Trick or Treat
Page 16
“Yes, Wynn, it’s me.”
And as Greg walked slowly towards them, Martha noticed for the first time how the tall, wide doors of the mausoleum were open, fresh cold air flooding the dank shadows.
“I was just telling them about Dennis,” Wynn said anxiously. “I was going to tell them how I put his car there on the bridge — I was just —”
“Yes, sweetheart, I heard you.”
Martha had never seen Greg so shaken, his face so white, his hands so unsteady. Gently, lovingly, he eased Wynn back to her sitting position on the floor and cast Blake a tragic look.
“The dream, Greg” — Wynn looked up into his face, and her voice was like a child’s — “the dream I keep having, Greg. Have I told you about it? About the long … long … dark….”
“Yes,” Greg said sadly. “You told me about the dream.”
The crawl space! Martha’s head came up, and she locked stares with Blake, the meaning finally clear.
“The mausoleum,” Martha murmured. “She brought Dennis here to the mausoleum —”
“It was Greg who figured it out,” Blake said quietly. “When we couldn’t find you or Conor and we smelled the smoke in the basement —” He paused, drew a deep breath. “After we put the fire out and broke down the door, that’s when we saw the tunnel — Greg knew it had to lead away from the house. And then he remembered the stories about tunnels connecting with the cemetery —”
Martha reached up and clutched Greg’s arm. His smile was wan. “Lucky I had my trusty axe, huh?” He stopped beside them, his hands clenching. “The police are on their way — I —” He shook his head and knelt beside Conor, shrugging out of his own costume now, tucking it around Conor’s ribs.
Conor stirred slightly … and went quiet again.
“Greg,” Wynn said plaintively, “are they going to take me away?”
Greg and Blake exchanged glances. “Yes,” Greg said quietly, “someplace where you’ll be safe.”
Wynn looked from one to the other. “I don’t think I can go. Dennis wouldn’t want me to leave him, you see — that’s why he wanted to come here — so he could be with me, and not Elizabeth —”
Martha saw the struggle on Greg’s face as he tried to hide his revulsion … as he tried to avoid looking at the candles ringed around the thing upon the altar … as Wynn reached out her hand to him….
“You won’t let them take me, will you Greg? You won’t, will you?”
Greg stepped away from the outstretched hand.
And Wynn sprang so suddenly that no one even saw her go for the knife.
With a shriek she threw herself on Martha, slamming her to the ground.
Martha felt the crack of stone against her skull….
The shock of cold metal against her throat….
Faraway voices blurred — shadows swarmed with lights and shouts and movements —
“Martha! Martha, can you hear me?”
And suddenly she was in Blake’s arms, and over his shoulder she could see Wynn struggling, Wynn being dragged by three policemen — Wynn’s face a demon’s face, glaring at Martha in poisonous fury.
“Why’d you come back, Elizabeth?” she was shrieking, throwing herself from side to side. “He’s mine! You can’t have him! You should have listened to the warnings! You should be dead by now! You can’t get away from me — I’ve been in the house all along — listening — watching — I killed you, Elizabeth — you can’t take Dennis away from me!”
The mad shrieks faded into the night. Martha pulled herself from Blake’s arms as Conor was lifted onto a stretcher.
“Be careful with him!” she pleaded. “Where are you taking him?” There were so many people in there now, so much confusion — glaring lights … flashbulbs popping … voices barking orders … a man with a notebook —
“Just take it easy, Miss. Is he a friend of yours?” The man nodded towards the stretcher being carried away. “Name?”
“My brother,” Martha said. “Conor Wheelwright. My brother.” She saw Greg deep in conversation with more policemen, felt Blake’s arms around her again.
“He’s going to be okay,” he said. “They told me so. I promise.”
“Oh, Blake —” As the horrors crumbled around her, she sagged against his chest, felt his kiss on her forehead. Tears rolled down her face and she shook her head. “Conor knew.”
“Knew what?”
“The first time he and I found the cemetery, he had a bad feeling about the mausoleum,” Martha remembered. “He felt some kind of danger.” She squeezed her eyes shut, held back a sob. “Can we go to the hospital now?”
“Sure we can.” His arms tightened around her. She felt his heart beating against her chest. “I almost lost you tonight,” he said hoarsely. And he kissed her again — long and sweet — and when she finally opened her eyes, he was smiling. “Does Conor know how lucky he is?”
And Martha thought of Conor, so still and pale as he was taken away — how annoyed he’d be when he woke up to find himself in the hospital. And she saw herself beside his bed and Blake there with her, and how that look would creep across Conor’s face, and how she wouldn’t even mind —
She looked into Blake’s warm brown eyes and kissed him tenderly, right on his smile.
“I’m the lucky one,” Martha said.
And she meant it.
A Biography of Richie Tankersley Cusick
Born on April Fool’s Day 1952, Richie Tankersley Cusick was destined at a young age to write scary books. In a career spanning three decades, she has paved the way for young-adult horror writing, a genre she continues to publish in today.
Although born in New Orleans—home to some of the country’s most ancient ghosts—Cusick spent her early years in a small bayou town called Barataria, which once provided a safe haven for the fearsome pirate Jean Lafitte. A true Southern writer, she took early inspiration from the landscape of crumbling mansions, Spanish moss, and aboveground cemeteries, and began writing stories at a young age. For years a ghost lurked in her family’s house, making particular trouble around the holidays, when he would strip the Christmas tree of its ornaments and hurl them to the floor.
After graduating from the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, Cusick took a job at Hallmark and moved to Kansas City, where she once again shared her home with a mischievous spirit. It was then that she started work on her first novel, Evil on the Bayou (1984), based on her childhood memories of life in the eerie Louisiana swamps. Its success allowed her to leave Hallmark and begin writing fulltime.
When Cusick’s novel-writing career began, horror fiction for teens was a new genre. Along with authors like Christopher Pike and R. L. Stine, Cusick pioneered the form, finding success writing chilling stories with only a dash of the gore that defines adult thrillers.
Since Evil on the Bayou, Cusick has written more than two dozen novels about everything from vampires to pirate ghosts. In 2003 she began The Unseen, a four-volume series about a young girl who is tormented by the occult. Cusick currently lives with her three dogs in Missouri, where she enjoys listening to classic horror-movie soundtracks as she writes on an antique roll-top desk once owned by a funeral director. The desk is, of course, haunted.
Richie Tankersley Cusick at age three in front of her grandparents’ house in Rolla, Missouri. From left to right: Richie’s father, Dick; her mother, Lou; Grandma Tankersley; and Aunt Deanie. Richie’s grandmother was the biggest inspiration in her life, and the first one to really encourage her passion for writing.
Richie in her senior year at Riverdale High School in Louisiana in 1970. Richie was editor in chief of the school newspaper, the Scotichronicon, and was also voted most creative of her senior class.
Richie’s official press card as editor in chief of the Scotichronicon. Her responsibilities included writing editorials, thinking up topics, conducting interviews, and assigning stories to the staff.
Richie started playing guitar at an early age, inspired by her uncles and
their love of country music. She has always loved singing, and has written several hundred songs.
Richie in her cubicle at Hallmark Greeting Cards, Inc., where she worked as a writer from 1975 to 1984. In addition to writing every type of greeting card imaginable, Richie wrote poems and prose for posters, puzzle backs, calendars, plaques, key chains, buttons, coloring books, mugs, and more.
Richie with her maid of honor and lifelong friend, Lise, at her wedding in 1980.
Richie’s haunted roll-top desk, located in her home office in Missouri. The desk belonged to a funeral director in the 1800s, and has been the source of some spooky occurrences, including eerie footsteps, muffled voices, and ghostly singing.
According to Richie, sometimes the quirkiest little thing can help an author break through writer’s block. In this case, she is using a quill pen and ink.
A sketch of Beverly Island and the summer house from Richie’s horror novel The Lifeguard. Richie loves to have visuals for her book settings, and made these sketches so she wouldn’t get “lost.”
Richie chatting with fans at a book signing in Rolla, Missouri, in 2004.
Richie with her three dogs at her home in Missouri in 2011. From left to right: Halle Berry, Emma, and Audrey. Richie’s dogs are her constant companions, and often get put out when she spends long hours writing rather than playing with them.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1989 by Richie Tankersley Cusick
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