Trick or Treat

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  Conor’s lips moved in a slow smile. “Maybe thirteen.”

  Martha looked at him blankly. “Maybe thirteen what?”

  “Maybe you look thirteen instead of twelve when you’re really passionate about something. Do you get passionate very often?”

  “Conor —”

  He held up both hands, the smile fading. “I just can’t decide what’s more fascinating — living in an evil house or having a sister.”

  “You’re not listening to a thing I’ve said!”

  “On the contrary, I’ve heard each word and locked it away in my mind. So when you woke up —”

  Martha frowned at him, slowly relenting. “So when I woke up, there was something in my closet — no, someone — Conor, I could just make out the shape, and it was definitely human and it was definitely there.” She huddled back against the pillows and pulled her knees up to her chin. “Do you … do you believe in dead people coming back to the scenes of their tragedies?”

  For a long while there was only the brush of wind against the pane, the soft murmur of a sleepy rain. Conor looked down at the rug beside the bed and stretched out his legs.

  “Yes, I believe that can happen.”

  Martha didn’t know whether to be surprised or not — part of her wanted to shake him, to make him tell her that ghosts didn’t really exist, that she was being silly, that —

  “They never found Dennis,” she reminded him. Was it her imagination, or did Conor look uncomfortable? “And what if I really do look like Elizabeth,” she added unhappily, “even if it is just from the back?”

  “You don’t look like Elizabeth,” Conor said quietly, and her head came up.

  “How would you know?”

  “That day I went to the newspaper office, I saw her picture. You both have blonde hair. So what? Lots of people have blonde hair.”

  Martha stared at him.

  “It’s just that … well … you know … Blake went out with her.”

  “I’m sure Blake’s gone out with every girl in Bedford.”

  Martha felt her heart splintering, but she managed to keep her voice under control. “Why are you even talking about Blake, anyway?”

  “You were talking about Blake.”

  “Well, I don’t want to talk about him anymore, okay? He … he’s been very nice to me … he’s really very, very sweet….” She glanced over, ready to defend him, but Conor just stared back, his face infuriatingly neutral. “Anyway, you’re just jealous,” Martha muttered.

  “Why should I be jealous? I don’t want to go out with him.”

  “Can we please just talk about something else?” Martha’s voice tightened; she could almost swear that there was a smile right behind Conor’s eyes. “Dennis might be alive, and I look like Elizabeth, and Halloween’s in three more days. Elizabeth was getting phone calls — I’m getting phone calls. She was being watched — and so am I. And there’s a feeling in this house that won’t go away — and I know I’m not imagining it.”

  “You’re not,” Conor said softly. “I feel it, too.”

  Martha’s reply stuck in her throat as she stared at him. “You do? Wait a minute — you —”

  “I felt it the first time I came inside — especially in this room.” Conor’s eyes swept the walls, the ceiling, the windowpane. “It’s more than bad memories … something else. Like bad secrets.”

  Martha just gaped at him. “You felt the coldness in here?”

  “Yes. This room’s always been the worst.”

  “And you let me stay in it?”

  “I didn’t know you’d be so receptive.” Conor had the grace to look a little sheepish. “Not many people are, you know.”

  “Then … you’ve believed me all this time?” Martha felt numb as anger and relief flooded through her.

  “I never said I didn’t believe you,” Conor said quietly. “I never said that.”

  “No, you just let me believe I was imagining everything.” Martha closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands. She was too numb even to scream at him. “Oh, Conor, how could you?”

  “You were just so upset about everything.” Conor went to the window and stood there, arms folded across his chest, staring out into the night. “It’s been so much harder for you than me — having your whole world pulled out from under you. I just … didn’t want to make it any scarier.”

  In the long quiet, Martha thought he might have sighed, a weary sound like the rain coursing slowly down the window glass. She watched his shoulders, the easy grace of his body as he slowly leaned against the wall.

  “It’s been hard for you, too?” she asked in a small voice.

  He gave a vague nod.

  “I’m sorry,” Martha said. “I didn’t know. I didn’t even dream —” She fumbled for words, but he looked up again, his face solemn.

  “This house —” He waved his hands in an inclusive gesture. “I can’t get rid of the feeling. It’s … oppressive. Not like anything I’ve ever experienced before.”

  “What do you mean?” Martha huddled in the corner, pulling the blanket up over her feet, almost afraid for him to answer.

  “The fire,” Conor said.

  “There was a fire when Elizabeth was here, too.”

  He nodded. “Martha, I did not start that fire.” In one fluid movement he pushed himself from the wall and began pacing.

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “Absolutely positive. I remember turning off the stove and even checking it again to make sure everything was off. I remember hanging the dish towel on the rack behind the door.”

  Martha ran her hands over her arms, already feeling the gooseflesh.

  “And I know I didn’t close the kitchen door.” He paused beside the bed, frowning down at her. “And then there’s the cemetery.” When she only looked back at him apprehensively, he added, “Martha … I think I was led there.”

  “What!”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but one minute I was down in the study reading, and the next minute I was going into the woods.”

  Martha’s lips moved soundlessly. When her question finally came it was scarcely more than a croak. “What led you? A voice or something?”

  “Not a voice. But something, yes.” He pondered a moment, moved his hands towards his heart. “Stronger even than a feeling. An insistence. An overpowering insistence.”

  “Like you were in a trance or hypnotized or something like that?”

  The shake of his head was firm. “No, I was fully aware of what I was doing — I just couldn’t ignore it, that’s all. I couldn’t not go.”

  Her mind raced back — back to that night in the graveyard and Conor’s strange behavior at the — “Mausoleum,” she murmured. “Something about the mausoleum — that’s what had you so upset, wasn’t it?”

  His eyes settled on hers, deep and troubled. “There was such … danger. Such a sense of —” the look he flashed her was almost apologetic — “finality.”

  Martha’s laugh was strained. “Conor — it was a tomb in a cemetery. You can’t get much more final than that.”

  “No, it was more than that. I felt … like we were being threatened, somehow.”

  This time Martha didn’t laugh. A fierce chill snaked through her body, and she hugged a pillow to her chest. She stared at him, and he stared back. “Conor,” she whispered, “what’s happening? What are we gonna do?”

  “That fire didn’t start by itself,” Conor said slowly. “And something had to make that shadow on your bedroom window….”

  “You do believe me —” Martha’s words stuck in her throat with a metallic taste of fear. “You really do —”

  “There could be other hiding places in this old house.” Conor’s eyes strayed to the closet and stayed there.

  Martha’s own eyes grew wide as realization began to dawn….

  “Maybe this house really is haunted, Martha. But not by the kind of ghosts people think.”

  And as he stared out into the sto
rmy night, unspoken possibilities hung between them like a cold, inescapable prophecy.

  Chapter 13

  “Martha?”

  Martha nearly ricocheted off her locker as a hand came down on her arm. When she looked up, it was to find Greg Chambers looking down, a friendly but professional look on his face.

  “Little jumpy, aren’t you? Late night?”

  Martha forced a grim smile and shrugged. She’d taken over Conor’s room again last night, even though he’d boarded up the panel in her closet, but she hadn’t slept — not with Conor’s speculations pounding in her head and every nighttime noise a fatal danger.

  “Why don’t you step into my office?” Greg said amicably.

  Martha stalled. “I … I have this history quiz —”

  “I’ll write you a note.” He took her arm and steered her down the hall, shutting his office door, indicating the chair with a nod of his head. “With your test grades lately, one more bad one shouldn’t matter too much, should it?” He slid behind his desk with a sly grin and leaned towards her. “Come on now, Martha, I’m not the enemy here, so let’s have it, huh?”

  Martha squirmed miserably in her seat and said, “Well … I’ve been kind of tired —”

  “Tired!” He slapped his palm on a pile of papers, scattering them. “You look like a zombie. When was the last time you slept? Or ate, for that matter? If Blake’s really serious about this, he’d better start taking better care of you.” He chuckled as Martha blushed. “So — are you going to tell me the problem, or do I have to use all the clever little ploys I learned about in advisor school?”

  “I’m just … not adjusting very well, I guess.”

  Greg nodded, fingers drumming on the desktop. “Your teachers are concerned — no, now, wait a minute — concerned, Martha, not out to get you. The transcripts you brought with you show a whole different kind of student. So how come she stayed back in Chicago?”

  “She liked it there.”

  “Aah. Has she thought of coming for a little visit? Impressing us with her exceptional abilities?” His smile, so like Blake’s, was irresistible, and Martha felt herself returning it. “That’s better. What’s wrong, Martha?”

  Her smile melted, swallowed by a sick feeling inside. “It’s … it’s just the house….”

  “The house.” Greg looked down at her file, running his thumb along the tab. “This … uh … wouldn’t have anything to do with its history, would it?”

  Martha shrugged noncommittally. The last thing in the world she wanted to talk about now was the house and all the terrors it opened up. She kept her eyes on his hands — lean and strong like Blake’s….

  “Okay now, look.” Greg sighed and fell back in his chair, swiveling a little as he snapped a rubber band. “Every town has its spooky old house and its eccentric old neighbors and its ridiculous old fairy tales. Bedford’s no exception.”

  “It’s no fairy tale. It really happened. Somebody was murdered.”

  “Okay. Somebody was murdered, and the murderer drowned. End of case. Every old house in the world probably has a death or two to its credit — natural or unnatural, as the case may be. So what’s really bothering you? It can’t be just haunted house gossip —”

  Martha didn’t want to go into it. Here in the warm confines of Greg’s office all the terrors seemed oddly out of perspective and very far away.

  “Want to talk about Conor?” Greg said suddenly.

  “Not really.”

  “He’s quite the thing around here. Or so all the girls tell me.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Martha said, and again had trouble reconciling her own impression of Conor with the female population of Bedford High.

  “You two get along okay?”

  Martha shrugged again. “I guess so.” We actually talked for the first time last night — does that count?

  “How about your dad? Your new stepmom —”

  “They’re in Hawaii. I haven’t heard from them.”

  “Bet you miss them.”

  Martha shook her head. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

  “You’re not helping me out here, Martha,” Greg said quietly, and Martha regarded him, almost pleading.

  “What do you want me to say? I’m just … not catching on, that’s all. I don’t fit in.”

  “Have you tried?”

  “The kids don’t want to have anything to do with me — haven’t you heard? I live in Elizabeth Bedford’s house —”

  “Martha, it’s just a house. I can’t believe you’re —”

  “Just a house?” Martha gave a twisted smile. “Right … where fires start and doors open and rooms never get warm —”

  “Wait!” Greg put up his hands, but his laugh was strained. “What’s all this about fires and doors and —?”

  “It’s true,” Martha said. “There’s even a secret passageway behind my closet. Conor says there could be lots more we’ll never even know about.”

  “That’s probably somewhat true,” Greg admitted. His glance was almost apologetic. “Martha, the house is over a century old — years ago it was used to hide runaway slaves. Elizabeth’s father told me himself the place was supposed to be full of tunnels and secret rooms he’d heard about since he was a kid. There were even supposed to be ways to get from the house to the old cemetery out back — but the stories were probably exaggerated by the time they got to this generation. There probably weren’t as many secret hiding places as there were rumors.”

  Martha wished she could feel as unconcerned about them as Greg seemed to feel. “And someone’s been trying to scare me on the phone … calling me Elizabeth….” She trailed off as Greg got up from his chair and stood at the window, running his fingers absently over his chin. It was several minutes before he spoke again. His voice sounded odd.

  “People do weird things around Halloween. Do your folks know how you feel about the house?”

  They don’t care how I feel about anything. Aloud Martha said, “They love it there. I mean, they see all this great potential…. I guess I’m just unimaginative.” She almost laughed at that.

  “Okay, so maybe you shouldn’t be in that house then. Maybe — at least for a while — you should stay with friends or something.”

  “I can’t, don’t you understand? I mean, there’s nothing I’d like better than to never see that place again, but what can I do? Dad sure isn’t gonna buy me a house of my own ’cause this one makes me crazy —”

  Greg’s shoulders straightened; he drew a deep breath and turned to face her, relaxed and conversational once more. “Martha, I’m sorry this house has become such a big issue with you. I wish you’d never heard any of the rumors at all. I mean, all these coincidences are unfortunate, but you shouldn’t take them so seriously — it’s really affecting other areas of your life. You obviously don’t feel well, and your grades belong on somebody else’s report card.” He trailed one finger along the windowsill and wiped the dust carefully on his sleeve. “I’ll be glad to talk to your dad about this when he —”

  “Don’t even bother,” Martha sighed. “He wouldn’t take you seriously anyway.” She propped her chin in her hands, her face gloomy. “He doesn’t understand why I don’t like it. He probably wouldn’t even understand why Wynn doesn’t like it.” Then catching herself, she dropped her eyes. “Sorry … I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Greg smiled sympathetically. “You’ve been good for Wynn, Martha. It’s nice to see her smile for a change.” And then his own smile faded … tightened into a questioning look. “I don’t suppose … she’s talked to you about what happened that night?”

  Martha shook her head. “She told me she can’t remember things; that’s all.”

  Greg sighed, gave a vague nod. “Well … what else can we do, huh? Other than that ‘long dark’ she keeps dreaming about, I guess she won’t remember anything else till she’s ready.”

  Martha looked thoughtful. “And you don’t have any idea what that means — the
long dark?”

  “No.” He offered a sad smile, shrugged his shoulders. “It was storming that night, and the house was so dark. I guess that’s what keeps coming back to her … her long walk up the stairs to Elizabeth’s room … or maybe she just blacked out for a second when she saw her…. It’s hard to say. In her state of panic, a second could have seemed like an eternity.”

  Martha couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Do you think Dennis drowned?” she blurted out.

  “Of course,” he said, and his eyes were calm and full upon her face. “Of course he drowned. They found some of his clothes miles downriver from here. Nobody’s ever doubted that.”

  Blake does … I do….

  “Martha, I hate to see you borrowing trouble. You have enough to cope with right now — you don’t need to invent new things.” His smile was back again, warm, sympathetic, understanding. He stopped beside her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “You can talk to me anytime you want. Every day if you like. That’s what I’m here for.”

  Martha nodded mechanically. If she stayed a second longer, she feared she’d burst into tears and never be able to face him again. Greg scrawled something on a piece of paper, folded it, and handed it over.

  “I don’t want to see you unhappy,” he said. “Things don’t have to stay this way.”

  If you’d get your act together, that’s what you really mean. Martha closed the door behind her and headed slowly for class. She felt bruised — as if the weight of the world had finally come crashing down. And she felt humiliated — never in all her years of school had a teacher had to talk to her about her grades.

  Wynn was waiting by her locker at the end of the day, and Martha gave her a rueful smile. “Congratulate me. I just wrote another paper on the wrong book.”

  “Oh, Martha, no….” Wynn looked properly devastated, and Martha squeezed her arm.