by R. L. Stine
Behind the thick, square glasses, her blue eyes narrowed to slits. “Because it happened again,” she whispered. “Listen to me closely, Ellie: It happened again. Jeremiah’s ghost remained in the house. It never left. It—”
“Whoa. Wait.” I touched Mrs. Bricker’s bony hand with my own. I could feel the big, emerald ring on my palm. “Stop. I enjoy ghost stories. Really. But I have so much shopping to do.”
I glanced out the window. Rain was still drizzling down. The sky had grown darker. I sat there for a moment before I realized that my eyes had slipped from the sky and settled on a man.
I was staring at Chip Harper. He wore a tan plastic rain poncho, raindrops rolling down the front, and a blue Yankees cap. He was staring hard at Mrs. Bricker and me.
He had an intense scowl on his face. But when he realized I was looking back at him, he nodded awkwardly, then hurried away.
“Please let me finish,” Mrs. Bricker pleaded. “I’m not telling you this for my health, you know. It happened again. In the 1950s. You see, Jeremiah’s ghost remained in the guest house. Because the boy wanted his revenge. He had missed his target. He had missed the nanny and murdered the boyfriend instead. And his ghost couldn’t rest until he finished what he intended—until he murdered the nanny. And so, Jeremiah struck again.”
I squinted at her. “A hundred years later?”
I signaled to the waitress for the check. I’d heard enough.
“Listen to me, Ellie. A doctor owned the house. The guest house. The big house still hadn’t been built. I don’t remember the doctor’s name, but it’s in the newspapers. You can see for yourself. He had a couple of kids. A boy, four or five, a little boy. The doctor came out only on weekends. The kids were left with their nanny.
“Don’t roll your eyes, Ellie. I’m not making this up. It happened again. Just like the first time. The little boy caught the nanny he adored with her fiancée. He picked up a harpoon mounted near the mantel. He had to be possessed. He had to be possessed by Jeremiah, seeking his revenge.
“He tossed the harpoon. He missed. He missed again. He murdered the young man. Jeremiah didn’t get his revenge. Afterwards, the boy didn’t remember a thing. Not a thing. And that’s proof—”
“Proof that he was possessed by Jeremiah Halley,” I said.
“Yes. And he’s still there, Ellie. Jeremiah is still in the guest house, waiting. He can’t rest until he murders his nanny. Don’t roll your eyes. Believe me. Your life could depend on it.”
She licked her lips. Her voice had become raspy and hoarse. “I started work at the Harpers’ in March when they first started coming to Watermill. And a friend told me this story a few weeks later. You can imagine how I felt. I—”
“You started in March? Was Brandon talking then?” I interrupted.
“No. Not a word. Poor kid. He seemed frightened to me. Frightened and strange. Clung to his father. A real papa’s boy. Seemed angry at his mother all the time. I don’t know what she did to deserve it. She was the nice one, seemed to me.”
The waitress brought the check. The restaurant had become crowded, louder than when we had entered. I leaned across the table to hear the old woman better.
“I started at the end of March. The boy wasn’t talking. I remember my first day so well. Cold and gray, with the wind blowing something fierce off the ocean.
“The boy disappeared for a while. He did that sometimes. He liked to be by himself. Liked to collect things from the ocean, shells and stones, and things.
“Anyway, that day, my first day, I found him on his hands and knees behind the guest house. I asked him what he was doing back there. Of course, he didn’t answer. He just stared at me, stared with cold, angry eyes.”
“Weird,” I muttered.
Mrs. Bricker grabbed my hand. “Don’t you see? What brought Brandon Harper to the guest house? It’s Jeremiah Halley at work again. I know it. I—”
“Is that why you left the Harpers?” I asked. “Because you thought Brandon was possessed?”
She snorted angrily. Her rouged cheeks turned even redder. “No. I was fired. Unjustly fired by Chip Harper.”
“Why? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I was telling the story about Jeremiah Halley and the guest house to a friend, and Brandon overheard me. Chip Harper fired me on the spot. I was never treated so badly in my life. Luckily, I got another job down the beach. A better paying job, I might add, with normal kids.”
I dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the check. “Well, thanks for telling me all this.” What else could I say? That she’s a crazy, superstitious old woman who probably shouldn’t be allowed near kids?
I slid from the booth and stretched out a hand to help her up. Her powder and rouge had caked, and her skin showed a thousand tiny cracks. She looked a lot like one of those ancient mummies in a horror film.
“Keep an eye on the boy,” she rasped, waving a bony finger at me. “He looks sweet, but he could be dangerous. And watch out for Chip Harper, too. He’s a shifty one. There’s something definitely wrong with him.”
I laughed to myself and hurried back out into the cool, refreshing rain, eager to get away from the old woman and her ugly stories.
If only I had listened.
24
Is that Christie Brinkley?”
Teresa spun around. “Where?”
“The one in the shimmery red thing. See? Way too tight for her?” I pointed to the other end of the long, curved bar.
“Yeah. She looks great, doesn’t she? I mean, for her age.”
Teresa tossed her hair off her bare shoulders. She wore a silvery low-cut top over straight-legged black slacks. She had a small, temporary, red-and-blue heart tattoo on each shoulder and large silver earrings that dangled down over her cheeks and kept getting tangled in her hair.
I was dressed for our big club night, too, in a new outfit Teresa had picked out for me in Southampton. I had on a tight, pink-and-blue tie-dyed midriff top over a short denim skirt, and clog-type shoes that made me walk about a foot off the floor.
I had even teased and tortured my hair, trying to make it look like a do Nicole Kidman wore in a photo in People magazine.
It had all been Teresa’s idea, and I couldn’t say that I was quite comfortable with the look yet.
“Is my hair okay?” I asked Teresa. “Do I look like Raggedy Ann or something?”
She tugged a tangled strand off my face. “The waif look,” she said. “Guys love it, Ellie. Seriously. You’re Winona Ryder without the criminal record.”
“Ha ha.”
We were at Pulsations, a new club on the beach in a little town past Easthampton called Amagansett. It didn’t look like much from the outside—a high, boxlike structure, like an airplane hangar, painted gray, without any decoration, not even a name sign. We stood in line for about twenty minutes, which Teresa said wasn’t bad, and watched limos and expensive new cars pull up, and all these tanned, well-dressed guys and girls climbing out.
Music throbbed out every time the door was opened. An unhappy-looking crowd of ten or twelve had gathered across from the line. They were pleading with the guy at the door, gesturing wildly.
“They’ve got New Jersey written all over them,” Teresa said. “They’ll never get in.”
A hot, humid night, and I knew my eye makeup was starting to run and my hair was frizzing up like crazy. I motioned to the guy at the door. “Think he’ll let us in?”
And before Teresa could answer, he was giving us the big wave, holding the rope aside, and we were hurrying into the club, my shoes clonking on the concrete walk.
We stepped into a narrow, mirrored entry hall where we paid our admission and a music cover charge—thirty-five dollars before we even entered the club—and then into a cavernous room. My eyes adjusted to the low lights, the blue spotlights sweeping pale light over a crowded dance floor, the blue walls, the endless blue bar curving along one wall.
“I’m beginning to get the color scheme,” I said, keeping close
to Teresa, who was surveying the room, her eyes moving from face to face at the bar.
“See, it’s cool, not hot,” she said.
“Don’t we want to be hot?” But she didn’t hear me.
The deejay was fading a Mary J. Blige song I recognized into some dance hall reggae. The dancers seemed hesitant, then found the beat.
I saw a girl dancing with a cigarette in one hand and a martini glass in the other. A lanky guy in a sweat-drenched T-shirt with ABERCROMBIE blazing across the front waved his arms wildly, singing loudly, seemingly dancing by himself. Despite the fast beat of the music, a couple danced slowly, faces pressed together, his hands gripping her ass as they swayed.
On the other side of the dance floor, at the far end of the club, I saw tables, tall blue booths—a restaurant. “Do we want to eat?” Teresa asked.
“I think we just want to drink,” I replied.
We pushed up to the bar. Two guys holding bottles of Red Stripe beer were arguing about the Mets. A really tanned guy with black hair slicked straight back was trying to impress a girl: “No, for real. I know two Baldwin brothers.”
I heard snatches of conversations.
“I traded in the Hummer. Too hard to park.”
“My wife is at Jet East tonight. We don’t always go out together.”
“Steven was at the next table. He eats there all the time. He had the smoked salmon, but he sent it back.”
“Sure, he’s a cokehead, but at least he can afford it.”
The bartender was tall and drop-dead gorgeous—and he knew it. Women practically crawled over the bar to get his attention. I was going to order my usual—a glass of chardonnay. But then I thought, Get out of the rut, Ellie. Try to be different tonight. So I ordered a Hennessy sidecar, same as Teresa.
She lit a cigarette and gazed around. I took a long sip of my drink. I felt a little overwhelmed—the pounding music, the voices, the energy, the tension.
All this talk, all this dancing and moving and all this frantic, noisy, sweaty activity—just to get drunk and go home with somebody.
“See those two young blond women?” Teresa poked my shoulder with her glass. “No. Not those. The ones over there, the trampy-looking ones.”
“They’re not trampy. They’re kinda attractive,” I said. “Who are they?”
“They’re the famous Hilton sisters, Nicky and Paris.”
“Huh?” I squint into the blue light at them.
“Don’t you ever read the ‘Styles’ section in the Times? They’re in every week.”
“Yeah, I read it. Well, okay, sometimes. But why are the Hilton sisters in every week?”
“Because they’re rich and beautiful, and they go everywhere. They’re at every party. Every charity event. Every dance club, every restaurant. They’re everywhere. They’re even here tonight. You can’t go anywhere without seeing them. And they get their pictures taken wherever they go.”
“And what do they do?”
“Do? They don’t do anything. How could they do anything? They have to be everywhere!” She stubbed out her cigarette. “Hey, okay! I see two guys from my house. Come on.”
She pulled me over to the two guys at the edge of the dance floor. They looked like they could be brothers. They were both short but had pumped-up bodies—big shoulders and muscled arms, as if they worked out all the time. They both had wavy, light brown hair. One of them wore a green-and-yellow T-shirt with a martini glass on the front under the name DEWAR’S. The other had a silky, shiny red sport shirt, unbuttoned nearly to his waist, gold chains hanging to his chest.
Teresa introduced them. I think their names were Bob and Ronnie. I couldn’t really hear. We were already practically on the dance floor, so it was pretty easy to start dancing. I danced with the one in the T-shirt, and then Teresa and I traded, and I danced with the open shirt, who turned out to have fabulous rhythm.
It felt good to dance again. It had been so long.
I danced with Bob or Ronnie or whatever his name was under the blue lights. And then Teresa found some other people from her share house, and I danced with some other guys, had another sidecar or maybe two, danced some more, feeling light again, moving to the steady, booming beat, feeling lighter than ever under the blue lights, so blue and cool.
Then I fell out of one of my shoes.
I knew I would. They were just too high and clunky for dancing. I started to fall—and someone caught me. A dark-haired guy in a collarless black shirt and black denim jeans.
I saw his brown eyes, his slender, smiling face, glistening with sweat, so close to mine. He steadied me and then dropped away. I stood on one shoed foot, my bare foot dangling in the air.
He bent, picked up the loose shoe, lifted it to his ear, and spoke into it. “Hello? Who’s calling?” He handed me the shoe. “It’s for you.”
I took it from him, raised it to my ear, and listened. I said, “They hung up.”
I leaned on him as I tugged the shoe back on my foot. He felt solid. He smelled nice, of cologne and sweat, something lemony.
It took me a while to realize I was still leaning on him. “Oh, sorry.” I took an unsteady step back. How many sidecars had I had?
I glanced over his shoulder for Teresa. Was she still dancing? I stared into a haze of blue, the dancers suddenly shadows moving up and down in the haze.
I grabbed his arm again. “Is it hot in here? I thought it was supposed to be cool. Isn’t this supposed to be a cool place?”
“I’m sweating, too.” He had a tiny scar under his chin and tiny dimples, just specks, when he smiled. He had a nice face, I thought. His eyes were warm and seemed to be laughing. I’ve always liked laughing eyes, people who saw the joke in things. I haven’t known too many guys like that.
“Follow me.” He took my hand and started to lead me around the crowded blue dance floor to the back door. “Want to cool off on the beach?”
“No, wait.” I pulled free. The floor tilted a bit around me. “My friend. I can’t leave my friend.”
And then I spotted Teresa at one end of the dance floor, dancing with Bob or Ronnie—or was it both of them? I saw a jumble of arms and bodies and legs, moving as if they were underwater.
Yes, I’d definitely had a few sidecars too many. The problem is, you just think you’re drinking fruit juice. You don’t realize . . .
Well, Teresa was having fun and wouldn’t miss me if I ducked out for a short while to get some air. I took the tall guy’s hand and let him lead me out the back door, past a girl who was dancing in what looked like a red bra and panties, a swooping bird tattooed across her back. Past a table where I jumped, startled, thinking I heard the explosion of gunfire, but then saw it was only a group of guys slamming empty shot glasses down.
He pushed open the back door, and we stepped outside. A restaurant terrace faced the beach, tables jammed with people drinking pitchers of beer, downing big plates of chicken wings. The ocean looked like a wide black stripe under the purple night sky.
I took a deep breath. The air was cool and fresh and salty. Wooden steps led to the beach. I felt dazed, as if I had stepped out of myself, into a different life, allowing this stranger to pull me down to the sand.
“Hey, stranger, what’s your name?” I blurted out.
He turned. His eyes were as dark as the ocean. “Jackson. Jackson Milner.”
“Hi, Jackson. I’m Ellie Saks.”
He took my hand and shook it formally. “Nice to meet you, Ellie. Want to walk?”
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see other couples walking slowly along the shore. I kicked off my shoes and left them beside the steps. “Sure.”
We made our way closer to the water. The wet sand felt good under my bare feet. The cool air, sweeping off the ocean, helped clear my head.
Music floated faintly from the club far behind us. “Are you out here for the summer?” I asked. I slipped in the sand, and we bumped shoulders.
“Yeah, I’m staying with a guy from school. How
about you?”
I nodded. “I have a nanny job. I’m living with a family in Watermill.”
His eyes studied me. “You like kids?”
“Probably not after this job!”
I liked his laugh. I liked the solid way he felt when I bumped into him. “Are you working, too, or just hanging out?”
He kicked a stone into the water. “I’m mostly hanging out. But I’m working part-time at a bicycle store in Southampton. It’s called Spokes. Have you seen it? On Jobs Lane? But I’m kinda taking the summer off. Fall is going to be tough.”
“How come?”
“Law school. I’m starting end of August.”
“Where?”
“Cardozo.” He sighed. “I thought I was a lock for NYU, but I didn’t get in. I think they get like sixty thousand applications for about six hundred places.”
“Well, Cardozo is supposed to be good,” I said. As if I knew anything about law schools.
We stepped into wide circles of light. I turned and saw that they were spotlights from another club above us on a high dune.
Jackson grabbed my hand suddenly and slid his arm around my waist. He started to dance, spinning me with him. “I can’t resist being in the spotlight,” he shouted.
I tossed my head back and laughed as we danced in the circle of light.
Danced. Yes, danced.
I was dancing again, feeling so light and giddy and . . . free. I hadn’t felt so happy in a long time, and I knew it wasn’t just the drinks.
We stepped out of the spotlight and walked, hand in hand now, along the shore. As we talked, I realized I felt really comfortable. Jackson had an easy sense of humor. He didn’t seem to take himself so seriously. He didn’t seem aimless. You know, not a beach bum type. But he wasn’t crazy intense, either.
He was solid.
Did he like me? I couldn’t tell for sure, but he seemed to.
I told him some stories about my first days in New York, how confusing and foreign it was after Madison. I mean, when I went into a coffee shop, I had no idea what a bagel with a shmear was! And was a regular coffee with milk or without milk?
Was I talking too much? He seemed interested in me, but was it for real? Did he just want to get laid tonight? Who knows?