The hall plunged into total darkness.
In the first split second she felt more surprise than fear — one minute she was heading for the stairs; in the next breath she was pinned against the lockers, the suffocating darkness worse than any darkness she had ever known. She couldn’t even see the book in her hand or the fingers she put up to her lips to press back the scream forming there….
She couldn’t see a thing.
But she could hear the footsteps … slow … purposeful … climbing the stairs.
For one insane instant Martha felt hope leap inside her — she actually thought the janitor was making his rounds in the dark.
“Hello!” Martha called. “I forgot a book in my locker — could you turn the lights back on?”
Nobody answered.
Martha felt her heart sink deep into the frozen pit of her stomach. “Oh, no,” she whispered.
The footsteps stopped.
And waited.
And then, hesitantly, they started again.
Martha’s eyes, wild with terror, were totally useless to her now — as she moved cautiously from her locker, she waited for hands to grab her, hands that were used to the dark … the hallway swarming with hands….
The footsteps kept coming — one stair at a time — unhurried and unconcerned.
As if they knew right where they were going.
Martha swallowed a sick taste of fear.
The footsteps reached the second floor.
They didn’t stop. They came straight towards her.
Some mechanism took over then — some instinct for self-preservation — before Martha even realized what was happening, she was stumbling through the darkness, away from him. She put out her hands, groping — Think, Martha, think! There was another stairway at the opposite end of the hall — if she could just reach it — run down and get outside — find Conor — The enormity of the situation suddenly overwhelmed her — in terror she felt her fingers slide over a light switch and she hit it — again — again — my God, he’s cut off the power.
Desperately she began to run, legs numb, clumsy with fear. She didn’t care anymore if he heard her or not — all she knew was she had to get out of there —
She hit a wall, fought to keep her balance. And still the footsteps came, never changing their pace. The stairs — the stairs! She knew she’d reached the end of the hall and the stairs should be to her left — flinging her arms she suddenly hit double doors. She threw herself against them, pounding on the handles, but they wouldn’t budge. Whimpering, she slid down the wall, her fist rammed into her mouth. Behind her the footsteps halted, blocking her escape.
Where was he? How far behind her? Yet she could sense that he was close — so close! — and she wondered crazily where there was left to run —
Later she couldn’t remember diving for the open classroom — later she was astounded that she’d even remembered it was there at all — but suddenly she was throwing herself through the door and slamming it, and falling over furniture before she finally found the back windows that opened out onto the fire escape.
She tugged at the bottom section of glass.
The window stuck fast.
Behind her the doorknob turned and the door began to open.
Martha ducked down behind some desks, molding herself as flat as she could to the wall. The feet came slowly into the room and stopped. The silence was endless and terrifying. She pressed both hands to her mouth to keep from screaming.
And then he closed the door.
Martha heard the groan of the hinges and knew that she was completely and hopelessly trapped. There was no way out now, except to go right past him, and now there was only the silence again … endless … agonizing … silence … and her heart splitting her body with convulsions of terror.
His hand came out of nowhere.
It sprang from the darkness and clamped down on her shoulder, and with a shriek Martha broke away from him and hurled herself where she thought the door should be. Her hand grappled with the knob — the door strained for a brief instant — stuck — then popped open, spilling her out into the hall.
Behind her he swore under his breath.
And began to run.
Martha beat frenziedly upon the doors that blocked the stairway. Without warning they suddenly came open, and she pitched forward, missing the banister. Her arm made an awful cracking sound as she landed on it. Then, half running, half falling, she somehow got to the bottom and ran for the nearest exit, throwing her weight against the door.
It was locked.
No … no … God … no. She was crying now; the pain in her arm excruciating.
And now she heard him, behind her, on the stairs….
She screamed — screamed again — the pain like a ragged knife in her arm, up her shoulder — screaming, praying somebody would hear —
She was almost past her last chance when she remembered.
The side door that led off through the teachers’ lounge, that none of the students were ever allowed to use….
Martha turned the corner so abruptly she nearly fell again. She pulled herself along the walls, and heard the footsteps falter, confused by her sudden turn.
The white-hot pain burned through her whole body — she went down on one knee, hugging her arm against her. Her shoulder hit the door as she wrestled with the metal bar that would open it — as the door burst open she felt the cold shock of wind and rain and a different kind of darkness — a paler darkness — where streetlights glowed through fog, throwing puddles of distorted light —
“Conor!” she screamed. “Conor!”
Behind her the door burst open.
Martha screamed and ran, mindlessly now, only knowing she had to get away.
“Conor!”
Miraculously, through tears and rain she saw the parking lot. And as the familiar station wagon came into view with its interior light on, Martha was suddenly conscious of two things —
The station wagon was empty.
And the footsteps behind her had stopped.
As reality began to flood her terrified brain, she collapsed against a light post, eyes wide and dull, staring at the empty car. The headlights beamed hazily through the night.
“Conor —” she tried to call, but no sound would come. She looked behind her, and saw a black silhouette slide back into the darkness.
“Oh … help me….” Martha suddenly felt faint. As she groped for the post, her legs turned to jelly and began to buckle. She saw the wet gleaming pavement rushing up towards her face — she threw up her hands in slow motion and waited for the impact —
“Martha!”
And she knew that voice, it was Conor’s voice, coming out of nowhere, out of the dark….
And she felt his arms beneath her … saw his eyes … and then she felt nothing, falling into the deep, smothering night.
Chapter 15
“It hurts.”
“Of course it hurts. You nearly twisted your arm off.”
Martha groaned and tried to raise her head. “Conor —”
“No, we can’t leave till the doctor says we can.” He watched the confusion on her face and added, “You remember where you are, don’t you? You drifted off again just now.”
Martha stared at him for a moment, then without warning her face crumpled and she began to cry.
“Hey —” Conor came to the bedside, patting her shoulder awkwardly. “Martha, come on now, don’t —”
“But somebody tried to kill me,” Martha sobbed. “Don’t you believe me?”
Conor regarded her unhappily, but before he could answer a nurse leaned through the doorway, giving them a smile.
“You can take her home in a little bit — the doctor wants to give her a prescription.”
“Thanks,” Conor said, and looked down again as the nurse left.
“I don’t want to go home,” Martha cried softly, and the throbbing in her arm squeezed her whole body. “Please, Conor —”
“Martha.” Conor sat down on the side of her bed, his eyes clear and troubled. “I called the police after I brought you here. They didn’t find anyone, and they didn’t take me very seriously.”
“Of course they didn’t find anyone — he ran away when he saw your car. Where were you?”
“I told you before,” Conor said patiently. “When you didn’t show up on time, I got worried and went to look for you. I couldn’t get in ’cause the doors were all locked and —” He broke off at the sudden commotion in the hall, and a moment later Blake and Greg came hurrying into the room.
“Martha! Are you okay? What the hell happened?”
“Blake, what are you doing here?” Martha looked confused as she wiped clumsily at her eyes.
“They told us you were in here — I didn’t believe it.” Blake leaned over the bed and stared at her cast.
“What are you doing here?” Conor asked quietly. He stood his position by her bed, and something in his voice caused Martha to look at him curiously.
Greg moved to the other side of her pillow and peered earnestly into her face, his smile sympathetic. “Boy, kiddo, when you have a run of bad luck, you really go all the way, don’t you?”
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Conor said.
Blake barely gave him a glance as he crowded in and took Martha’s free hand. “Are you okay? Are you hurt bad?”
Martha fought the sedation, but it was hard to think clearly. “I … I fell down the stairs —”
“Where? Did you break anything else?”
“She shouldn’t be talking,” Conor said. “She needs to rest. I’m taking her home.”
“I don’t want to go home,” Martha said automatically. “Someone’s trying to hurt me.”
“Martha —” Conor began, but Blake cut him off.
“What are you talking about?” He sat down on the edge of the bed, nudging her over. “Who’s trying to hurt you?”
“Someone was following me.” Martha blinked, trying to keep things in focus. “And someone turned out the lights and followed me.”
“She’s not up to this right now,” Conor interrupted, but Blake jumped up.
“I’m calling the police.”
“I already did that.”
“Wait a minute.” Greg put out his hands, motioning Blake back down. “What about the lights?”
“He turned them off.” Martha tried to sit up, straining against Blake’s arms. “The lights went off and he —”
“Martha,” Greg said gently, “there was a power failure tonight. Because of the rain. The lights were off all over town for a little while.”
Martha stared, her eyes glazed. “They went out …” she murmured, “they went out because he turned them off…. Conor, tell them I didn’t dream it —”
Blake coaxed her down again, staring with grave concern. Greg glanced over at Conor, then nodded towards the hall.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
They walked out to the waiting room, and for several moments Greg paced, frowning down at the floor. Finally he stopped and looked at Conor. Conor slid his hands into his back pockets and waited.
“Look,” Greg drew a deep breath, “maybe I should have said something before now. I understand your folks are out of town.”
Conor nodded.
“Well, the truth is, Martha’s under a lot of stress. She’s doing terrible at school.”
“I think she knows that.”
“Not that it’s so abnormal — new family, new school — new peer group. I’m not saying she’s imagining what happened tonight — but the last time she talked to me, she was really upset about your house. Going on about secret passageways and fires and —”
“It’s a strange house,” Conor said. “It has lots of … inconsistencies.”
“I understand.” Greg looked down at the floor again, his tone guarded. “Look, I’ll be glad to do what I can to help her through this rough time — but … you might consider professional help….”
Conor nodded, rocking back on his heels. A muscle worked in his jaw. “Martha’s fine,” he said.
“Yeah … well….” Greg straightened and glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’ve gotta get to work. I’m on a teen hotline here at the hospital two nights a week — Blake gave me a lift over.” He backed towards a doorway that led off to another hall. “You might talk it over with your parents. If I can do anything….” He left the offer unfinished. Conor stared after him, then went back into Martha’s room.
The next day was Saturday, and Martha slept off her pain pills till almost noon. When she finally woke up, she was in Conor’s old room and there was a loud chorus of coughing and hammering coming from the side of the house. She dragged herself to the window; Conor smiled in at her from atop a ladder and stuffed a handkerchief back into his pocket.
“Uh-oh. It’s alive.”
“Very funny, Conor. What time is it?”
“Late. You almost slept the day away. How’s your arm?”
Martha frowned down at her cast, but she wasn’t thinking about her broken bones. I almost slept the day away … and now it’s almost tomorrow … almost Halloween….
“Martha?” Conor asked softly.
“What are you doing up here anyway?” Martha groaned. “Don’t you have any respect for the injured?”
“I promised your dad I’d have these shutters fixed before he got home and —” He broke off abruptly, sneezed, then glanced back over his shoulder.
“What is it? Besides the fact that you’re spraying me with cold germs?”
“I think we have a visitor.”
“Who?”
“I think it’s Wynn.”
“You’re kidding —” From where she stood, Martha couldn’t see anything, only Conor waving at someone and telling them to go inside. Gritting her teeth against the pain, Martha started downstairs and saw Wynn step hesitantly into the lower hall. As Martha stood there watching, her heart ached within her. Wynn looked absolutely terrified.
“Wynn,” Martha called softly.
The girl jumped, her face paling slightly. “Martha — I heard what happened last night — I feel so awful about it —”
“Don’t.” Martha brandished her cast and winced. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I shouldn’t have left you —”
“I shouldn’t have gone in.” Martha smiled grimly. “I’m gonna look great for the party tomorrow night. Come on up. You’re just in time to help wrestle me into my clothes.”
Wynn nodded and started Up, her hand gripped white on the banister, her eyes darting nervously. Below them the front door opened and Conor stood quietly, watching. As Wynn reached the landing she stared in silence at the doorways, at the servants’ hall, and then without a word she headed straight for the back bedroom.
Martha caught her gently by the arm. “Not there. I’m in this room now.”
“This one?” Wynn’s face registered slow surprise. “Oh … I … I’m so used to going to Elizabeth’s room….”
“I did have that room, but I just feel too weird about it. So Conor’s trading with me. I still have to move my stuff in here, though.”
Wynn nodded and followed her inside, her eyes roving over Conor’s sparse assortment of belongings as Martha gathered up some clothes.
“So,” Martha said with forced cheerfulness, “how did you get out here anyway?”
“I borrowed Greg’s car.”
“How did you manage that?”
“He doesn’t know about it yet.”
Martha laughed. “Have you had lunch? I feel really hungry today, but the way Conor’s been coughing around here, he’ll probably give me his cold and —”
Wynn wasn’t listening, her gaze sweeping the hall beyond the door. Martha watched her sadly and sighed.
“Wynn, really, I can’t stand this. It must be so hard for you to come back in here — to remember — if you want to leave, I’ll understand.”
For a long moment Martha couldn’t even speak. Wynn’s eyes held her in a relentless stare, and though her lips parted, no answer formed. When Conor spoke from the doorway they both started.
“What are the chances,” Conor asked casually, “of Dennis still being alive?”
At first Martha thought Wynn might faint. Her face drained the last of its color, and she groped out blindly for Martha’s hand. Martha sat her down on the edge of the bed and motioned for Conor to raise the window.
“I … I … alive?” Wynn murmured.
“Yes.” Conor knelt before her, his voice urgent but kind. “They never found him, they never proved anything — it’s possible, isn’t it, Wynn? That if he was crazy enough to kill Elizabeth, that he could still be out there, thinking somehow that she’s still alive?”
Martha collapsed in a chair. He said it. After all the days of fear and confusion, the questions, the terror — thinking all along that maybe it was her — that she was the crazy one — Conor had finally come out and said it. She looked at him and her eyes blurred, but he had hold of Wynn’s hands and didn’t see her.
“Wynn,” he said again, softly, “it is possible, isn’t it?”
Wynn looked confused, then shook her head sorrowfully. “I’d know … if Dennis were back, I’d know about it.”
“How?” Conor persisted. “How would you know?”
“I … I just …” She stopped, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders. “I think he’d try to contact me somehow. To find out what happened, to see if it was safe. He always talked to me about Elizabeth because he knew how close we were. And he didn’t kill her. I know he didn’t.”
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