by R. L. Stine
She started talking about evil spirits in the graveyard again. Gabe and Diego shouted her down. She found her coat and stormed out of the house. That pretty much ended the discussion.
How did we leave it? I don’t really know.
Now Pepper and I were in the den. Normally, we’d be cozy together in a corner of the big leather couch. But tonight, Pepper perched on the edge of the armchair across from me.
“She’s playing you, Michael,” Pepper said, tugging down the sleeves of her yellow sweater.
“She was really frightened,” I insisted. “So—”
“She was acting. She likes attention. Can’t you see that?”
“No,” I started. “I don’t think—”
“It’s like you’re totally blind,” Pepper said, leaning toward me across the low coffee table. She picked up a stack of wooden coasters and started shuffling them between her hands. Her eyes stayed locked on mine. “‘Oh, Lizzy, you poor sensitive thing. You’re so frightened. Let me hug you till you feel better.’”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I said.
“You’re the one who’s ridiculous,” she snapped. She slammed the coasters back onto the tabletop. “All her crazy talk about spirits on the loose and souls roaming around in the graveyard. Did you buy that, too? Did you believe that stuff, too?”
“Calm down, Pepper,” I said, motioning with both hands. “You’re losing it. Seriously.”
“I know. I know,” she said. “I’m the crazy one. I’m a redhead so that makes me temperamental and jealous and emotional, right? Do you only think in dumb clichés, Michael?”
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” I said. “Would you like me to apologize for hugging her?”
“I’d like you to apologize for being a jerk. For not seeing that Lizzy will do anything to get your attention.”
I let out a long sigh. “I’ll say it one more time, Pepper. Lizzy was frightened. She wasn’t putting on an act. You are wrong to accuse her. She was scared. This is a very scary situation.”
Pepper jumped to her feet. Her knees bumped the coffee table and sent the coasters spilling onto the floor. For the first time, I saw that she had tears in her eyes. Angry tears. “If you’d rather be with her, I’ll leave.”
I stood up, too, surprised at how fast my heart was beating. I brought my face close to hers. “If you’re going to be angry and jealous all the time,” I said, “maybe you should leave!”
She lowered her eyes. “So we’re breaking up?”
“It seems that way,” I said. Weird thing to say. That didn’t sound like me at all. I think I was too angry to think like myself.
“You really are a jerk.” She always had to have the last word.
I watched her pull her coat from the front closet and hurry out of the house. She slammed the door behind her.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the door. Did I expect Pepper to return? To come back and apologize?
No. I knew better than that. I stood there staring straight ahead, trying to clear my head, clenching and unclenching my fists. And I found myself thinking about Lizzy. How she trembled when I hugged her. How warm her face felt against mine.
I’m not sure how long my phone buzzed. I was so lost in my thoughts, I didn’t even feel it vibrating in my jeans pocket. Finally, I snapped alert and tugged it up to my ear. “Hello?”
“You killed me.” A raspy, hoarse whispered voice.
I blinked. I pulled the phone from my ear so I could read the ID. But the screen had only one word: Blocked. “Who is this?” I said.
“Your worst enemy,” was the hoarse reply.
“Wait—” I started. My mind was spinning. Gabe loved to play phone tricks. Was this one of his dumber ones?
“You killed me and left me in the snow.” The whisper rattled in my ear, stopped my thoughts about Gabe. “Now it’s my turn.”
The phone nearly slid from my hand. I tightened my grip and pressed it hard against my ear. “Wait a minute,” I said. “What do you mean? Let’s talk about this.”
A short pause. Then: “Talk? You killed me, and now you want to talk?”
“You can’t be dead,” I insisted. “What do you want? Why are you calling me?”
“Who should I start with?”
“Huh? I don’t get it. What do you want?” My voice rose to a whine. I took a breath. And listened.
“Who will be the first to go?” he rasped. “Who will be the first to pay for what you did?”
“Whoa. Wait,” I said. “Listen to me—”
“How about that cute girl with the black hair and big, dark eyes, that girl you’re so hot for?”
I swallowed. “Huh? Lizzy? What are you going to do to Lizzy?”
Silence for a long moment.
Then the phone clicked off.
22.
I sat hunched over my laptop in the yearbook office, staring at a blank screen. I knew what I wanted to write about for the yearbook blog, but I couldn’t think of a way to get started.
I’d left the door open, and I could hear the voices in the hall, the laughter, the scrape and slam of lockers, the shouts and conversations as everyone collected their stuff and cleared out.
“Hey, Michael—?”
I turned as Gabe poked his head in. “How’s it going?” I said.
“You going home?” he asked. He had a rolled-up poster in one hand. Gabe’s a pretty good artist. He’s been painting since he was a kid. He’d hoped to get an art scholarship to Pratt in New York City, but that hadn’t worked out.
“I have to stay and write the blog,” I said. “Pepper and I were supposed to go through old yearbooks. You know. For the hundredth anniversary. But I don’t think she’s speaking to me.”
Gabe nodded. “And what did you decide to do about that guy calling you?”
I shrugged. “Guess I’ve been trying not to think about it.”
“But he threatened you,” Gabe said. “He threatened all of us.”
I drummed my fingers on the tabletop. “I know you want me to go to the police, Gabe. But I don’t want to start a whole big thing. It’s our senior year. We’ve got one semester to go, and we’re out of here. I don’t think we should jeopardize everything. If we can keep it quiet…”
Gabe made a face. “We’ve been over this. None of us wants to get in trouble. No way. But if some crazy psycho is going to come after us…”
“That’s just talk,” I said. “The guy has seen too many movies. I don’t know what his problem is, but why would he spend his time coming after us? He just gets a rush by calling people and acting tough.”
Gabe studied me. “You don’t sound so sure. You’re just telling yourself what you want to hear.”
“Now you’re a shrink?” I said.
“Why don’t you at least tell your dad?” Gabe asked.
Pepper barged through the door, shoving Gabe out of her way, an armload of old Shadyside High yearbooks in her hands. “Tell your dad what?” she demanded.
“You mean we’re speaking?” I said.
She squeezed past me and dumped the books with a thud on the other end of the table. “No. Not speaking,” she said. She shimmied out of her backpack and tossed it to the floor, narrowly missing my foot.
“Catch you later,” Gabe said. He gave me a quick salute with the rolled-up poster, then vanished.
Pepper shook the hair off her face with a toss of her head. “Tell your dad what?”
“About Angel calling me and making threats last night.”
“Kathryn told me about it,” Pepper said. “So now I guess you believe Lizzy and think we should all be shaking and quaking and afraid to leave our houses? Oh, Lizzy was right. The evil spirit is out to get us.”
“Did you take annoying lessons?” I snapped.
“I learned it from you.”
I raised my hands to the laptop keyboard. “Give me a break. I’m trying to write the blog.”
Pepper pulled out a wooden chair. She made it scrape
against the floor as loudly as she could. “Since we are coeditors and are forced to work together, perhaps you could tell me what your blog post is about.”
I shrugged. “Read it and find out.”
She smiled. “In other words, you don’t know what it’s about. You don’t have an idea in your head, do you. Too busy daydreaming about beautiful Lizzy?”
“I think we should have a truce,” I said. “A truce of silence.”
She slammed a yearbook on the table as hard as she could. The whole table shook. I pretended I didn’t notice. I turned to my laptop screen and raised my fingers to the keyboard.
I had a vague idea of what I wanted to write about. I wanted to describe going to the cemetery to do tombstone rubbings and what it felt like to stand there among all the really old graves. I had this thought that a lot of the people who are buried there once walked the halls of this school and had their photos in the yearbook and … and …
Well, that’s as far as I’d gotten in my thinking. I wasn’t sure what point I wanted to make. Something about history being part of life today maybe. I had to admit it. I didn’t have it together. My brain was a total muddle.
“Maybe I won’t write a blog entry today,” I muttered.
And just as I started to close the lid on the laptop, I heard noises in the hall. I heard running footsteps. Then a high, shrill scream. Then a hard thud, like something crashing to the floor. More footsteps, running hard.
And then a girl’s frightened cry: “Somebody help her! Get help! She’s been hurt!”
23.
I jumped up, knocking my chair over backward. I lurched out into the hall. I heard more screams for help.
I turned toward the sound and saw Emmy Moore, a junior I know, on her knees, her eyes wide with horror, her hands cupped around her mouth as she screamed.
“Emmy—?” I shouted. I lowered my gaze and saw that she was leaning over someone. A dark-haired girl. Flat on her back, arms and legs spread out. Not moving. Not moving.
For a few seconds, the scene became a blur. As if my eyes didn’t want to accept what I was seeing. Then Emmy and the girl on the floor snapped back into focus. And I dropped down across from Emmy.
“Lizzy?” Her name spilled from my mouth in a voice I didn’t recognize. “Oh, no. Lizzy?”
Her eyes were shut. I saw a cut on her forehead. A small puddle of dark blood had formed above her head. Fighting back my shock, I called her name a few more times, but she didn’t respond.
“Some kids went to get the nurse,” Emmy said in a trembling voice. She smoothed a hand over Lizzy’s forehead. “I think she’s knocked out.” She raised her eyes to me. “Do you know her?”
I nodded. “Yes. She’s new. Her name is Lizzy Walker. Did you see what happened?”
“No,” Emmy said. “I was in the music room. I had to get some music for jazz band. I heard a commotion out here and … and I saw her on the floor when I came out. No one else around.”
“I think I heard someone running away,” I said.
Emmy’s eyes went wide. “You mean—?”
I turned and saw Pepper standing behind me. She stared down at Lizzy, her mouth open in shock. “I don’t believe this,” she murmured. “Is she … Is she…?”
Lizzy groaned. She opened her eyes. She recognized me after a few seconds. She reached both hands up and grabbed my arms.
“Michael,” she whispered. She groaned again. “He … came up behind me. I only … I only got a glimpse of him.”
She let go of one of my arms and rubbed her forehead. Then she stared at the blood on her hand. “My head,” she whispered. “I have such a headache.”
“You’re cut,” Emmy told her. “I don’t think it’s too deep. We sent for the nurse.”
Lizzy shut her eyes. “I saw him for a second. Before … before he hit me. It was him. It was Angel.”
I gasped. “No. He said on the phone—”
“He hit me with something,” Lizzy whispered, squinting up at me, gazing at me with those huge eyes as if pleading for help. “I guess I went down. Then he was whispering in my ear. He was bending over me, whispering. He was crazy. I mean crazy, Michael. He kept repeating, ‘One by one … One by one.’ He said he was going to get us all one by one.”
24.
Diego crushed a Coke can in his hand and threw it down. “So what did Lizzy tell the police?” he asked.
I rolled my eyes. “Please don’t leave that on the dining room table,” I said. “Give me a break. Go throw it in the trash.”
He burped. “Okay, Mom.” He pushed back from the table, gave the back of my head a slap, and headed to the kitchen.
“Is Lizzy okay?” Gabe asked. He didn’t look up from the scene he was drawing. The black marker squeaked against the paper.
We were working on a project for Ms. Curdy’s English class. We didn’t want to write the usual tired essays about Macbeth. You know. How he was so weak and indecisive and his wife was so totally ambitious. Bor-ing.
So we were doing storyboards for a video game based on the play. Gabe is the best artist in the group. He actually wanted to be a comic book artist when he was younger. So he was sketching out the scenes, and Diego and I were plotting it.
“Yeah. She has like a bruise on her forehead but the cut wasn’t too deep,” I said.
“And what did she tell the cops?” Diego asked again, carrying a new can of Coke.
“She didn’t tell them the truth,” I said. “She didn’t want them to know about how we ran the guy over and left him for dead last Saturday. So she said he was a masked guy she didn’t recognize. She said he was trying to rob lockers. She saw him and screamed and he knocked her down and took off.”
“Nice lie,” Diego said. He tilted the can to his mouth and took a long, noisy drink. “All to protect cutey boy here.” He pinched my cheek really hard. “Must be true love.”
“Shut up,” I said, shoving his arm away. “This isn’t funny. If that lunatic Angel means what he says—”
“What isn’t funny?” Mom stepped into the dining room. She had her tall satiny red jewelry box in her hands.
“Macbeth,” I said quickly. “Macbeth is definitely not a comedy.”
She set the jewelry box down at the other end of the table. “I played one of the witches in our college production at Middlebury,” she said. “I still remember burning my hand on the dry ice in the witches’ cauldron.”
I think Mom remembers every time she hurt herself. A lot of her stories end with her being injured somehow. I suddenly thought of her story about how she broke her arm the first time she tried to ride a two-wheeler.
“Were you into theater?” Gabe asked her.
She blew a strand of hair off her forehead. “That’s a long sad story. I wanted to be a theater major, but my parents said it was a waste of time and they wouldn’t pay my tuition if I did it.”
“So what did you major in?” Gabe asked.
Mom chuckled. “Philosophy.”
We laughed, too.
“You don’t mind if I clean my jewelry while you work, do you?” Mom asked. She sat down at the other end of the table and started pulling rings and earrings out of the box.
“We’re up to the murder,” Gabe said, reaching for a blank sheet of paper.
“What if we make it so the player can choose his victim?” Diego asked. “You know. Like who should Macbeth kill first? Maybe we give him an automatic rifle, and he runs through the castle—”
“We need to follow the play a little bit better,” I said.
“But that’s no fun,” Diego protested. He shook his head. “Maybe this idea sucks.”
Gabe frowned at Diego. “We’ve got a good start here. You never want to finish anything.”
Diego shook a fist in Gabe’s face. “I’ll finish you.”
“Now, boys,” Mom said. “Don’t fight.”
“Just joking,” Diego said. He squeezed the back of Gabe’s neck.
Mom had jewelry spread all over h
er end of the table. She held up a bracelet. “Look at this. If you don’t polish silver, it all turns black. When was the last time I cleaned these?”
“What if Mrs. Macbeth has the rifle?” Diego said.
“It’s not Mrs. Macbeth. It’s Lady Macbeth,” I said. Why did I bother to correct him?
Mom sighed. “I’m going to need more silver polish.” She climbed to her feet and left the room.
One second later, the front door burst open and Lizzy came hurtling into the dining room, her coat open, her dark hair wild about her head.
“Didn’t you see him?” she cried breathlessly.
The three of us turned to her. “See him?” I said.
“Angel,” she said, holding her side, struggling to catch her breath. “Didn’t you see him? I started to walk up the drive. I saw him. He was watching you through the window. He’s out there. He’s still out there!”
Gabe, Diego, and I didn’t say a word. We jumped to our feet. I turned to the dining room window. Pale moonlight reflected on the glass. No one there now.
Without thinking, we took off. We ran past Lizzy, through the living room and out the front door. It was a clear, cold night. A big full moon hung low over the houses across the street, making the patches of snow on the front lawns glow as if in daylight.
I jumped off the front stoop, my breath puffing like small clouds above my head. I narrowed my eyes at the wide trunk of the old sycamore tree near the driveway. Was he watching from behind the tree?
“Angel?” I shouted. “Angel?” My voice came out muffled in the heavy cold air.
No answer. No sign of anyone.
I took a few steps down the lawn. My shoes thudded softly over the frozen ground. Gabe and Diego followed close behind.
A shadow moved by the side of the house. A cat? A raccoon?
“Angel? Are you out here? Are you here?”
My shout was answered only by a rush of cold wind.
“No one here,” I heard Gabe murmur.
And then I felt strong hands close around my neck. I felt the powerful hands grab me from behind. The fingers tightened … tightened … until a choking sound escaped my throat.