Trick or Treat

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  “I wasn’t following you around — I was —”

  “And if you get pneumonia, I’ll get blamed for it.”

  “Why should you get blamed for it?”

  “Because I’m supposed to be looking after you, that’s why.” He set his jaw and began shrugging out of his jacket.

  Martha drew herself up indignantly. “Looking after me! I beg your pardon, but —”

  “Yeah, I know.” Conor bundled her into his jacket as if she were a sack of potatoes. “You don’t need looking after; you can take care of yourself. Zip that up and come on.”

  “Why?” Martha asked suspiciously. “Where are we going?”

  “I want to show you something.” He took off through the trees before she could respond, and she had no choice but to follow him.

  The air was sharp and wet in her lungs. As Conor’s long legs moved him effortlessly ahead of her, Martha found it harder and harder to breathe and keep up. The pathway had long since disappeared beneath a carpet of leaves, yet Conor seemed to know the way. Every so often, Martha noticed, he would pause, tilting his face into the wind as if listening for some direction she was unable to hear. And as they wove their way deeper and deeper into the murky forest, Martha’s apprehension grew until the tight band around her heart was as much from fear as from cold.

  “Conor, where are we —?”

  “Look.”

  He stopped abruptly, bent low beneath a knotted overhang of branches, and as Martha stumbled up beside him, his arm went around her shoulders. Wedged against him, Martha stared where he was pointing, the icy cold creeping all through her body.

  The cemetery lay before them like the ruins of some ghostly garden, headstones toppled and staggered across the leaf-strewn ground. Where shrubs and vines had once flowered, now there were only masses of brown stems, and the low-sweeping trees looked grossly misshapen in the fast-falling twilight. A light fog had begun to snake among the headstones and old, crumbling statues stared back at the intruders through stone eyes. Martha took it all in, not even aware of how she was pressing back against Conor. She felt him squeeze her shoulders and give her a slight turn, and as her eyes fell upon the magnificent stone structure at the far end of the cemetery, she wondered crazily if she could possibly be dreaming.

  “What is that?” she gasped.

  “It’s a mausoleum. Come on.”

  “No — wait —” But he strode off again, pulling her along, and Martha’s eyes stayed glued to the huge tomb as they came up beside it.

  “Conor — please — let’s get out of here —”

  “Look at the inscription.” Conor let go of her at last, and pointed to the foot-high letters carved in the black stone wall. The tomb itself had to be at least twenty feet tall and equally as wide, but its double doors were barred by thick iron gates which looked like they hadn’t been opened in many, many years. “Isn’t Bedford supposed to be the name of our house?” He glanced back to see Martha nodding. “They must have been pretty important. It’s the fanciest grave in the whole place.”

  Martha pulled his jacket tightly around her, and glanced back nervously over her shoulder. “How did you ever find this place? Have you been looking for it all this time?”

  For several moments he didn’t answer. He planted his feet firmly apart on the ground, his body braced against the wind as he stared up at the Bedford name. Watching him, Martha was seized with a violent trembling — he could almost have been one of the lifeless statues keeping vigil around them.

  “No, I haven’t been looking for it,” he said quietly.

  “Then what? You found it by accident, getting wood?”

  “No. I never came this far.”

  He had such a strange look on his face. Martha felt her knees weaken, and she leaned back against a tree.

  “It was so strong,” Conor murmured, more to himself than to her. He glanced back at her, a look so puzzled that suddenly Martha was angry.

  “Damn you, Conor — why did you bring me here? If you think you can scare me, it won’t —”

  He reached out for the doors, as if to shake them, then his hand froze, a slow stiffening creeping over his body.

  “Conor — what is it?”

  And as she stared at his outstretched hand, Martha felt an irrational rush of terror through her heart.

  “Conor — let’s go back — please!” She hadn’t even realized that she’d grabbed his arm, and now as she tried to turn him around, he looked down at her, remotely amused.

  “You’re pretty strong for being so little.”

  “Conor, I mean it — this isn’t a bit funny —”

  Nodding, he reached down and gently pried her fingers from his arm. “Let’s go back to the house. It’s gone now, anyway.”

  “What’s gone?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.” He backed away from the tomb and began striding off rapidly towards the trees.

  “We’ll never find our way back!” Martha’s voice rose anxiously. “It all looks alike out here — we don’t even have a light —”

  “Trust me,” Conor said. “I know the way.”

  Martha didn’t argue. She took off after him, keeping close behind, amazed that he could make any sense at all of their hopelessly tangled surroundings. When they reached the house at last, she sank gratefully into a kitchen chair, laying her head down on the table, watching as Conor busied himself at the stove, making omelettes.

  “I’m not hungry,” Martha said.

  “Give me a break. I’m a great cook.”

  She gave a long sigh and pulled slowly out of his jacket. “It’s getting worse. It’s just getting worse and worse every minute.”

  “What is?”

  “This.” Martha threw up her arms. “All this — this house — and — and — everything about it. Now you.”

  “What about me?”

  “I knew you were weird before. But tonight was a classic. Do you want to tell me what happened out there?”

  “Nothing happened.” He avoided her eyes. “I just thought you’d enjoy sightseeing by twilight, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, right. Conor, don’t treat me like I don’t have a brain — and don’t look at me like that — I hate when you look at me with that look —”

  “What look?”

  “It’s a conspiracy, isn’t it?” Martha glared. “Something you and Dad dreamed up before he left, just to have fun with me.”

  “You don’t look like you’re having much fun,” Conor said.

  “I can’t stand this. I just can’t.” Martha pushed herself up and tossed his jacket at him. Conor caught it neatly, without even turning around. “Oh, fine. Great. I’m going to bed. I need to rest my overactive imagination.”

  She went to her room and turned her TV on as loud as she could stand it. The noise brought little comfort, however, and she lay across her bed, thumbing through her books, making a halfhearted stab at her homework. But her thoughts weren’t on school. Her thoughts were on that huge monument in the woods and Conor’s strange behavior, and on what Wynn had said as she’d left her that afternoon:

  “Everyone knows the old Bedford place is evil….”

  Martha stared at the wall, her schoolwork forgotten. What had happened here to make people talk? To make people afraid? What horrible thing had gone on inside these walls? Did it have something to do with the old cemetery … or the hidden watcher in the woods….

  Troubled, she climbed into bed and lay there in the dark, her eyes riveted on the shadows beneath her window. Why didn’t you tell him? Why didn’t you tell him about the something watching you? Yet she knew why. Because maybe she really had imagined it. And maybe … if she never said it out loud … then it could never, ever be real….

  She wondered what Conor was doing, if he’d finished eating, if he was nearby in his own room. She couldn’t hear him moving around anywhere — only the house shifting … sighing in the wind … whispering its secrets … lulling her into a restless sleep….

  Y
et even in her dreams the house was still with her … in deep wells of darkness she tossed and turned, vaguely aware of every creak and groan … every rustling…. On every side of her the walls were breathing … louder … louder … until she thought she’d scream if they didn’t stop. And then they began to squeeze in … closer and closer … squeezing and creaking with every labored breath — and a deathly cold seeped from every hidden corner — and though she fought to open her eyes, a weight pressed down on her eyelids, rendering her blind and helpless….

  “Dad?” Martha murmured, and at last she broke through to consciousness, away from the nightmare sounds, the sighings and creakings….

  Except that she was wide awake now….

  And the creaking was still there.

  Very close to her.

  Here in her room.

  As Martha sat up in bed, a light suddenly came on in the hall, glowing in beneath the bedroom door so that shadows went slithering off into corners. In confusion, she glanced around her room and a cry lodged in her throat.

  Something was moving beside the closet.

  And slowly … slowly … the half-open closet door began to close.

  “Oh, no,” Martha whispered, “no —”

  And she didn’t even realize at first that the door to the hall had opened or that Conor was throwing the covers back, pulling her from the bed.

  “Hurry, Martha,” he said calmly. “I smell smoke.”

  Chapter 5

  As Martha stumbled out into the hall, Conor steered her towards the stairway and pushed her along in front of him as they raced down.

  “Go outside and wait for me.”

  “I’m not going out there by myself!”

  “Martha, don’t argue — just do it.”

  “Conor, I can smell it! It’s really strong down here!” Turning in panic, Martha pointed to the back hall. “It smells like it’s there —”

  Conor froze, but only for a second. “Christ,” he muttered, “what’s that kitchen door doing closed?”

  “Conor, don’t —”

  “Get outside and stay there. I mean it!”

  Conor’s body was slamming against the kitchen door now, and as a wave of acrid smoke billowed out, Martha screamed and ran out into the yard. The chill was intense — biting through the thinness of her nightgown as she stood there shivering. Chimneys and rooftops reared their ugly heads against the night, and Martha stared back at them, terrified they would suddenly explode in clouds of smoke. The house is burning down, I just know it. What if the whole house suddenly collapsed right in front of her, burying Conor alive?

  “Conor!” she screamed. “I’m calling the fire department!”

  The door banged open and her heart nearly burst. Conor walked calmly over and tossed something at her feet.

  “Don’t bother. It’s out.”

  Martha gazed down at the lump on the ground, coughing as smoke came up in her face. For a crazy moment she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “A dish towel! Do you mean to tell me —?”

  “It was on the stove,” Conor said.

  “No.” Martha held up her hands. “Let me guess. On a burner that someone forgot to turn off.”

  “That’s pretty good.” Conor looked suitably impressed. He kicked at the charred mess and glanced up again into Martha’s furious expression.

  “Conor….” She was so limp with relief, so shaky with anger, that she could barely speak. “I really think I could kill you right about now —”

  Conor didn’t seem to be listening. He was poking the smoky fabric with a stick, and his jaw was set in concentration.

  “I can’t believe you were so careless.” Martha wouldn’t let up. “We could have died in our beds! The house could have burned down around us — we could —” She broke off, looking at him in desperation. He was still staring at the dish towel, making no effort to defend himself. “Something was in my closet tonight!” she burst out.

  There was a long moment of silence. Conor finally raised his eyes and looked at her. “I don’t suppose it could have been a dream?”

  “Could this have been?” Martha retorted. She took a deep shuddering breath and tried to keep from screaming at him. “Conor, you almost killed me — why should I expect you to be bothered about something hiding in my closet!”

  His sigh came out wearily. “Is that what you want to believe?”

  “What I want,” Martha clenched her teeth as she yanked open the door, “is to get a decent night’s sleep for a change!” She slammed it behind her and stomped upstairs, shutting herself in her room. But she couldn’t shut out the smell of burnt cloth … or the soft sound of Conor’s door closing hours later. And even though she forced herself to search the closet and finally barricaded it with a chair, shapeless fears haunted her dreams the rest of the night.

  After another silent ride to school, she dragged herself through her classes the next morning, the lectures and discussions like meaningless blobs in her brain. The only thing she was aware of was how everyone still seemed to be staring at her, and she’d just decided to go off-campus for lunch when a familiar voice stopped her at her locker.

  “Hey, Martha! Where’ve you been hiding?”

  Even before she saw him, Martha’s heart fluttered into her throat. A second later Blake Chambers caught her by the arm, his eyes sweeping over her approvingly as he smiled.

  “You on your way to lunch?”

  “Well … I …”

  “Let’s brave the cafeteria. Unless you have other plans.”

  “No, I’d really like that.” That’s tight, sound desperate. She flushed as he guided her into the noisy building, straight through the crowds to a small table in the corner.

  “Here we are. Just leave your things — nobody’ll bother them.”

  Martha smiled. “Did you reserve this?”

  “It’s always reserved for me,” Blake laughed, and Martha realized he was serious. Of course it would be … he’s the school star … so what on earth am I doing here?

  Martha knew she wouldn’t be able to eat a thing, not with her stomach jumping around the way it was — but she didn’t want to look silly and not take something. Blake stood behind her, so close she could smell the faint scent of his aftershave. He was talking about a test he’d just taken, but he might as well have been speaking a foreign language — she was so nervous, she barely heard a thing.

  “What’s the matter, aren’t you hungry?”

  Martha jumped as his lips brushed her ear. Unlike her own tray, his was crowded with food, and they were nearing the end of the line. In desperation Martha grabbed several small bowls, and they clattered onto her tray.

  “Don’t tell me — diet?” Blake grinned, nodding at the pitiful lunch she’d selected. “You don’t need it, Martha — not with your body.”

  “No, I’m not —” Martha rummaged in her purse for money. “I mean — I’m —” In dismay she watched all her change spill out onto the floor and roll in all directions. She started to bend down to retrieve it, but Blake took her by the elbow.

  “Relax. My treat. You’re the kind of date to take to dinner — you sure wouldn’t cost much.”

  “Oh — I —”

  “Hey, I’m kidding.” He straightened, dumping a handful of retrieved coins onto her tray. “New kid in town — stomach all in knots — I wouldn’t be hungry, either.”

  Martha managed a weak nod as he grinned at the cashier and handed over his money. When they got back to their table he sat down and regarded her with interest.

  “So now that I’ve bored you with all my troubles, how’s your day going?”

  “Oh, you didn’t bore me,” Martha said quickly. She watched him shake a carton of milk and fill his glass. “And my day’s going okay.”

  “Just okay, huh?” He leaned back in his chair. “I hear you’ve got a terrific advisor.”

  “Oh — Mr. Chambers.” Martha smiled, twisting her napkin in her lap. “There seem to be lots of yo
u around.”

  “Yeah, but Greg turned out good,” Blake chuckled. “Not like the rest of us.”

  “That’s not what he says,” Martha countered. “He’s really very proud of you — I mean, he should be — all the things you’ve done and …” She lowered her eyes. Great, Martha, fawn all over him, why don’t you?

  Blake shrugged off the compliments. “I love sports. I’m lucky I can do what I love. That’s all.”

  “I was never good at sports. I’m too clumsy.” Martha smiled in spite of herself, and Blake leaned towards her across the table.

  “You don’t look clumsy. You look … what’s the right word?”

  Martha glanced away, her cheeks going hot. She wished he wouldn’t stare at her that way … his eyes so dark … so warm….

  “Martha. What a surprise.”

  As someone touched her back, she jumped, tipping over her water. Blake grinned and rose halfway.

  “Conor. Right?”

  Oh, damn! Martha squirmed in her chair as Conor looked down at her, the corners of his mouth twitching.

  “Blake Chambers.” Blake held out his hand and Conor shook it. “Here, sit down and join us.” Blake motioned to an empty chair, but Conor took a step back.

  “Thanks, but I’m kind of in a hurry. Nice to meet you, though. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Martha went a deep, furious red. She put her napkin up to her face.

  “Is that your lunch?” Conor asked innocently. “Since when do you eat cottage cheese?”

  Martha wished she could die. Just crawl under the table and quietly die. Blake was watching her — her and the uneaten bowls of cottage cheese on her tray.

  “I always eat cottage cheese. I love cottage cheese, as a matter of fact.”

  “That’s funny. Your dad said it makes you sick.”

  Martha threw him a look of pure hatred.

  Conor smiled back. “See you later. Good meeting you.”

  “Yeah, you, too.” Blake watched Conor walk oft, then turned to Martha with a smile, “Seems like a nice guy. How is he as a brother?”

  “Stepbrother,” Martha muttered. “Stepbrother —”