Hellfire

by John Saul

  “Your grandmother,” Alison replied. She rolled her eyes toward Kip Braithwaite, who was sprawled on a towel next to her. “Kip thinks someone tried to kill her.”

  Tracy’s eyes widened, and she turned to stare at Kip. “Why would anyone want to kill Grandmother?”

  “Well, someone wanted to kill Jeff Bailey, and they did it, didn’t they?”

  “Aw, jeez,” Brett Kilpatrick groaned. “Nobody killed Jeff. He tripped and fell on a pick.”

  “That’s what you think,” Kip replied.

  “Well, I ought to know,” Brett shot back. “I was there, wasn’t I?”

  “But what did you see?” Kip taunted. “You were too chicken even to go downstairs.”

  “But what about Grandmother?” Tracy demanded. “How come you think someone tried to kill her?”

  Kip shrugged. “Well, she had her heart attack right on the same spot where they killed Jeff, didn’t she?”

  “So what?” Alison Babcock asked. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “And it doesn’t disprove anything, either,” Kip taunted.

  “Well, if you’re so smart, who did it?” Brett asked.

  Kip glared at his friend. “What about Beth Rogers?”

  Brett began laughing. “Her? You gotta be kidding. Didn’t you see her at Tracy’s party? She almost wet her pants just watching that movie!”

  “But she was talking about a ghost in the mill,” Kip pointed out. “Maybe she went looking for one.”

  “Are you kidding?” Alison giggled. “Beth Rogers? Give me a break.”

  “Well, I think she killed Jeff,” Kip insisted. “And I think she tried to kill Tracy’s grandma, too.”

  “Big deal.” Alison sneered. “So that’s what you think. But how do you know?”

  “Well, I know she killed Tracy’s horse,” Kip shot back. “Tracy says that’s why they’re kicking her out. She’s crazy.”

  “Oh, come on,” Alison started, but Tracy interrupted her.

  “But she is crazy, Alison,” she insisted. “I was hiking up near the mausoleum yesterday, and she was up there. I heard her talking about someone named Amy that she thinks killed Jeff.”

  Alison stared at her. “Amy?” she repeated. “Who’s she supposed to be?”

  Tracy rolled her eyes. “She’s the ghost! And I heard her talking about how this Amy killed Jeff because he was teasing her at my party.”

  The other three fell silent, eyeing each other uneasily, and Tracy could see that she hadn’t yet convinced them. “Well, she is crazy,” she insisted. “And I bet Kip’s right. I bet she’s so crazy that she killed Jeff, and doesn’t even know it. I bet she really believes a ghost did it.”

  Alison’s eyes narrowed, and she stared suspiciously at Tracy. “What about your grandmother?” she asked. “Do you think Beth tried to kill her too?”

  Tracy hesitated, then nodded.

  “Why?” Alison demanded. “What did your grandmother ever do to her?”

  “Nothing,” Tracy replied. “Except she can’t stand Beth, either, and Beth knows it. But crazy people don’t need a reason to do things—they just do them.” Then she had an idea. “And my grandmother was acting real weird last night, too. First she talked to Daddy, and then she made us go get Beth and bring her to the hospital. And afterward, Beth wouldn’t tell any of us what she and Grandmother talked about.”

  “Think maybe she saw Beth down there yesterday?” Kip asked.

  “If she’d seen her, why would she want to talk to her?” Alison asked. “I mean, if somebody tried to kill me, the last thing I’d want to do is talk to them!”

  “Maybe she wasn’t sure it was Beth,” Kip suggested. “Maybe she wanted to talk to her to see if she could trap her, like they do on TV all the time.”

  Alison rolled her eyes impatiently. “Oh, who cares what they talked about? There’s no way we can find out, anyway.”

  There was a momentary silence, and then Tracy grinned conspiratorially. “I bet I can find out.”

  “How?” someone asked.

  “I’ll go visit Grandmother,” Tracy went on. “And I’ll bet I can pry whatever she told Beth out of her. I can always get Grandmother to do whatever I want, because she hates Carolyn so much.”

  “I bet she doesn’t hate her as much as you do,” Alison said, rolling over onto her back, and closing her eyes.

  “I bet she doesn’t, either,” Tracy agreed. She, too, flopped back and closed her eyes. “In fact, I wish I could figure out a way to get Daddy to throw her out, too. Or maybe I could even get Beth to kill her. Wouldn’t that be neat? Getting her to kill her own mother?” She giggled maliciously, and after a moment, the others joined in.

  Tracy left the club at four o’clock, deciding it was better to walk the two miles into town than to ask her father to take her to the hospital when he came to pick her up. He’d want to know why she suddenly wanted to visit her grandmother, and she wasn’t about to tell him.

  She started along River Road, wondering how she would get the information she wanted out of her grandmother. She couldn’t just ask her—she already knew that. If she’d made Beth promise not to talk, she wouldn’t just start talking herself. And then, as she approached the railroad tracks, she knew the answer.

  Get her talking about the past. If there was anything her grandmother liked to do, it was to talk about the “good old days” before Tracy was born. And then, when she had her grandmother’s guard down, she’d figure out how to lead her into talking about what had happened last night.

  She was crossing the railroad tracks on River Road when she suddenly felt as if she was being watched. Turning, she saw Beth Rogers standing a few yards away, staring at her.

  She froze, wondering what was going to happen. What if Beth had already figured out what she’d done to the oats? Would she have the nerve to say anything? But it wouldn’t happen—Beth, she was sure, was too dumb to figure out what had really happened to Patches, just as Patches had been too dumb to refuse the poisoned oats. Raising her chin defiantly, and studiously ignoring Beth, she continued on to Prospect Street, then turned right past the mill toward the hospital that lay a few blocks further on.

  Ignoring the sign announcing that visiting hours were from six until eight P.M., Tracy made her way to her grandmother’s room, and let herself inside. Lying in the bed, her eyes closed and her breathing regular, Abigail Sturgess slept peacefully.

  Tracy gazed at the frail form in the bed for a few moments, then reached out and shook her grandmother.

  “Grandmother? Wake up.”

  Abigail stirred slightly, and tried to roll over.

  Tracy shook her again. “Grandmother! It’s Tracy. Wake up!”

  Abigail started slightly, coughed, and opened her eyes. Squinting against the light, she peered up into her granddaughter’s face. “Tracy?” she asked weakly. “What are you doing here?”

  Tracy wreathed her face in a smile. “I came to visit you, Grandmother. I thought you must be lonely.”

  Abigail struggled to sit up. “Well, aren’t you sweet,” she said, as Tracy stuffed an extra pillow behind her. She blinked, then reached unsteadily for a glass of water on the table next to the bed. “Did your father come with you?”

  Tracy shook her head. “I walked. I was afraid if I told anyone I was coming, Carolyn would have stopped me.”

  “She probably would have,” Abigail agreed. “She’s a hard one, that woman.” Then she smiled. “Not like your mother at all.”

  Sensing an opening, Tracy smiled again. “Tell me about her,” she said. “Tell me all about Mommy!”

  Abigail sighed contentedly, and her eyes took on a faraway look as she let her mind drift back into the past. “She was a wonderful woman, your mother. Pretty as a picture, and just like you.” She reached out to Tracy, squeezing her hand affectionately. “And she knew her place in the world. You wouldn’t find her working in the kitchen, except once a week to give Cook the menus. But I suppose those days are gone forever …
” Her voice trailed off, and she fell silent.

  Tracy gazed at the shriveled form of her grandmother, wondering if she’d gone back to sleep again. “Well, if the mill starts making money again—” she began, and Abigail’s eyes snapped open.

  “It won’t!” she said, her voice suddenly strong. “We don’t need the money, and I told your father to close it. I intend to see that he does!”

  Tracy grinned to herself. “But why?” she asked. “Why should he close it?”

  Abigail’s head swung slowly around, and her eyes fixed on Tracy’s, but Tracy had the eerie feeling that her grandmother wasn’t really seeing her.

  “Because she’s evil,” the old woman whispered, almost to herself. “She killed my son, and she killed Jeff Bailey, and she tried to kill me!”

  Tracy’s heart beat faster. It was exactly what she’d wanted to hear, even though her grandmother was confused. Beth couldn’t possibly have killed Uncle Conrad—she hadn’t even been born yet. But it didn’t matter. So what if her grandmother had part of it wrong? She did her best not to show her excitement. “She tried to kill you?” she whispered. “Who?” Then, when her grandmother made no reply, she decided to gamble. “You saw her, didn’t you?” she asked. “You saw her down there, and she did something to you, didn’t she?”

  Abigail’s eyes widened, and she felt her heart constrict as her mind suddenly opened and the memories of the previous night flooded back to her. Again her hand reached out to Tracy, but now that hand was a claw, and when she grasped the girl’s wrist, Tracy felt a stab of pain.

  “The children,” Abigail gasped. “Yes … I saw the children.”

  “Beth,” Tracy whispered excitedly. “You saw Beth Rogers, didn’t you?”

  Abigail was nodding now, and her jaw began working as she struggled to speak again. “Children,” she repeated. “I saw them. I saw them just as if they were really there.…”

  Tracy’s heart was thumping now. “You did, Grandmother,” she said. “You saw her, and she tried to kill you.”

  “Dead,” Abigail whispered. “She’s dead, and she wants to kill us.” Her grip on Tracy’s arm tightened, and the girl winced with pain. “She wants to kill us all, Tracy. She hates us, because of what we did to her. She hates us, and she’ll kill us if we let her.”

  Tracy tried to pull away, but Abigail seemed to find new strength as her words rambled on. “Stay away, Tracy. Stay away from there. Promise me, Tracy. Promise me you’ll stay away.”

  Suddenly frightened by her grandmother’s surge of power, Tracy twisted her arm loose from the old woman’s grip. As if she’d been disconnected from her source of strength, Abigail went limp, her arm falling by her side as she sank back into the pillows.

  “Promise me,” she muttered softly as her eyes, clouded now with her years and infirmities, sought out Tracy’s.

  Tracy began edging toward the door. “I … I promise,” she mumbled. Then she was gone, pulling the door closed behind her, wanting to shut out the image of the ancient woman in the bed.

  As she left the hospital, she turned her grandmother’s words over in her mind, and decided that, after all, she had been right.

  Her grandmother had seen someone in the basement of the mill last night, and whoever she had seen had tried to kill her.

  And Tracy knew who the old woman had seen.

  Beth Rogers.

  She walked back along River Road until she came to Prospect Street, where she stopped to stare curiously at the old building that was suddenly coming back to life. What, she wondered, had really happened there so many years ago?

  Nothing, she decided.

  Her grandmother was old, and sick, and didn’t know what she was talking about.

  And promises made to her, Tracy also decided, didn’t really count. In fact, Tracy had long ago figured out that promises didn’t mean anything. If you wanted something, you made promises in order to get it. Then you went ahead and did what you wanted, and nobody ever said anything. At least her father and her grandmother didn’t, and that was all that mattered.

  If she felt like going into the mill and looking around, she would, and no one was going to stop her.

  19

  The somnolence of summer had settled into Westover, and by August the town had taken on a wilted look. People moved slowly in the damp warmth of July, and slower still as August’s heat closed oppressively down on them.

  For Beth, life had taken on a strange routine, each day much like the day before.

  At first it had all been terribly confusing. The memory of Patches dying while she watched was still fresh in her mind—etched indelibly there, still waking her up in the middle of the night sometimes.

  But the rest of that day had taken on a dreamlike quality. The sudden arrival of her father; the explanation that it had been decided that for a while, at least, she should live with him; the hasty packing of her bags; her departure from Hilltop with her father, barely aware of what was happening while she tried to figure out why it had happened.

  Her father had tried to explain it to her, tried to tell her that while no one was blaming her for what had happened to Patches, it had just seemed better to all of them for her to live with him for a while. Mrs. Sturgess would be coming home, and her mother was pregnant, and Tracy …

  His voice had trailed off after he’d mentioned Tracy’s name, but Beth had known what he meant. Hilltop was Tracy’s house, not hers, and they both couldn’t live there anymore. So she had to move out.

  It wasn’t fair, but it was the way things were, and even at her age, Beth already knew that life was not always fair.

  But living with her father had not turned out to be quite what she’d thought it would be, either. Before she’d moved in with him, they’d always gone out to dinner on the evenings she’d spent with him, and he’d always seemed to have lots of time to spend with her.

  But now, when she was there all the time, it was different. She understood why—he had to go to work every day, and he couldn’t afford to take them both to restaurants every night. So they stayed home most evenings, and he cooked dinner for them, and the food wasn’t as good as the food Hannah had fixed at Hilltop. And her room was a lot smaller, and didn’t look out over the whole village. Instead, it looked out over a parking lot, and only a little corner of the mill was visible through a gap between two buildings across Fourth Street.

  But at least Tracy wasn’t there, and that was good.

  What wasn’t good was what had happened when she’d gone to see Peggy Russell. Peggy had only opened the door a few inches, and she hadn’t invited Beth to come in. Instead she’d said that she couldn’t play with Beth anymore, and that Beth better stay away from her house.

  Beth, her eyes blurred with tears, had gone back home, but the emptiness of her father’s little apartment had made her feel even more lonesome than Peggy’s rejection. So she’d gone down to the mill, and spent the rest of the day there.

  As the days had turned into weeks she’d tried to make friends again with the kids she’d known before she moved up to the top of the hill, but it hadn’t worked. All of them had heard about what had happened to Patches, and all of them had heard Peggy’s story about the grave up on the hillside, and about the fact that Beth thought the person who was buried there still lived in the mill. At first, they’d simply ignored her when she tried to make friends with them, but when she’d persisted, they’d started calling her names, and invented a nickname for her.

  Crazy Bethy.

  They called it out at her when she walked down the street, and if their parents were with them, and they couldn’t yell it out loud, they’d whisper to each other, and point at her.

  Her father told her not to worry about it—that in a few weeks something else would come along, and the kids would forget all about it.

  But Beth wasn’t at all sure that would ever happen.

  She started spending more time at the mill, and finally it got so that the workmen expected her to be there, and stop
ped worrying about her every minute. They were always friendly to her, and she wandered around anywhere she wanted, watching them work, bringing them tools, sometimes even helping them.

  It wasn’t so bad, really, except on the days that Phillip Sturgess came to inspect the progress of the work, and brought Tracy with him.

  Phillip was always friendly to Beth, interested in how she was, and what she was doing.

  But Tracy never spoke to her. Instead she just stared at her, a little smile on her mouth that told Beth she was laughing at her. Beth tried to pretend she didn’t care, but of course she did.

  Sometimes, during the afternoons, she’d see Tracy outside, just standing there watching the mill, and Beth knew what she wanted.

  She wanted to come inside, and go down into the basement.

  But she couldn’t. All day there were people there, and at night, when everyone had gone home, the building was carefully closed up, and the padlock on the one gate in the fence was always checked twice.

  But for Beth, going down to the basement, and the little room under the loading dock, was simple. No one ever missed her, and part of every day she spent sitting alone in the darkness of that room, feeling the presence of Amy, who was now her only real friend.

  At first it had been a little bit scary being down there by herself. For a long time she’d always left the door open and kept her flashlight on, using its beam to search out every corner. But soon she’d decided there was nothing to fear in the darkness of the room, and began closing the door behind her, turning off the light, and imagining that Amy—a real Amy—was there with her.

  After a while even the strange smoky odor of the room didn’t bother her anymore, and in late July, she’d brought an old blanket to the mill. Now she kept it in the little room, where sometimes she’d spread it out, then lie on it while she daydreamed about Amy.

  She knew a lot about Amy now. She’d gone to the library, and found books about what the towns like Westover had been like a hundred years ago when Amy had been alive.

  She’d read about children like Amy, who’d spent most of their lives in buildings like this, working all day long, then going home to little houses that had no heat, and no electricity, and no plumbing.