Trick or Treat

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  “Well, we made it.” Blake grinned triumphantly. “I think we beat him home.”

  Martha sat stiffly against the door, her stomach so knotted that it hurt. Ahead of her the house lay in silent shadows — it was full twilight, and they’d forgotten to leave a light on.

  “Hey,” Blake leaned over, peering anxiously into her face, “you’re not upset over what I said back there, are you? I should never have —”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m not upset.”

  “Don’t you be silly. You haven’t said two words all the way home.”

  “I’m …” Martha thought quickly, “maybe I really am coming down with something.”

  “You can’t.” Blake grinned again, tilting her chin up with his finger. “You have to go to the Halloween party.”

  Martha stared at him, nothing registering. “Of course I’m not going to the Halloween party, I don’t have a date —” She broke off, flustered, as he laughed.

  “You do now. So hurry on inside and play sick for Conor and I’ll see you later, okay?”

  Martha’s head was spinning. Somehow she told him good-bye and let herself into the house.

  She didn’t know why she hadn’t asked him to stay.

  Now, watching miserably as the van disappeared from sight, she wished she’d thought of some excuse to ask him in, to have him stay with her, just until Conor got home….

  Where is Conor anyway?

  Martha pressed her hands to her temples, trying to squeeze away the doubts. Never found … never. She leaned back against the wall and slowly opened her eyes. Silence echoed around her — one gloomy staircase rose beside her, the upstairs swathed in shadows. She took a deep, shaky breath and pushed herself forward. Damn you, Conor….

  The lights. If she could just get all the lights turned on, that would help. If she could just stop thinking about what Blake had said and get all the lights turned on, then she’d be okay, and Conor would get home, and everything would be nice and normal….

  She found a switch, and the hallway stretched ahead of her like a dim tunnel. She saw the heavy draperies at the opposite end….

  The slight stir of velvet….

  The one fold, strangely out of line with the rest.

  Her heart raced with terror. She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt and backed away. There are no such things as ghosts … there are no such things as evil houses….

  She hurried up to her room, purposely averting her eyes from the yawning doorways as she passed. She shut the door, strangely uncomforted by the sight of her unmade bed, her books and records and posters, her dirty clothes on the floor in front of the closet….

  Martha’s eyes fastened on the closet door, and she gave an involuntary shiver. How many ordinary, everyday things had suddenly become frightening to her since moving into this awful house? She knew better than to believe all the talk about this house, and yet how could she explain away the scary things that had happened to her here? Hadn’t Conor said that a house could harbor bad memories — and where was Conor, anyway? What could possibly be keeping him so long?

  They never found him…. What if Dennis is still alive?

  Martha pulled her sweats from a drawer and banged it shut. She didn’t want to think about Dennis now … not Dennis or Elizabeth Bedford or the Bedford house or the Bedford cemetery or — she’d just start getting her things together, like Conor had said, and move all her stuff into the other room — this would be a perfect time to do it and —

  What was that?

  Martha froze, her sweatshirt half over her head. As her eyes darted frantically from dresser to closet to bedroom door, she knew it wasn’t just the chill that had caused her skin to break out in goose-bumps. Something had floated up the stairs just then … along the hall to her room … a soft sound….

  A whispering sound.

  Like invisible leaves blown across the wooden floor by a cold, invisible wind.…

  “Conor?” Martha called.

  The noise stopped.

  Slowly she tiptoed to the door and put her ear against it, straining to hear over the pounding of her heart.

  “Conor?” she called again, more softly this time. She inched the door open and peered out into the hallway. It was hazy with shadows, but she could see Conor’s room from here, and it was still dark. Besides, I would have heard the front door open … he would have said something…. Unsettled, Martha eased the door back into place and wished it had a lock.

  He couldn’t be much longer — any minute she’d hear the car pull in and he’d walk into the house, weird as ever, and for the hundredth time she’d hear the rationalizations about old houses settling and drafts seeping in and….

  They never found him….

  Martha slammed a disc into her her CD player and turned it up. The first song was a love song, one of her favorites, and she curled up with the pillows on her bed and concentrated on trying to relax. Conor would be here any second now, and all the doors and windows were locked, and as long as the music played, the house couldn’t trick her with old, scary sounds…. I’ll think of something nice … something wonderful. She closed her eyes and thought, of Blake so warm and strong beside her, and his lips so insistent on hers…. She turned her head dreamily as rain thrashed the windowpane, and then the music … and Blake … pulled her gently … gently … into a deep, dreamy embrace….

  She didn’t know how long she’d dozed off, but she knew on some level of consciousness that something was wrong.

  Fighting her way back from sleep she realized she’d just had another nightmare — where eyes watched her from unfathomable darkness — so close, so near to her, seeing every single thing she did … everything she even thought —

  And then it was more than the eyes.

  It was a presence.

  A presence even stronger, even more frightening than the eyes had been — a presence so malevolent that it almost wasn’t human….

  Martha’s eyes flew open. For a long terrifying moment she lay there, bewildered and afraid, trying to figure out what was so wrong about the room —

  And then she knew.

  Her light was out.

  The record, long since ended, scratched softly over and over again on the turntable. Rain hissed and streamed against the windowpane. As Martha’s eyes painstakingly adjusted to the darkness, she turned her head slowly to her closet.

  It was open.

  And someone was standing inside.

  The shriek that formed in her throat stuck there, threatening to choke her.

  She could see the thing — only ten feet away from her bed — the dark, indistinct outline of someone standing there, not moving, not making a sound — just watching her with a terrible, silent patience.

  A sliver of lightning flashed at the window….

  She saw the cold glint of his eyes.

  He doesn’t know I’m awake — and Martha’s chest heaved as she fought to control her breathing — dear God, he doesn’t know I’ve seen him — he doesn’t realize —

  A boom of thunder shook the house, rattling the very foundations.

  The whole room — darkness — closet — tilted and swayed —

  As Martha bolted up, she could see the whole closet now — how the shadows had shifted within and lost some of their blackness and terror —

  The closet was empty.

  And even as she snapped on the lamp, even as the room burst into soft colors and familiarity, even as she flung open the closet, filling it with light, she knew with dreadful certainty that she wouldn’t find anything, nothing but the memory of a waking nightmare and the few clothes she ripped aside and flung back —

  And when the phone rang, she was beside herself with fear and anger, and she raced into the hallway, furious that everyone had abandoned her, snatching up the receiver with uncontrollable panic —

  “Conor! Where are you? You’ve got to come home —”

  But he wasn’t answering — he wasn’t saying anything — just struggling to
breathe — and then giving a soft laugh that chilled her heart —

  “Elizabeth,” the voice scolded, “don’t you like being in the house all by yourself?”

  “Who is this!” Martha screamed.

  “You’re mine, Elizabeth … trick or treat.”

  Chapter 11

  As Martha raced to the front door, her hand made a grab for the doorknob — only to recoil again instantly.

  The handle was turning.

  She staggered back, eyes glued in horrible fascination on the handle moving … the door opening….

  Conor stood there, one hand still on the door, twisting the key from the lock. Martha sagged back against the wall and felt her knees give out, her body sliding slowly down until she was sitting on the floor looking up at him.

  “Conor….” She was struggling for control, struggling to breathe, struggling with every ounce of willpower not to scream hysterically. “Where the hell were you?”

  “I had car trouble.” For a long moment he surveyed her, in a crumpled heap, then he seemed to remember the rain and wind whooshing through the hall and closed the door. “Why?”

  She couldn’t speak. For several seconds her voice seemed permanently displaced, and she could only look at him with dull eyes. Conor squatted down on his heels beside her.

  “The phone,” Martha said. It was even too much of an effort to explain, although Conor — for once — was giving her his undivided attention. She gazed back into his blue stare.

  “He knew you weren’t here. He knew I was alone.” When Conor didn’t respond, her voice grew frantic. “I think he was in my closet! Again! Doesn’t anybody care what’s happening around here!” Whirling to the stairs she ran smack into the newel post and grabbed her midsection with a groan.

  Conor bent over her, easing her down onto the bottom step. “Your exit could use some work — are you okay?”

  “Just leave me alone — you —” All her wind had been knocked out, and she could barely speak.

  “All this,” Conor sighed, “and the flu, too.”

  “What flu?” Martha moaned.

  Conor sat beside her, half smiling. “The flu they told me you had at school. So how’d you get home? As if I couldn’t guess.”

  Martha shot him a venomous look. “For your information, Blake just happened to come by when I started feeling bad, and he was nice enough to bring me home —”

  “That was certainly lucky.” Conor reached over and carefully pulled something from her hair as Martha tried to swat his hand away.

  “At least he cares how I feel —” She stared down at the strands of hay Conor held between his fingers, and a rush of fire went through her cheeks.

  “But I’m sure you feel much better now,” Conor said diplomatically.

  Somehow Martha made it up the stairs to the bedroom. How she hated him — what had she ever done to deserve this stupid life she had now? She felt like a caged animal, pacing round and round the room, snatching up her personal belongings, flinging her clothes from the closet until she’d inspected each hidden corner. Something had been there! No, not something — someone! It was a person’s shape she’d seen hulking there in the shadows — a human figure — and she didn’t care who wouldn’t believe her, she knew what she’d seen.

  She threw herself on the bed and screamed into the pillows, and after several good, long, muffled shrieks she rolled over and calmly decided she was having a nervous breakdown.

  He must be out there watching … he had to be or how could he know? Slowly Martha went to the window. What had Blake said about Dennis — “he’d tell her things he’d seen her do — like he’d been watching the house….” And where had Dennis hidden, Martha wondered now … out there in the woods … behind any one of those hundreds of trees … in the graveyard….

  They never found him.

  Is he still out there even now … just like he was the other night in the woods … watching me? … “Oh, God.” Martha drew a sharp breath and caught her head between her hands. She couldn’t think about it — she didn’t dare — because as long as I don’t believe in things, then they can’t be real, they can’t come true, they can’t hurt me….

  Frantically Martha jerked the blanket off the bed and rummaged in her desk for something to hang it with — tacks, pushpins, staples, nails — but there was nothing strong enough for a makeshift curtain. Conor had said nobody could see in, but Conor had been wrong because somebody — some horrible, breathing voice — was out there, knowing how terrified she was —

  Martha froze.

  Behind her the lamp quivered and the light skittered nervously along the ceiling.

  This time she knew she hadn’t imagined it.

  The soft creaking sound….

  The soft stalking sound….

  Very close to her….

  Trying not to be heard.

  Her whole body went numb.

  She heard the squeak of hinges … the slide of wood against the floor … and still — still — she couldn’t turn her head — couldn’t force herself to look in the closet —

  From the corner of her eye she watched the door move.

  She saw the feet step noiselessly out of the dark —

  And only then could she whirl and face the eyes that stared back at her from deep, black shadows.

  Chapter 12

  “Conor!” With a shriek Martha fell on him, all her rage and fear pouring out as she pummeled him with her fists and forced him back against the wall. Conor calmly dodged her blows, then with one expert twist, caught both her hands in his.

  “Do you know,” Conor said, “that there’s a secret passageway from the butler’s pantry straight here to your closet?”

  Martha promptly kicked his shin. “I hate you, Conor! Do you hear me? I hate and detest and despise you!”

  Conor’s look was reproachful. “Oh, come on, don’t gloss it over — tell me how you really feel!” He doubled over as a book sailed into his stomach, and just managed to duck the three notebooks that followed in quick succession. “Don’t you at least want to explore it?”

  “Get out of here — get out!” Martha was positively livid and as she lunged for something else to throw, her shoulders were suddenly caught and flattened upon the bed. “Get off of me!” she screamed.

  Conor shook his head. “Now, Martha, someone’s going to get hurt — and it’s liable to be me.” Her mouth opened but he put a finger to his lips. “Uh-uh … believe me, I know you hate me, detest me, and despise me, but I think it’s time you and I had a serious talk about what’s going on here.”

  Martha gave him her most poisonous look. “I think it’s obvious what’s going on here — you’ve been sneaking into my room, making sick phone calls, hiding in the woods, trying to scare the life out of me — some joke, Conor!”

  “I don’t know about this joke,” Conor said. “I do know you’re accusing me of some pretty strange things —”

  “Conor — you’re a pretty strange person.”

  “You don’t even know me. You don’t know anything about me.”

  His tone was so serious that the retort Martha was about to make died on her lips. He was bent over her, tawny hair framing his face, the light glowing around his head like a benevolent aura. His eyes were pure, blue pools, and with an effort she pulled her own eyes away.

  “I know as much about you as you do about me,” she muttered defensively.

  Conor raised his chin, thinking, but his eyes never left her face. It was useless trying to free herself — he was holding her without any effort at all.

  “You like Emily Dickinson and rock music, Mexican food, and you love to bake — brownies, mostly. Daisies are your favorite flowers, red’s your favorite color, and you don’t go much for white. You had lots of friends in Chicago — especially some guy named Ken — you love to write, and you’re good at it, but you have absolutely no confidence in yourself. You had a cat you grew up with, you love animals, you feel like nobody takes you seriously, that
they never listen, that they think you have an overactive imagination —”

  For one horrible minute Martha thought she was going to cry. “They do think that!” she blurted out.

  “Wrong,” Conor said. “I don’t think that.”

  She couldn’t seem to break from his stare — then finally she turned her head and felt his hold on her relax.

  “No more hysterics?” Conor asked. Martha shook her head, but his expression was still guarded.

  “No more. I promise.”

  He nodded then and slid away from her, positioning himself on the edge of her bed. Martha lay there a moment longer, regarding him soberly.

  “You didn’t come into my room before? Into the closet? Or watch from the window? You swear?”

  Conor signed a cross over his heart.

  “The scarecrow,” Martha said. “That was first.” She waited for him to rationalize, but when he didn’t, she went on hesitantly. “And then one night when I was outside by myself, I thought I heard someone crying — and I thought someone was there —”

  “Where? Doing what?”

  “I don’t know … in the woods. Hiding. Watching me.” He nodded encouragement and she sat up. “It was just a feeling — only more than a feeling — I was almost so sure it was real, I was terrified.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I was going to,” Martha said quietly, “only … well … Dad’s call came that night about Hawaii and …”

  The all-too-familiar look crept across Conor’s face, and he cast her a sidelong glance. “I get the gist.”

  “Well” — shamefaced, Martha hurried on — “then that one night I thought I saw the door move — that same night you smelled smoke —”

  “I remember. You were staring at something when I came in your room.”

  “And then the other night when you fell asleep and I forgot my key — I was going around to the back of the house, and someone was up here — here in my room. I could see a shadow on the wall, going back and forth — and then he stood at the window.”

  “But you couldn’t tell anything specific about him?”

  Martha shook her head. “No — the light was sort of flickering, the way a candle does, and the shadow was all distorted. And then,” she took a deep breath, “then tonight I fell asleep and when I woke up, the lamp was out — and it’s happened before — don’t look at me like that, Conor, I didn’t turn it off — it was on when I dozed off —”