Believing

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Because when Blue pulls up in front of the house, he immediately cuts the engine. “Looks like nobody’s home, huh?”

  Calla looks up to see that the porch light is on and there’s a lamp lit inside. “How can you tell?”

  “Your grandmother’s car is gone.”

  “Oh, right. She went, uh, to . . .” She can’t even remember at the moment, because Blue is leaning toward her and pulling her close.

  “Hmm?” he asks as he wraps his arms around her.

  “Uh—”

  He cuts off anything she might have said—not that it was likely to have made much sense—with a kiss. Not just a peck goodnight. A full-fledged, sweeping, passionate, expert kiss that leaves Calla feeling absolutely light-headed. And terrified.

  Whoa.This must be why I felt like I was in some kind of danger all day.

  She’s playing with fire here—and having been once burned by her old flame, she’d be smart to douse this new flame. For now, anyway.

  “Can I come in with you, Calla?”

  “Yes,” she says weakly, then, getting hold of herself, “I mean, no. No!”

  “No?” He seems taken aback.

  “My grandmother doesn’t want me to have anyone in the house when she’s not home.”

  “Odelia said that?” he sounds doubtful.

  Yeah, well, he knows her grandmother. Everyone in Lily Dale knows her grandmother, who sticks an expired parking ticket on her own windshield to keep the traffic cops away whenever she parks illegally. She’s not exactly a stickler for rules—following anyone else’s or imposing her own.

  Still . . .

  “She’s way more strict with me than you’d think,” Calla tells Blue in a rush. “She said no one’s even allowed on the porch when she’s not home, so . . . I’ll just say goodnight here.”

  “Wait, Calla—”

  “Goodnight!” she says brightly, and springs from the car, then leans back in to say politely, “Thanks so much for everything.”

  “Wait one second, will you?” He grabs her hand.

  “I have to—”

  “Can I just ask you one question?”

  “What is it?” she asks, slightly breathless and wondering if she can stick to her guns if he asks her again if he can come in.

  But he doesn’t. He asks, “Want to go to the homecoming dance with me?”

  She gasps. “Yes!”

  “Great.”

  Blue grins.

  Calla grins back. Then she remembers something. “What about Willow?”

  “What about her?”

  “I thought you were . . . you know. Talking to her about homecoming.”

  “About being on the committee? Yeah. She won’t leave me alone about that, but I keep telling her, I’m too busy with other stuff.”

  So that was it. Blue was e-mailing Willow about the homecoming dance committee, not about going to the dance itself. That was all.

  “Are you sure I can’t come in even for a few minutes?” he asks Calla, and she jolts back to the present.

  “Oh—uh, yeah, I’m sure. Sorry. Goodnight!” With that, she practically flies up the path, onto the porch. Turning back toward the car, she gives Blue one last wave.

  He blinks the headlights at her and the engine roars to life.

  Calla reaches for the knob before remembering that her grandmother said the door would be locked tonight.

  Again, she wonders if Odelia had some kind of premonition about something happening to her.

  She turns abruptly back toward Blue’s car, suddenly not anxious to be alone in the house, even if it means being alone with Blue. Too late. He’s already pulling away.

  Okay.

  No big deal.

  You’ve been alone before in this house at night. Right? Right.

  She unlocks the door, closes it behind her, and locks it again securely.

  There. Better already, she tells herself. Right?

  Wrong.

  Her heart is pounding as she walks through the quiet house, hoping the kitten doesn’t jump out at her again tonight. Her nerves can’t handle that.

  “Gert?” she calls, and notices her voice warbles a little. Oh, please.You’re such a chicken. Get a grip, will you?

  She turns on the light as she passes through the dining room toward the kitchen.

  “Where are you, kitty?”

  No meow or scampering paws in response.

  Okay, that’s strange.

  In the few short days Gert’s been here, the kitten has learned to come running when Calla calls.

  “Gert!” she calls, more forcefully this time.

  In response, she hears a faint meow from the back of the house.

  Creeping into the kitchen, she sees that the door to Odelia’s sunroom is closed.

  “Gert?”

  Again, she hears the kitten mew—this time, obviously from behind the door.

  How did she get in there?

  Maybe Odelia came back home at some point after Calla left and put her in there.

  But why would she do that?

  Who knows? Maybe because the cat got into something.

  Then again, yesterday Gert knocked over a vase of cut flowers, breaking the vase and showering the carpet with water and broken stems, and Odelia barely batted an eye. “Cats will be cats,” she said with a shrug.

  Okay, so even if she’s not worried about the kitten wrecking the house, maybe she was worried that Gert would hurt herself by getting into something dangerous.

  Dangerous.

  Calla walks stealthily toward the door, growing more uneasy with every step.

  Aside from the wedge of light falling across the linoleum through the doorway of the dining room, the kitchen is dark. Even the light under the stove hood, which Odelia usually leaves on, is turned off tonight.

  Wait a minute.

  In that corner, by the sink . . . there seems to be a faint glow coming from somewhere, Calla realizes. Her eye goes to the window above the sink, but the curtains are drawn.

  Somehow, though, a pool of light reflected from . . . somewhere . . . is falling over the pile of clean dishes Odelia left to dry.

  Seeing something glint, Calla steps closer, frowning.

  The light is beaming off the blade of the knife her grandmother used to make the stir-fry the other night.

  Later, she’ll wonder about the strange glow that brought her attention to that knife.

  Later, she’ll realize it didn’t really have a source.

  Not an electrical one, anyway.

  Later, she’ll understand that it was a different kind of energy glowing in the kitchen and illuminating the knife.

  Now, without stopping to consider the source, she finds herself reaching out and grasping the handle.

  Even as she holds the knife, she wonders why she picked it up. Just some crazy impulse. Because she’s spooked herself into thinking she’s in danger.

  If you’re that scared, she tells herself, you should just leave. Get out of the house, go next door, and wait for Gammy.

  But another meow on the other side of the door reminds her that poor Gert is trapped in there—maybe by accident.

  I have to get her out, Calla thinks. Then I’ll go next door.

  She reaches out and turns the knob.

  The door creaks as it slowly opens.

  “Gert?”

  Calla takes a step into the room.

  “Come on, kitty, where are—aaaah!”

  She cries out as a human figure looms in front of her.

  She feels her hand clenching the blade handle, feels it jerking into the air, arcing the blade.

  Later, she’ll realize that her arm seemed to move of its own accord. That if she had stopped to think about inflicting harm on another human being, she might not have been able to react.

  The blade makes contact with a sickening thud.

  A voice lets out an unearthly screech.

  She recognizes it: a man’s blood-curdling scream. Only once before in he
r life has she heard that terrible sound.

  It came out of her father when he found out Mom was dead.

  Murdered, shouts a voice somewhere in Calla’s head. She was murdered.

  The man, whoever he is, staggers through the doorway into the kitchen and collapses to the floor with a moan.

  Even in the dim light spilling in from the dining room, Calla can see the purplish black bruise rimming his closed eye—a raccoon eye?—and realizes that he, too, is holding a weapon.

  A cleaver whose deadly blade had undoubtedly been intended for her.

  EIGHTEEN

  Sunday, September 16

  10:43 p.m.

  His name, she learns later—much, much later, the next day—is Phil Chase. He’s from Ohio, in his mid-twenties, a store clerk described by his neighbors as a quiet loner.

  “Isn’t that always the way?” Odelia muttered when they heard that phrase. “A quiet loner. Those are the neighbors to watch out for.”

  Calla couldn’t help but think there weren’t many neighbors of that kind in Lily Dale. Here, people are involved in each others’ lives. They notice each other, care about each other, help each other . . . along with hundreds of people who show up here during the season.

  Phil Chase was the one who had abducted and murdered Kaitlyn Riggs and tried to murder Erin Shannahan. When they searched his apartment, they found out that he’d also been stalking a girl named Hayley Gorzynski.

  Who is currently rehearsing the role of Sandy in an Akron production of Grease.

  That information blew Calla away.

  Now she gets it. Now she has the answer to at least one question about what’s been happening to her. But there are still so many others . . . along with some new ones.

  Phil would have undoubtedly killed Hayley and other young girls, Calla among them, if she hadn’t stopped him.

  No, she didn’t kill him.

  She was certain he was dead when she went barreling next door to Ramona’s, pounding frantically on her door and screaming for help.

  Everything after that point was a blur: Ramona calling the police, the squad cars arriving with sirens wailing, the officers who asked Calla, again and again, what, exactly, had happened.

  Finally, what seemed like hours later, they stopped asking questions and started answering hers.

  That was when she found out she had inflicted enough injury on her would-be attacker to have left him incapacitated and unconscious . . . but alive.

  Just like Erin was when they found her.

  The police are sure she’ll be able to identify Phil Chase, who matches her description of her attacker. When she does, he’ll be going to jail for a long, long time. Maybe for the rest of his life. He isn’t going to hurt anyone ever again.

  “But why did he do it, Gammy?” Calla asks now as she sits in the living room with her grandmother, trying to make sense of all that happened. Gert, purring contentedly, is snuggled on her lap as Calla strokes her soft fur.

  “Who knows why he did it?” Odelia shakes her head. “Evil reigns in some souls. We can’t explain it. We can only beware. That’s why you have to be so careful, Calla. You need to learn how to protect yourself so that—”

  “I protected myself pretty well,” she can’t help but cut in. “Right?”

  The corners of Odelia’s mouth quirk a little, but she keeps her expression stern. “If you don’t think I’m completely alarmed at the thought of you fighting off an armed attacker who had a hundred pounds and at least six inches on you, you’re dead wrong.”

  “At least I’m not dead dead. Because I protected myself.”

  Odelia sighs. “You did. But you need to learn that there are other ways to protect yourself. Not just physically.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning it’s time you learned what you’re dealing with, Calla. Look, I know you went to Patsy’s class yesterday. And I’m glad.”

  For a moment, as Calla figures out what to say to that, the only sound in the room is the rumble of Gert’s purring and the ticking of the stately grandfather clock on the far side of the room.

  Then the telephone rings. All three of them—Calla, Odelia, and even Gert—jump at the piercing interruption.

  Pressing one hand against her heart as if to calm its racing, Odelia stands and reaches for the receiver with the other. “Hello? Oh, Jeff! Hi!”

  Uh-oh. Here we go.

  At last, Calla faces the imminent answer to the question that’s been on her mind all day: How long will it take Dad, after her grandmother tells him what happened last night, to get on a plane? Or maybe just buy her a one-way ticket out of here?

  She’s willing to bet one of them will be packing his or her bags momentarily.

  “Oh, we’ve been fine,” Odelia says casually. “It’s been a little chilly since you left, and yesterday it poured all day.”

  Wait a minute. Did Odelia just tell Dad they’ve been fine? And now she’s talking about the weather?

  Shocked, Calla catches her grandmother’s eye. Odelia merely smiles at her and keeps chatting.

  “Yes, she actually had a date last night with a nice boy. I’ve known his family for years. Hmm? Oh, he took her to a jazz concert in Buffalo. I know. Yes, she soaks up culture like a sponge, and there’s plenty of it around here. I was thinking of taking her to the Albright-Knox Art Gallery in Buffalo next weekend, actually.”

  This is the first Calla’s heard of that, and if she weren’t so edgy, she’d have to smile. Odelia is laying it on thick.

  Yeah, and now she’s outright lying: “No, she’s not here right now. She and Evangeline are out shopping with Ramona . . . Yes, from next door. Okay, I’ll tell them you said hello. Of course I’ll give Calla your love. Sure, I’ll have her call you back tomorrow since it might be too late when she gets back tonight. What? Oh, right, the time change. Well, sure, I’ll try to remember to tell her. You know how forgetful I can be, though, so don’t worry if you don’t hear from her until tomorrow . . . Okay, ’bye, Jeff.”

  She hangs up, looking pleased with herself.

  “Why did you do that, Gammy?”

  “Because it was necessary. I thought you might be too exhausted to take a phone call right now.”

  “When are we going to tell him what happened?”

  “Who’s going to tell him? Not me.”

  “So, you want me to do it, then?” Calla asks slowly, trying to wrap her mind around the situation. “Is that it?”

  Odelia tilts her head. “Do you want to tell him?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Calla frowns. Does she dare believe her grandmother is going to keep this a secret? That’s too good to be true.

  “Look, if we tell him,” Odelia says matter-of-factly, “he’ll pull you out of here so fast your head will spin. He won’t understand that with that horrible man in jail, you’re as safe here as you are anywhere.”

  Calla exhales shakily. Odelia is right. The danger—that particular danger, anyway—is past.

  Dad definitely won’t see it that way if he finds out, though.

  Which he won’t, if she and her grandmother don’t tell him. After Phil Chase was able to track her down thanks to the Dispatch article, the authorities promised to keep the press out of it this time. Calla was assured that her name, and any identifying details about her, won’t appear in the papers.

  “The thing is,” her grandmother goes on, “it would be much more dangerous for you to be removed from Lily Dale and thrown into a world where you’ll have no spiritual guidance whatsoever. Here, I can keep an eye on you and you can begin with Patsy’s class and learn how to use your psychic abilities responsibly.”

  “So, you want me to stay, then?”

  “Of course. But more than that . . . you need to stay.”

  “I thought you were going to be angry with me because . . . well, because I didn’t tell you about those visions I was having. With Kaitlyn. And that I called the tip line about Erin.”

  “And saved a life.” Odelia si
ghs heavily. “Listen, I know what it’s like to see things you don’t understand . . . and to hide those things from everyone else because you don’t know what they mean, or you’re scared out of your mind, or you’re embarrassed and you think you’re some kind of freak. I need to set you on the right path. When I think about what might have happened to you . . .”

  “But it didn’t happen.”

  “But it could have,” Odelia says firmly, and holds her close. “And it’s partly my fault. I kept feeling it—that you were in some kind of danger—and what did I do?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m okay.”

  “It does matter. You almost weren’t okay. But you’re going to be safe here from now on, Calla. Lily Dale is the place for you right now and I’m going to do everything I can to see that you stay for as long as you need to. Now go get some sleep.”

  In her mother’s old bedroom, Calla quickly changes into her pajamas, realizing she hasn’t slept in almost two full days.

  Catching sight of her reflection in the mirror above the dresser, she notices that her face looks gaunt and drawn, with deep circles under her bloodshot eyes.

  Oh, geez. You’ve definitely looked better, she tells herself, quickly turning away.

  Her gaze falls on the jewelry box. She hesitates for a moment, then opens the lid for the first time in days.

  The remnants of that haunting tune spill out in hesitant, tinkling notes as the brass key on the bottom winds down.

  She doesn’t bother to rewind it. She doesn’t care if she ever hears that melody again.

  The emerald bracelet is still tucked inside the box.

  Well, of course it is. Where else would it be? This is where you left it, remember?

  Yeah.

  She also remembers that the bracelet seems to have a life of its own, popping up out of nowhere in the night. Who’s to say it won’t disappear again?

  Frowning at the thought, Calla snatches it and wraps it securely around her left wrist, snapping the clasp. She tugs it gently a few times, and it holds. Good.

  Maybe you should start wearing it again after all, she tells herself. Maybe it’ll help you feel closer to her.

  She runs her fingers over the glossy green stones and can’t help but notice that they seem to feel oddly warm. Almost as if . . .

  Okay, now you’re delirious.