the wardrobe door and peered inside.

  No sign of his dead sister. No sign of anyone.

  His heart thumping, Jonathan slumped back onto the bed.

  Abigail had called to him. Or had she?

  Had it been another dream?

  Perhaps Mama’s madness is getting to me, he thought. But he quickly dismissed the idea.

  The voice was real. I did hear Abigail calling me, warning me about something….

  Then a soft tapping at his door startled him.

  He leapt to his feet, staring at the door.

  Should he open it?

  He had no time to decide. The door squeaked open slowly.

  In walked Rachel.

  She wore her nightshift and cap, her feet bare. Her eyes in the dim candlelight were round with fear.

  “Rachel, what is it?” Jonathan asked, his voice a low whisper.

  “I saw her!” Rachel cried. “I saw Abigail!”

  Chapter 13

  Jonathan rushed to his sister and took her by the shoulders. “You saw Abigail?” he said. “Where?”

  “I saw her face outside my window. She called to me, ‘Rachel! Beware!’”

  “But how did you know it was Abigail?” Jonathan asked. “Do you remember what she looked like?”

  “She looked like Papa’s picture of her,” said Rachel. “She wore a white cap with blue ribbons, and she was floating outside my window. Then she disappeared.”

  Jonathan let go of Rachel. Maybe Mama really had seen Abigail, he thought. Perhaps she saw what Rachel saw. It had to be Abigail. Abigail’s ghost.

  Abigail had come to warn her family.

  But of what?

  * * *

  “I am going to call on the Wilsons, Mama,” Jonathan told Jane. She sat by the hearth in the kitchen, too tired to move.

  “Let me go with you,” Rachel begged. “I like Delilah.”

  “Not today, Rachel,”
said Jonathan. “Today I want to see her alone.”

  Their mother gave Jonathan a basket of sweet rolls to take with him as a gift. “Please send our regards to her father,” Jane said. Then she sighed. “We should have had them to tea by now, but it has been so difficult….”

  Tears welled up in her eyes, which she brushed away. Misery had aged Jonathan’s mother since Abigail’s death. The corners of her mouth sagged, and her eyes were dull and almost colorless. Jonathan noticed that the past few days had sharpened the pain in her face.

  “Apologize to the Wilsons for me,” she went on. “And tell them—tell them I have been ill.”

  “I will,” Jonathan promised. He put a hand on her arm and added, “You will feel better soon, Mama. I know you will.”

  She nodded absently. Jonathan took the basket and set off down the road to the Wilsons’ farm.

  The Reverend Wilson was working in a field when Jonathan arrived, but Delilah’s lively face lifted Jonathan’s spirits. She took the rolls with a smile. “It was so thoughtful of your mother to send them,” she said. “How is she?”

  Jonathan sighed. “No better,” he told her. “She still sees Abigail at night. But now, at least, she is not the only one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Rachel saw her, too. And I—well, I heard Abigail’s voice. She called to me.”

  Delilah dropped the basket and turned her face away. Jonathan saw her shoulders shaking under her faded pink dress.

  “Delilah, what is wrong?” Gently he turned her around, put his arms on her shoulders to stop their shaking, and gazed intently into her eyes. But she lowered her face as if she didn’t want him to see her expression.

  When she finally raised her eyes, they were filled with tears. “I am very worried about you, Jonathan,” she said. “About you and your family. I—I would never wish any harm on you, ever.”

  Jonathan thought she was even prettier than usual with her eyes shining with tears. He wanted to throw his arms around her and kiss her.

  “What are you talking about, Delilah?” he asked. “I know you wouldn’t wish harm on us. This has nothing to do with you.” He paused, feeling guilty. “I should never have burdened you with our problems, Delilah. You are taking them upon yourself.”