Trick or Treat

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  “You don’t have to,” Conor said agreeably. “I’ll change rooms with you if you want.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course.” He pulled himself up to his lean height and went over to the stove. “We’d better eat this stuff before it boils away.”

  “Oh, Conor, how can you even think about eating at a time like this?” Martha groaned. “This whole thing is just so awful —”

  Conor regarded her a moment, then replaced the lid on the pot. “It’s not awful. It’s perfectly natural.”

  “Natural! Oh, right, it’s natural that someone was murdered in the room where you’re sleeping — it happens every day!”

  “I’m not talking about the murder.” Conor looked away, and Martha wondered if he was trying to hide a smile. “I’m talking about the house.”

  “And what could be natural about this horrible house?”

  Conor remained unruffled. “When something so … so tragic happens in a house, it’s natural that all those high-charged emotions should be … well … absorbed by it. By the rooms … the atmosphere. Sort of like … tangible memories.”

  “So what does that mean? It’s the bad memories haunting our house?”

  Conor stared at the stove, at the low blue flame sputtering on the burner. “It means … yes. Bad memories are haunting our house.”

  “Is that why my room is so cold?”

  “Because it remembers, probably. Yes.”

  “So what about the fire last night?”

  Conor hesitated. He averted his eyes, and Martha had the uneasy feeling that he was holding something back from her.

  “It could have been an accident, right?” Martha insisted. “You could have just forgotten — left it on and gone to bed.”

  He gave a vague nod. “Maybe I had my mind on other things,” he murmured.

  “You always have your mind on other things. And you don’t really believe what you just said, and you know it,” Martha challenged him. “And next you’re gonna tell me the phone call was just a joke, and the wind blew that scarecrow up in the tree, and my closet is just drafty, and there’s absolutely nothing else in the house with us but bad memories — and —”

  She shook her head in exasperation and hurried up to her room. For a long while she lay on her bed, her mind churning. What was happening? She was terrified being in this house — in this room — and maybe all those things really were coincidences, but Conor was holding something back, she could feel it — but what? And Dennis was dead, and she was in the room where he’d murdered Elizabeth in an insane rage….

  Something cracked against the windowpane.

  Martha jumped up and switched off her light, edging cautiously towards the window. She could hear the wind wailing, a long mournful sound, and for one split second clouds struggled apart, splashing the ground with pale, pale moonlight. The trees arced back and forth in a slow kind of frenzy. Straining her eyes, Martha saw something on the ground below her window and realized a branch must have fallen and knocked against the house. She closed her eyes in relief, a headache beginning to pound behind her temples. I should have eaten something … that was so stupid … I haven’t really eaten anything all day….

  The phone rang.

  With a surge of relief Martha remembered that Blake was going to call, and she raced for the phone before Conor could answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Elizabeth,” the voice whispered.

  And it wasn’t Blake who drew a long, raspy breath … and let it out again … breathing … breathing … while her heart beat like a frantic wing in her throat.

  “Who — who is this?”

  It wasn’t Blake who began to laugh and then suddenly went quiet — the awful, terrible silence going on and on forever….

  “Hello?” Martha cried. “Who is this!”

  “You’re dead, Elizabeth. Trick or treat.”

  Chapter 7

  “Who was that?”

  Martha spun around, the receiver clenched in her hand, and Conor pried it free. “I … he called me Elizabeth … he said I was dead….”

  “Dead, huh?” Conor considered this for a moment. “Nice touch. Wasn’t I supposed to answer the phone from now on?”

  “I thought — I mean, it was supposed to be for me,” Martha stammered.

  “Hmmm….” Conor raised an eyebrow, but didn’t pursue it. “Martha, don’t say anything back to him. Don’t even answer the phone, okay?”

  “You didn’t hear that breathing — he said ‘Trick or treat’ — just like before —”

  “Martha, it’s just a crank caller. Everyone in town knows that Elizabeth Bedford died here on Halloween — what did you expect him to say?”

  “You still think this is funny, don’t you?” Martha raged at him. “It’s never entered your mind that something terrible might happen!” She ran to her room and slammed the door, bracing her body against it, trembling all over. That voice! That horrible voice!

  “First there were the phone calls … he killed her on Halloween….”

  “No,” Martha said sternly to herself, “it can’t be happening again. Conor’s right … someone’s just trying to scare me.”

  “You’re dead, Elizabeth.”

  She pressed her fists against her eyes, as if she could obliterate the blinding terror behind them. She hated Conor — hated him! So casual, like nothing had happened. Just preachy and patronizing and bossy and —

  She jumped as the phone rang again. She heard Conor answer, then mumble, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. She put her ear to the door, then jumped again as he pounded on the other side.

  “Martha, it’s Blake,” Conor said. “Do you think your heart can take this?”

  Angrily she flung open the door and stomped past him, flashing him a look of loathing. Conor smiled and disappeared into his room, shutting his door behind him.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. Hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

  Martha shook her head, her palm already sweaty against the receiver. “No, I wasn’t doing anything. I mean … just homework,” she lied.

  “Well, that’s certainly not important,” Blake chuckled. “Listen — Greg and Wynn are over here, and we thought we’d go out for pizza — it’d just be for an hour or so — why don’t you come along?”

  “Me?” Martha couldn’t believe her ears. “I mean — now?”

  “Hey, it’s okay if you’ve got something else going on — I know it’s kind of short notice and —”

  “No, I’d love to go. I’m starving.”

  Blake laughed. “Great. We’ll pick you up in, say, half an hour. Oh, and Wynn says to come grubby — it’s a real dump.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Martha promised. She hung up the phone in a daze, then scrambled to her room to look for something to wear. As she started downstairs, she noticed Conor’s door slightly ajar and stood looking at it resentfully. She supposed she ought to tell him she was going out, but it irked her having to tell him anything. Finally she knocked and inched the door open.

  He was sitting on his bed, papers spread out around him, a clipboard on his knees. At first she wasn’t sure he’d even heard her, then he raised his head, one eyebrow lifting at the intrusion.

  “I’m going out,” Martha announced.

  Conor nodded and went back to his papers. “Have fun.”

  Martha stood there, staring at his bent head, the thick mane of hair obscuring his features. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. It might be a long time.”

  “Okay,” Conor said.

  Martha started to say more, then clamped her lips together and closed the door. Then she opened it.

  Conor didn’t look up.

  “I’m going out for pizza. With some friends.”

  “Lucky you.”

  Martha slammed the door and went downstairs to wait.

  When Greg’s car finally stopped in the drive, it was Blake who hopped out to help her into the back
and then sat beside her. Wynn huddled next to Greg in the front, keeping her face turned from the house, but she gave Martha a nervous smile.

  “Martha, my newest and prettiest student, how’s life treating you at dear old Bedford?” Greg turned and winked at her, and Martha glanced over at Blake, feeling suddenly shy.

  “Come on,” Blake shot back. “She hasn’t been here long enough to even live the Bedford life.”

  “Well, we’ll fix that,” Greg decided, steering the car onto the road. “We’ll take you on the exclusive cruise — Bedford by night.”

  Wynn looked amused at that. “You guys stop it. Nothing’s open in Bedford past nine o’clock.”

  “Not even the sidewalks. They close up at eight.” Blake grinned at Martha. “We’re going to the hot spot in town, though. It doesn’t close till eleven tonight.”

  Martha leaned back, letting the banter rush over her in warm, soothing waves. It was so good to be with people again — people who weren’t total strangers, hearing the laughter and jokes and good-hearted insults. The cousins shared an obvious camaraderie, and that cheered her like nothing had for a long time.

  The pizza place was noisy and crowded. As Blake led the way to a back booth, it was obvious to Martha that everyone knew everyone else, and they were all staring at her. Is one of them the voice on the phone? She bent her head and studied the menu, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and apprehension. She was glad when Greg finally ordered and they all started talking again.

  “Have you written your ghost story yet?” Wynn asked. Blake and Greg were arguing loudly about the basketball coach, and she leaned across the table towards Martha.

  “No,” Martha said. “I really haven’t thought about it.” It’s the last thing I want to think about right now….

  Wynn shook her head; she looked unhappy. “I wish the class had voted on something else.”

  “A romance?” Greg bent close to her, lowering his voice dramatically. “A mysterious stranger who sneaks into girls’ rooms at night and —”

  “A stranger with sexy blue eyes,” added Blake as Wynn tried to push Greg away.

  “Look at her, she blushes every time,” Greg deadpanned. “Every time we mention that blue-eyed stranger —”

  “It’s true,” Blake nodded. “He just has something the rest of us guys don’t have —”

  Wynn bent her face into her hands as they laughed. “You two — will you please — ”

  “We’re a little upset with Wynn,” Blake said seriously to Martha. “See, we really wanted to invite your brother but —”

  “Blake!” Wynn’s face went a deep scarlet, and she looked so distressed that even Martha found it hard not to laugh.

  “No, Wynn said we couldn’t ask your brother,” Greg continued, just as solemn. “She said she wouldn’t come if he came, so —”

  “It was between Wynn and the blue-eyed stranger,” Blake said. “And I hated to see her starve, so —”

  “Stop,” Wynn moaned, but she was laughing now, in spite of their teasing. As it suddenly dawned on Martha that Conor was the topic of their conversation, she looked at Wynn in barely concealed astonishment.

  “Conor? If he had come, I wouldn’t have come, either. Then you’d have missed out on both of us.” It was said before she even thought, but the guys burst into laughter, and Wynn cast her a grateful smile.

  “Then we made the right decision.” Blake shook Greg’s hand, nodding emphatically. “After all, there’s only room for two real men at this table.”

  “Then you’d better leave so they can sit down with us,” Wynn threw back and looked smugly at Martha.

  “So what’s the story with your brother, anyway?” Blake asked Martha, draping his arm casually over the seat behind her. “Besides the fact that he’s obviously a genius and has every girl in Bedford fantasizing.”

  “Stepbrother,” Martha said automatically. “And I didn’t know he was a genius.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m in three classes with him, and he knows everything. The guy’s a walking encyclopedia.”

  “You mean he actually talks in class?” Martha looked doubtful. “He hardly says a word at home.”

  “Well, let’s put it this way.” Blake spread his hands, explaining. “He never volunteers — never speaks up. But if he’s called on — watch out. By the end of class, he and the teacher are in some deep discussion, and the class is hanging on every word. It’s incredible.”

  “He must read a lot,” Greg surmised, and Martha squirmed uncomfortably.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe he’s got one of those photographic memories,” Blake suggested. “What does he do around the house?”

  Martha cleared her throat, conscious of their eyes upon her. “I don’t really know.”

  “You don’t know? You live with him, don’t you?” Blake laughed, but Wynn came to Martha’s defense.

  “She hasn’t known him that long. They practically just met.”

  This time it was Martha who looked grateful. “He keeps to himself a lot. He’s sort of in his own world.”

  “And to top it off, he plays a mean game of basketball.” Blake shook his head in mild disbelief.

  “He cooks,” Martha added, and Blake rolled his eyes.

  “Naturally.”

  “And he likes to walk in the woods.”

  “That’s nice,” Wynn said. “It’s sensitive and —”

  “And what?” Greg nudged her.

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, you were going to say ‘romantic,’ weren’t you?” Blake picked up mischievously.

  “Well, suppose I was.” Wynn lifted her chin. “We could sure use some guys around here with a little sensitivity.”

  Blake and Greg groaned in unison, then cheered as the pizza arrived. For a while Conor was forgotten as they attacked their food and talked about other things: school, sports, the town. Martha laughed uproariously as Greg recalled childhood escapades that he and his cousins had been involved in, and then Wynn retaliated with some choice stories of her own that Blake and Greg swore had never happened. Martha couldn’t remember when she’d had such fun, and she hated the evening to end.

  After dropping Wynn off, Greg insisted that Blake borrow his car to drive Martha home. And though Martha felt shy about being alone with Blake, he soon put her at ease, driving around town as Greg had suggested earlier, showing her the general layout of Bedford. They took their time, talking, listening to tapes, and when the heater got temperamental, Blake’s arm slipped easily around her shoulders and stayed there the rest of the way home. They drove slowly because of the fog, and Blake didn’t seem in any hurry to drop her off — and when they finally pulled up in the driveway, Martha realized she hadn’t thought about Conor or the house all evening. Conor’s light was on, which seemed to amuse Blake. He helped her out of the car and took her hand, walking her to the porch.

  “I’m glad you came,” he said.

  “Me, too.” They looked at each other for a long moment, and he gathered her into his jacket, resting his chin on top of her head. His touch felt warm and secure.

  “I’ve been thinking … being the official welcome committee definitely has its advantages.”

  “How’s that?” Martha couldn’t look away from his laughing eyes.

  “I get first dibs on the new kid,” Blake said in mock seriousness.

  Martha laughed, embarrassed, then her voice grew urgent. “Do people here like to play jokes on the new kid?”

  Blake looked puzzled. “Jokes? What kind of jokes?”

  “Oh,” Martha shrugged evasively, “stupid phone calls … things like that….”

  Blake studied her, his smile uncertain. “You mean Prince-Albert-in-a-can phone calls? It wouldn’t surprise me — there’re lots of dumb kids in Bedford.” His smile widened as he pulled her closer. “Lucky Conor.” Blake looked down at her, teasing, and Martha frowned.

  “What’s lucky about Conor?”

  “He gets to liv
e with you.” Blake grinned again, his hand sliding from her arm. “I’ll call you,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

  Martha stood there and watched as the car disappeared into the woods. Her heart felt almost sick with excitement, and her insides were still shaking. Blake Chambers? With her? She was almost afraid to believe it was possible. A guy like that without a single serious girlfriend in the whole school? There must be something wrong with him…. And then she sighed and shook her head. No, there’s nothing wrong with him. He’s absolutely perfect, he’s the most perfect boy I’ve ever met in my life….

  “Dreamer,” Martha muttered to herself. “When you wake up, you’ll be sorry.” She turned the door-knob and groaned. It was locked. “Conor!” she called. She pounded and put her ear to the door to listen. No footsteps coming down the stairs. No answer from within. “Conor!” Martha called again. How stupid, going off without a key. Conor would never let her forget this one. “Conor! Come on, let me in! It’s cold out here!”

  Martha tucked her hands inside her jacket and stomped her feet. He’d probably fallen asleep studying, cramming his mind with all those genius things. She didn’t know what Wynn saw in him, but she could tell Wynn was definitely interested and too shy to pursue it. Maybe I’ll help her out. She really liked Wynn — maybe she’d introduce them in just the right environment and Conor would ask Wynn for a date, and then he’d turn into a normal person.

  “Conor!” Irritated, Martha stepped off the porch and looked up at Conor’s window. The light was still on, but there was no sign of movement. He probably had a headset on or something — she’d be out here screaming for hours before he heard her. Then another thought struck her — maybe he was in the bathroom — clear at the back of the house.

  The wind was so cold, she was covered with goosebumps. On a hunch she tried the casements on the terrace at the side of the house, but all the rooms were locked. “Damn you, Conor.” She kept close to the house and went on around, her eyes darting nervously at every sound, every shadow. She hadn’t thought about the phone call till now — now it came back to her with frightening clarity — the voice — the breathing — “you’re dead … dead….”