“Hey, sorry!” Blake held up his hands in mock defense, and Martha finally gave in to a laugh. “Wynn says your dad’s a writer.”
“He writes articles mostly. Human interest stories.”
“You mean two-headed alien changelings, things like that?” Blake tried to keep his expression serious.
“Not quite. Right now he’s off in Hawaii on some new assignment.”
Blake gave a low whistle. “I’m impressed. Too bad you couldn’t go along and take notes or something.”
“It’s also his honeymoon,” Martha sighed. “Plus, he’s very strict about school.”
“I can sympathize.” Blake buttered a roll, and chewed thoughtfully. “My old man’s a tyrant when it comes to grades. Wants me to have it better than he did — you know the old story.”
“Well, it sounds like you’re doing plenty to make him happy,” Martha said.
Blake looked mischievous. “Hey, I enjoy winning, that’s all. But you — how do you like your classes so far?”
Martha hesitated, shrugged. “They’re okay, I guess. I think writing will be fun….” She glanced at him, hesitating. “Can I ask you something?”
“Never on the first date.” His eyes met hers with a twinkle. “Sure. Ask away.”
“Our house,” Martha said.
“The old Bedford place.”
“Yes. Wynn said … well, is it really … evil?”
Blake leaned back in surprise. “You mean you didn’t know? Nobody told you?”
Martha shook her head, frowning. “I’d really like to hear the story, if there is one.”
For a minute his face seemed to struggle between sadness and uncertainty. He turned his glass slowly between his fingers. “I’m not sure you really do. Or that you really should.”
“But I’m living there and it’s —” She broke oft, and his eyes raised slowly to her face.
“It’s what?”
Martha frowned, one hand trailing across her forehead. “I … I can’t explain it exactly. I was going to ask Wynn about it but —”
“No, don’t.” Blake looked at her, his expression serious, and he pushed himself back from the table. “Don’t ask Wynn. Let’s go someplace where we can talk.”
Martha felt uneasy as she followed him across campus. A light drizzle had discouraged much outside activity — hardly anyone seemed to be around as they walked past the buildings towards the athletic field behind school. Blake waved distractedly as several runners jogged past them on the track, then he steered Martha to the bleachers.
“Mind a little fresh air?” Blake smiled, but it seemed strained. He bowed slightly and helped her up. “Have a seat. It’s been trying to rain for weeks now — when it finally comes, it probably won’t stop till Christmas.” He eased down beside her and leaned back, propping his elbows on the seat behind. His brown eyes searched her face. “Do you believe in ghosts, Martha?”
She wasn’t quite prepared for that. As he continued to stare at her, her own eyes widened in alarm.
“I … what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your house. The Bedford house. That’s what people around here believe, you know — that the tormented spirits there can’t be put to rest.”
“Do they really come back to the scenes of their tragedies … bound there forever, even in death …?” Dad’s words floated back to her, and Martha shook her head slowly, trying to clear it.
“Are you trying to tell me this whole town is superstitious about that stupid old house?”
A faint smile passed over his face. “That stupid old house has been around as long as the town. Built by the original founders. Most of the family’s died out through the years, though. The last heirs put it up for sale last year.”
“I can see why,” Martha said wryly.
“The family was never big on updating anything — as you’ve probably found out by now.” Blake ran one hand over the wooden seat, his brow furrowed in thought. “But the murder’s not an old story. The murder just happened a year ago.”
A long cold wind curled around them, rattling the bleachers. Martha glanced nervously at the sky and huddled deeper into her jacket.
“The Bedfords had money, so the house sat empty a lot. They were funny people — kind of eccentric, I guess — and Bedford was just too small for their tastes. Then George Bedford decided to move back to his roots, so he and his wife and daughter lived in the house the last few years. Elizabeth, the daughter” — his voice lowered, and for a minute Martha thought he looked sad — “Elizabeth was Wynn’s age. Really pretty … really sweet girl. She and Wynn got to be best friends. They spent a lot of time together. The parents were pretty social — they went off to the city a lot and left Elizabeth by herself, so Wynn was good company for her.”
Martha nodded, blew on her fingers, flexing her hands. “So far it doesn’t sound very scary. Just sad.”
“Someone murdered Elizabeth. Wynn found her at the house up in her room.”
The last bit of warmth drained from Martha’s body. As a soft flurry of leaves sifted down upon their shoulders, Blake reached over and untangled one from her hair. Martha flinched at his touch.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to —”
“It’s okay.” Martha shook her head emphatically. “Go on. Please.”
Blake gave an almost imperceptible nod and leaned back again, propping his feet on the seat below. “Dennis killed her,” he said softly. “It was Dennis’s fault.”
“What …?” Martha could feel her lips forming the words, but for a moment no sound would come. She watched Blake’s fingers tracing the zipper of his jacket. “Who’s Dennis?”
Blake shot her a meaningful look. “A guy who used to live here. I went to school with him … he played on the team….”
“How horrible!”
“He was a total jerk. Everyone knew what a hotshot he was — he acted like he owned the whole town and he took whatever he wanted — like everyone owed him something. He wanted Elizabeth — arid for a while he had her, too. Until she dumped him.”
Martha was watching Blake’s face, the way it was struggling to control emotions, the way his eyes averted from hers with a sudden coldness. “Why did she do that?”
“’Cause she got smart,” Blake said quickly. He stared hard into the past, the tension beginning to ease around his mouth. “I … I guess she just got tired of all his bullshit. He liked to brag, you know — usually about things that had never happened.”
Martha nodded. “I think I get the picture. But how —?”
Blake didn’t let her finish. “I know he killed her,” he said flatly. “But before he did it, he tried to put her through hell.”
Another wave of gooseflesh went over her. Martha clasped her hands together tightly and pressed them against her chin, trying not to shake. “Blake … I —”
“You never crossed Dennis,” Blake said softly. “I know … everyone knew. You never crossed him and got away with it — he’d find some way to get back … to make your life miserable. Everyone in town knew what he was like — he just didn’t care about anything or anyone. And when Elizabeth said she didn’t want to see him anymore, he made her pay for making him look bad.”
Martha shook her head. “He sounds like some kind of monster.”
“Oh, but he didn’t look like one.” Blake’s laugh was derisive. “All the girls thought he was great — and he was good-looking. And he could turn the charm off and on like water — he was a real pro. But he didn’t have any real friends. And he didn’t have any loyalties. Even on the basketball team, he was a dirty player. And everyone was afraid of him, and he knew it, so that made it easy for him.”
Martha was silent for a long while, her mind working to sort it all out. “And so he killed Elizabeth just to get back at her?”
“First there were the phone calls,” Blake said.
Martha stared at him, an icy chill rippling up her spine. “Phone calls?” she murmured.
�
�Obscene phone calls. Not just kid stuff, trying to scare her. Threats.” Blake’s eyes closed briefly, and he ran one hand across his forehead. “He told her he’d get even with her if it was the last thing he did. He told her she’d never go out with anyone again.”
“Oh, Blake — he told her that?”
“And he started following her. Not out in the open where she could really see him — but at a distance, just so she’d know he was there. Sometimes when he called, he’d tell her things he’d seen her do — like he’d been watching the house.”
Martha was gazing at him in disbelief, her arms clenched tightly around her chest. She was beginning to feel sick, and her body was so cold now that it seemed strangely detached.
“He left a dead rat on her porch.” The words came out between clenched teeth, and Blake’s fist curled and uncurled again on his thigh. “And one night he set a fire —”
“A fire!” No … no … I don’t want to hear this, please stop, please….
“They caught it in time, but …” His voice trailed away, for one brief instant his eyes filled, but then he lifted his head, bunking defiantly. “It didn’t matter in the end, did it? Nothing did. He still killed her.”
Martha’s throat felt thick, her words sticking with an aftertaste of fear. “But she told someone, didn’t she? Why didn’t the police do something?”
Blake gave a humorless smile. “That’s just it. She didn’t tell anyone. Not at first, anyway.”
“But — but why! That’s ridicu —”
“She didn’t take him seriously. She thought it was a big joke at first — and then — well, then it just made her mad. Then she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of being intimidated.”
“But didn’t Wynn know about it? Didn’t anyone?”
“After it’d been going on for a while — that’s when I found out about it. And then I told Greg.”
“And couldn’t you two do anything?”
“Hey, wait a minute!” For a split second Blake almost looked angry. “What could we do? No proof, no evidence — Dennis and I never got along, and that sure wasn’t a secret — and Elizabeth had dumped the guy. Do you know how that would have sounded to the cops? They’d have called it high school soap opera. And if Greg had gone around telling tales about Dennis, he could have lost his job.” He looked into Martha’s shocked eyes. “Do you think I’m proud of myself for this? Hell, I can hardly stand to think about it.” He jumped to his feet, hands in pockets and started pacing. “And Wynn … sure she knew about it … but if we’d made trouble for Dennis … well … he’d hinted to Elizabeth that he’d … make trouble … for Wynn.”
Martha nodded woodenly, the implication clear. “Oh, Blake … I …”
“He killed her on Halloween.” Blake looked across the deserted fields, his face sorrowful. “The last time I saw her, we were all at a party — she was making fun of Dennis — laughing about how immature he was — and then … well….” He shook his head. “Later that night she left with him — and we never saw her alive again.”
“Left with him! But —” Martha looked up at Blake, but he wasn’t seeing her anymore.
“When we went to her house to look for her, Wynn found her — what was left of her —”
“Oh, no … stop….”
“Up in her bedroom —”
“Which bedroom?” Martha murmured.
“What?”
“Which bedroom?”
“The one at the back of the house. Closest to the woods.”
“Oh, God —”
“Wynn never got over it. She still has dreams — horrible nightmares. She still feels guilty because she let Elizabeth leave with Dennis and never told us — she was the first one in the house that night, and she still has times when she can’t remember things —”
Martha’s eyes were fixed on his face, his mouth, struggling to understand what he was saying, her mind as gray as the mist….
“The next day they found Dennis’s car in the river. It’d stormed all night and flooded, and the car’d been washed off the bridge. And they found the knife.”
“So … they finally knew,” Martha mumbled. She searched his face for some sign of satisfaction, but there was none.
“Murder-suicide they called it,” Blake said hollowly. “But they never found him.” He lowered dark eyes to her shocked face. “The current was just so strong … they never found Dennis.”
Chapter 6
You’ve got to be calm, Martha, you’ve got to be grown-up about this and put it all in perspective and not start jumping to conclusions….
Martha closed her eyes, thankful that another exhausting day of school was over. There were so many things she needed to know — but before she’d been able to ask Blake about them, lunch break had ended and he’d promised to call her tonight. Now she glanced at Conor’s hands on the steering wheel and fought down a surge of anger.
“Oh, Dad,” Martha muttered to herself, “why did you ever get me into this?” She pressed her nose flat against the window and stared out into black, empty nothingness as the car sped home. In the back bedroom closest to the woods … her bedroom. No wonder I had that awful feeling … no wonder…. She hadn’t been able to get it out of her mind since her talk with Blake. Obscene phone calls … pranks … a fire … Elizabeth’s terror in the last few seconds of her life…. It was all so unbelievable, so terribly overwhelming, that Martha could hardly stand to think about it. And yet how can I not think about it, after all the things that have happened….
By the time they reached the house she still hadn’t spoken a word to Conor, and he hadn’t seemed the least bit bothered by her silence. While he tossed his books on the hall table and went about turning on lights, Martha sagged against the wall, facing the stairs like an old enemy. I can’t go up there right now, I just can’t. Conor disappeared into the kitchen, and a moment later she heard him whistling as he rattled pots and pans. Dragging her feet, she finally followed him and sank down at the table.
“I hope you cook better than your mom,” she said.
The look Conor threw her was reproachful. “Everyone cooks better than my mom.”
Martha hesitated, then announced, “I found out something today.”
“So it would seem.” Conor didn’t even look up; now he was chopping onions on the cutting board.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t want to fight with you, even though you’re sure in the mood for it.”
Martha’s mouth dropped open in surprise. For a moment she couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Blake Chambers told you about Elizabeth Bedford’s murder,” Conor went on placidly. “Do you like your chili with or without beans?”
“I —” Martha stared at him, annoyed. “What were you doing spying on us?”
“You were the only two people sitting out there on the bleachers in the rain in the middle of the football field. You weren’t that hard to miss.”
“Well then, how did you know what we were talking about?” Martha demanded. “How could you have known that?”
“In spite of what you think, I did happen to notice your wonderful mood on the way home.” He wiped his knife on a paper towel and Martha shuddered. “And I did some detective work of my own.”
“You did?”
“I cut class and went down to the newspaper office this morning. I read some pretty unpleasant stuff.”
Martha sniffed. “Well, you don’t know half of it, probably. Not all the really important details.”
Conor gave a vague nod and started slicing cheese. “No, probably not.”
She waited, but when he didn’t say anything more, she gave a loud sigh. “All right, I guess I should tell you. Even though you sure weren’t interested in anything on the way home.”
This time Conor sighed. He put down the knife again, cleaned his hands on the dishrag, and turned and looked at her. “I figured you’d talk about it when you were ready. How much chees
e do you want?”
Martha met his stare for a long moment, then grudgingly dropped her eyes. “I knew this was a horrible house from the very beginning. I knew it.”
“Okay. Tell me all those really important details.”
By the time Martha finished her story, the chili was simmering on the stove, but eating, for the time being, was forgotten. She repeated the story exactly as she’d heard it from Blake, and Conor sat across from her, elbows propped on the table, chin resting on hands, eyes lowered. His face showed no emotion — even when Martha recalled the grisly scene of the murder, Conor just listened, his face unmoved.
“Conor, are you in a trance or what? Have you even heard a single word I’ve said?” She waited expectantly, the silence lengthening between them. Something creaked in the hallway, and she glanced nervously towards the door. “Conor —”
“But they’re not sure it was him,” Conor said. “How can they be so sure it was him?”
“Of course it was him!” Martha stared, her calm snapping. “He was crazy and jealous, and he killed Elizabeth! In my bedroom! Conor, we shouldn’t even be here — this house is bad luck — it’s evil and dangerous! I don’t want to live in a house that’s supposed to be haunted — where someone was killed! Everybody talks about it! They all act like I’m weird and bad luck! I’ll never have any friends. Nobody’ll ever come out here to see us —”
Conor lifted his head slowly and looked at her. “You’re talking like someone who believes in ghosts. I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”
“I —” her voice faltered. “All the … coincidences … the things happening around here — my room … the phone call … that scarecrow had a knife in him! — and that fire last night —”
“Oh. So now you don’t believe I started it.”
“This isn’t funny!” Martha’s hands clasped the edge of the table. “Of course you started it — you had to have started it. Maybe the house made you start it —” She broke off, her eyes fixed on his, almost pleading. Her voice came out small and tight. “Well … did you?”
“No,” Conor said. “I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe you,” Martha told him, and Conor rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what to believe! I’m not staying in that room another night!”
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