by R. L. Stine
“Fire!” Edward screamed, the flames reflected in his frightened eyes. “The woods are on fire!”
“No!” Mary cried, grabbing his good arm. “Edward—look!”
Inside the glowing fireball a figure writhed.
“Someone is trapped in the flames!” Mary shrieked.
Chapter 16
“It cannot be!” Edward cried in a hoarse whisper. “It cannot be!”
But they both saw the dark figure of a girl clearly. The head rolled from side to side. Her arms were tied around a dark post behind her back that also burned with yellow fire.
Inside the flames.
Inside.
Being burned alive!
Gasping in horror, Mary began running toward the fire. Edward, struggling because his sling threw him off balance, followed behind.
“It is a girl!” Mary cried, raising both hands to her face. She stopped. She could feel the heat of the flames on her face.
Breathing hard, Edward stopped behind her.
Mary’s breath caught in her throat. The fire seemed to grow hotter. Brighter.
She could see the girl clearly now inside the flames. Her mouth was open in a scream of agony. Flames climbed over her long curly hair. Flames shot up from her dark, old-fashioned-looking dress.
As the girl twisted in the flames, struggling against the stake behind her, she stared past Mary to Edward. Stared with wide, accusing eyes. Her entire body tossed with the fire. And through the flames her eyes burned into Edward’s.
It took Mary a long time to realize that the terrified howl she heard behind her came from Edward.
She turned to see his entire body convulsed in a shudder of terror. Edward’s dark eyes bulged in disbelief. The hot yellow firelight cast an eerie glow over his trembling body.
“Susannah!” Edward cried, recognizing at last the girl in the fire. “Susannah Goode!”
As he cried out her name, the vision darkened and disappeared. The burning girl vanished.
The woods were dark and silent—except for Edward’s horrified howl.
“I have had nightmares about the fire for the past two nights,” Mary told Jeremy. “When I close my eyes, I see that poor girl, her hands tied behind her, her hair in flames, her entire body in flames. It was two days ago, Jeremy, but I still … I … I …”
Mary’s voice broke. She leaned her head against Jeremy’s solid shoulder.
They were seated close together on a low mound of straw in the corner of the new field. Ahead of them, at the tree line, she could see the brambles and tree branches Jeremy had cleared from the field that morning.
The late afternoon sky was gray and overcast. Occasional drops of cold rain indicated a storm was approaching.
“Sometimes the light plays tricks in the trees,” Jeremy suggested, speaking softly, soothingly, his arm gently around Mary’s trembling shoulders. “Sometimes you see a bright glowing reflection, and it’s only the sun against a mulberry bush.”
“This was not a bush,” Mary replied edgily. “It could not have been a bush.”
“Sometimes the trees cast strange shadows,” Jeremy insisted.
“Jeremy!” Mary rose angrily to her feet. “Edward recognized the girl! It could not have been a shadow! He recognized her!”
Jeremy patted the straw, urging her to sit down. “I am sorry,” he said softly. “How does your cousin feel? Has he recovered?”
“Edward has become very quiet,” Mary told him, dropping back onto the straw but keeping her distance from Jeremy. “He will not talk about what we saw. He will not talk about much at all. He seems very far away. I—I think he has nightmares, too.”
Jeremy gazed at her but didn’t reply.
“I am sorry to burden you with my troubles,” Mary said, frowning. She gripped the basket she had carried with her from the house. “I had better be going and let you get back to work.”
She could see the hurt in his eyes. “I want you to share your troubles with me,” he said. “You do not burden me, Mary.” He lowered his eyes to the basket. “What is in there?”
“Sweet rolls,” she replied. “I baked them this morning for Rebecca. I’m going to take them to her now. Rebecca has been in such low spirits lately. I thought to cheer her.”
He gazed at her with pleading eyes. A smile slowly formed on his lips as he pressed his hands together in a prayerful position.
“Do not beg,” Mary scolded, chuckling. “You may have one.” She reached into the basket and pulled out a large sweet roll.
“I would rather have this,” Jeremy said, grinning, and he sprang forward and began kissing her.
The sweet roll fell out of her hand into the straw. Mary made no move to retrieve it. Instead, she placed her hand behind Jeremy’s neck and held him close.
When the kiss ended, she jumped to her feet, brushing the straw off the long white apron she wore over her dress. She adjusted the comb that held her hair and gazed up at the sky.
Dark storm clouds rolled over the gray sky.
“I had better go on to Edward’s house,” she said.
“Have you told your father?” Jeremy demanded, picking up the sweet roll from the straw and examining it. “Have you told him about us? About how we feel?”
Mary frowned. “No. It is not the right time, Jeremy. Father is so terribly troubled.”
“You told your father about the fire? About the girl burning in the flames?”
“Yes.” Mary nodded solemnly, her skin very pale in the approaching darkness. “I told him about what Edward and I saw. He had the strangest reaction.”
“Strange?”
“He wears a silver disk around his neck. He always wears it. It was given to him in the Old Country by his grandmother. It is jeweled and has tiny silver claws. Well, when I told Father about the girl in the fire, he cried out as if he had been stabbed—and grabbed the disk tightly in one hand.”
“And what did he say to you, Mary?” Jeremy asked quietly, carefully picking straw off the sticky roll.
Mary’s face darkened as the storm clouds lowered. “That is the strangest part,” she whispered. “He didn’t say anything. Not a word. He just stood there gripping the silver disk, staring out the window. He didn’t say a word.”
“That is very strange,” Jeremy replied, lowering the sweet roll, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“I must leave now,” Mary told him sadly. “Before the storm.” She lifted the basket and straightened the linen cover over the sweet rolls.
She took a few steps toward the pasture, then suddenly stopped and turned back to Jeremy. Still seated in the mound of straw, he gazed up at her, chewing a mouthful of the roll.
“What of your father?” Mary demanded. “Have you spoken to him about me?”
The question appeared to startle Jeremy. He choked for a moment on the roll, then swallowed hard.
“I would like to meet your father,” Mary told him playfully. “I would very much like to see your house and meet your father.”
Jeremy climbed to his feet, his forehead knitted in concern. “I am afraid that is not a good idea,” he told her, avoiding her eyes. “My father is … quite ill. He is not strong enough to welcome company.”
Mary could not conceal her disappointment. “I guess we are doomed to meet in the woods for the rest of our lives,” she said with a sigh.
Edward’s house was a small one-story structure, built of the stones that had been cleared from the crop fields and pasture. It had a sloping slate roof and two small windows in the front.
The house sat at the edge of the woods. From the front, one could gaze across the pasture to Benjamin and Matthew’s house on the other side.
As Mary made her way from the back field where Jeremy worked, she felt the first large drops of rain start to fall. She thought about her father as she hurried on.
I wish I could tell him about Jeremy, she thought sadly. But he is in no mood for more troubling news.
Her thoughts turned to her ailing
uncle Benjamin. The poor man had awakened them all, screaming at the top of his lungs in the middle of the night.
Mary had reached his room first, followed by her frantic father and mother. At first they thought Benjamin was suffering a nightmare. But his screams were not because of a dream.
During the night, he had lost the use of his right leg.
Mary’s uncle could now move only his head and right arm.
Matthew was becoming more and more distant and aloof, lost in his own thoughts. Her cousin, Edward, had become glum and silent. And Rebecca—Rebecca appeared wearier and older, as if she were aging a year every day.
Mary gripped the basket of sweet rolls tightly in one hand and approached Edward’s house. “Rebecca?” she called.
No reply.
“Rebecca? It is I, Mary.”
Still no reply.
The storm clouds gathered overhead. Raindrops pattered against the hard ground.
Mary knocked on the front door.
It is so strangely quiet, she thought, shifting the weight of the basket. I can always hear Ezra’s shouts and cries when I approach this house. Why do I not hear him now?
She knocked again.
Receiving no response, she pushed open the door and entered.
“Rebecca? Ezra?”
The front room was surprisingly bright. The candles on the wall were lighted, as were candles on a small oak table beside the hearth. A low fire crackled under a pot in the hearth.
“Rebecca?”
Where can she be? Mary wondered.
“Rebecca? Are you home?”
As she set the basket down on the floor, Mary heard a soft creaking sound. She listened for a few seconds, trying to figure out what was making the sound.
Then she suddenly noticed the black shadow swinging back and forth across the floor.
Confused, she stared down at the slowly moving shadow for a long while, following it with her eyes narrowed.
Creak. Creak.
The odd sound repeated in rhythm with the shadow.
Then she raised her eyes and saw what was casting the shadow—and started to scream.
Chapter 17
“Rebecca!” Mary managed to choke out. Rebecca’s body swung heavily above Mary’s head. Gaping up in horror, Mary saw the heavy rope tied around Rebecca’s neck and suspended from the rafter.
She saw Rebecca’s arms dangling lifelessly.
She saw Rebecca’s face, the skin dark, the eyes bulging.
Creak. Creak.
“Rebecca! Nooooooooooooo!” Mary uttered a high-pitched wail and dropped to her knees. The floor tilted up to meet her. She felt ready to faint.
She shut her eyes and shook her head, as if trying to shake the whole scene away.
But even with her eyes closed, Mary saw Rebecca’s body swinging from the rope like a heavy, ripe fruit.
What happened here?
Did Rebecca hang herself?
Was she murdered?
The horrifying questions forced their way into Mary’s mind.
She opened her eyes and saw Rebecca’s dress hovering beside her face.
“I—I cannot accept this,” Mary said. “I—I—cannot—” She began to vomit then, her entire body convulsing in tremor after tremor.
Until she was crying. And screaming.
And on her feet again.
And outside. Without realizing it, she had started to run.
In the now heavy rain. The cold rainwater washing her face, drenching her hair, soaking through her dress.
Her shoes splashing up puddles as she ran through the soft dirt toward her home.
“Edward! Where are you? Edward?”
And where is Ezra? she wondered.
And how will I tell everyone?
And how will I ever get the hideous sight out of my mind?
How? How? How?
The pouring rain couldn’t wash away the image of Rebecca, her head twisted at such a strange angle, swinging so gently from the ceiling.
The rain couldn’t wash away the blackened skin, the bulging eyes.
The rain couldn’t drown out the creak-creak of the body as it swung gently back and forth.
“Edward! Father! Mother! Help me!”
Mary ran through the rain, her arms outstretched as if reaching for help. Ran screaming without hearing her own cries.
Rebecca, you cannot be dead.
Please do not be dead!
Do not be dead, Rebecca.
Mary was halfway across the pasture now, slipping over the puddled grass. Rainwater matted her hair against her head, ran down her forehead, and blurred her vision.
The house loomed ahead of her, gray against the low black sky.
“Edward! Where are you? Edward? Father? Father?”
Her feet slid out from under her, and she fell, sprawling facedown in the soft cold mud. She landed hard on her elbows and knees.
‘Oh!”
Maybe I will not get up. Maybe I shall stay here forever.
Maybe I shall just lie here in the mud and let the rain carry me away, float me away from—everything.
With a desperate cry she pulled herself to her feet, her clothes covered with mud, her hair hanging heavily in her face.
She took a few steps, then stopped with a shocked gasp.
Who is that?
A stranger standing in the middle of the pasture.
Dressed in black, standing as still as death.
Am I seeing things?
She pushed her hair out of her eyes with both hands and wiped the rainwater from her face.
No.
He was still there.
Who can it be?
Why is he standing so still in the pouring rain and staring at me?
She called out to him.
The dark figure stared at her without moving.
Chapter 18
Mary called again.
Beyond the pasture the trees shivered and were bent low in a howling gust of wind.
The man didn’t move.
Trembling from the cold, from the horror, Mary took a reluctant step toward him. Then another.
The wind picked up and swirled around her. The rain swept over her like cold ocean waves.
Her shoes sank into the mud as she made her way closer.
He was standing so still, Mary saw, squinting through the heavy curtain of rain.
As still as a statue.
A statue?
It is a scarecrow, she realized.
Of course. That is why it doesn’t move.
A scarecrow.
As she ventured closer, she saw rainwater rolling off the brim of its black hat, saw the dark sleeves of its long coat flutter in the sweeping winds.
Who put a scarecrow here? Mary wondered.
Then her next thought made her stop short: Why would anyone stand a scarecrow in the middle of a grassy pasture?
She shielded her eyes with one hand and squinted hard.
And took another step closer. Then another.
Finally through the heavy downpour she recognized the face under the wide-brimmed black hat.
“Uncle Benjamin!”
Once again Mary stared into the blank-eyed face of death.
Benjamin Fier was the scarecrow.
His body was propped up nearly as straight as if he were standing. His arms hung lifelessly at his sides.
His face was bright purple. His hair spilled out from the hat and lay matted against his head.
He gaped at Mary with blank eyes, deathly white eyes, the pupils rolled up into his head.
“Uncle Benjamin!”
The wind gusted hard, shaking the body, making the limp arms swing back and forth.
The body turned again. Benjamin’s mouth dropped open, as if he wanted to speak. But the only sound Mary could hear was the heavy groan of the wind.
Mary’s body convulsed in a cold shudder of horror. She spun away from the ghastly sight, the dark grass tilting and swirling wildly around her. Her st
omach heaved, but there was nothing left to vomit.
Rebecca. Benjamin. Both dead.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
The word repeated in her mind, pounded into her thoughts, pounded against her brain like the cold rain.
The cold, cold rain that poured off her uncle’s hat. Cold as death.
Is everyone dead?
Has my whole family been killed?
Mary stared toward the house. It seemed so distant now. So dark and distant. Far away, on the other side of the storm.
Has everyone been killed? Mary wondered.
Everyone?
And then: Will I be next?
Chapter 19
The funeral for Rebecca and Benjamin was held two days later. The rain had stopped the day before, but the sky remained gray and overcast.
The graves had been dug in a corner of the field Jeremy had been working to clear. White rocks had been placed at their heads since there were no gravestone carvers in the village.
Standing at the side of the open graves as the minister delivered his funeral speech, Mary gazed at the dark-suited mourners.
Several people had come from the village and neighboring farms to attend. Their blank faces and hushed whispers revealed more curiosity than sadness.
Mary glanced at them quickly, then turned her attention to the members of her family. As she studied them one by one, the minister’s droning voice faded into the background.
The past two days had been a waking nightmare in the stone farmhouse that had so recently rung with laughter. Now the faces of her family, Mary saw, were pale and drawn, eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears, mouths drawn tight, in straight lines of sadness—and fear.
On the far side of the graves Edward Fier stood with his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. His hands were clasped tightly in front of him.
At first Edward had reacted to the deaths of his wife and father with stunned disbelief. In a frenzy he had shaken Mary violently by the shoulders, demanding that she stop telling such wild tales, refusing to believe her gruesome descriptions.