by Lois Duncan
“I’m going to see that you leave Albuquerque,” I told her. “I don’t care where you go, whether it’s back to school or to the hills where you probably learned all this stuff in the first place. What matters is that you get out of our lives and leave my family alone!”
“How do you think you’re going to accomplish this?” Julia asked calmly. “Your parents are never going to believe you. As you say, your mother is ‘very trusting,’ and Tom is too. They love me, and they’re not going to listen to you making silly accusations.”
“They’ll have to believe me,” I said. “I’ll show them the picture. I may not have the wax figure of Trickle, but I do have the photograph.”
“So?” Julia said. “What will that prove? Only that you’re so determined to turn them against me that you spattered a picture with paint in order to pretend I did it. Your parents are so naive they wouldn’t recognize witchcraft if they had it waved in their faces. Mike and Peter will both swear up and down that no kind of spell was worked on them. And as for that nasty little dog of yours, who’s to say why he died? Maybe he choked on his own bad temper.”
“My parents will believe me!” I cried angrily. “I’m not going to them alone with all of this. I’m taking somebody with me. He’s a well-known authority on witchcraft and is respected by everybody. I’ve already talked to him about you. He’ll stand behind me. He’ll know what that picture means the minute he sees it.”
“You don’t know anybody like that,” Julia said. “How could you? A dumb little girl like you doesn’t have friends like that.”
“Oh, don’t I?” I was shaking with fury. “A lot you know! Professor Jarvis used to be the head of the sociology department at the University! My parents will believe what he tells them!”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Julia said quietly. She smiled.
This time it was a real smile and showed in her eyes as well as on her lips. Something had happened during the final few moments of our conversation.
Suddenly, Julia wasn’t worried at all.
There was no way I was going to sleep in the room with Julia that night. I took my pillow and crept downstairs to the family room, where I spent the rest of the night lying rigid and sleepless on the sofa.
It was close to dawn when I dozed off at last, and in what seemed like moments later, I opened my eyes to find my father standing over me.
“I was leaving for work,” he said, “and glanced in as I passed the door. Did you sleep here all night?”
“Most of it,” I said groggily.
“Did you and Julia have an argument about something when she came in last night?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me what it was about?”
“Not yet,” I said. “It would just make you angry. You wouldn’t believe me now. I want to talk with somebody else first.”
“Daughter—” He made a little helpless gesture with his hands. “I can’t figure you out. The way you acted last night with your mother and me—and then to fight with Julia—and to come down here to sleep when you have a perfectly good bed upstairs—it isn’t normal behavior. Why can’t you tell me about your fight? You’ve always felt you could discuss things with me before.”
“All right,” I said with a sigh. “I’ll tell you. I accused Julia of being a practicing witch.”
“If you’re making a joke,” Dad said, “it’s a tasteless one. If you’re telling the truth you deserve to be punished. Did you really say something so spiteful to your cousin?”
“See?” I said miserably. “You forced me to tell you. I knew it would make you mad.”
“Then you did say it?”
“Yes!” I hoisted myself to a sitting position on the sofa. “I said it because it’s true. She is a witch. She pretty much admitted it to me straight out. She can cast spells. She killed Trickle with one, and that’s how she seduced Mike.”
“That is enough, Rachel. I won’t listen to another word.” Dad’s voice was like ice. “Your mom and I have tried to be patient, but you have pushed us past our limit. You and Julia may have such different natures that you don’t get along well. I could understand that and even sympathize with it. But for you to go to these lengths to manufacture absurd accusations that you yourself admit are unbelievable is too much. It’s ridiculous.”
“You’re the one who’s ridiculous!” I cried, pushed past endurance. “You and Mom both refuse to see what’s right in front of your faces! This morning I’m going to talk with Professor Jarvis. He knows about these things and will be able to explain them to you.”
“You’re not going anywhere except to your room,” Dad told me. “You can spend your morning there thinking things over. If by noon you aren’t ready to apologize to Julia for your rudeness you can move out of the room entirely. I’m not going to have that poor girl subjected to any more scenes like the one you must have thrown last night.”
“Where do you want me to move to?” I asked. “Should I sleep in the hall?”
“Cut the sarcasm, Rachel. There’s an extra bed in Bobby’s room. You could move in there. It’s unfair to Bobby, to make him share his small room with an older sister, but I don’t see any alternative. That is—if you decide to move.”
“I’ve already decided,” I said. “But first I do have to see Professor Jarvis. It’s really important, Dad, please. Couldn’t I just run down to his house for a few minutes and then come back and be grounded?”
“Absolutely not,” Dad said shortly. “You’ve made your choice. You’re totally grounded—no phone calls with friends—and don’t let me hear of you leaving that room before noon. Then you can get your phone back from your mother, and you’ll have to move your clothes to Bobby’s closet.”
I had no reply. Dizzy with anger and helplessness, I gathered up my pillow and climbed the stairs and went into my bedroom. Julia, dressed in jeans and the embroidered shirt I had helped select, was standing in front of the dresser, brushing her hair. She didn’t speak, but her eyes met mine in the mirror, and she smiled.
“I’m changing rooms,” I told her. “I’m taking all my stuff out of the closet, including that pink dress I made.”
“Oh?” The hand with the brush continued to move with sweeping strokes down the long, black hair. “You might as well leave that. It doesn’t fit you and the color’s wrong. You made it for me, you know.”
“I did not,” I retorted. “You talked me into letting you wear it the night of the dance. I made it for myself.”
“Oh?”
One lone word, spoken softly, almost smugly. I felt a cold shudder go through me at the implication of the question. Had I made the dress for myself? I thought I did. And yet, I picked a pattern that was ill-fitting and unbecoming. I chose a color that I had never wanted to wear before—one that looked beautiful on Julia.
My mind flew back to that day at House of Fabrics when we had stood, Julia and Carolyn and I, before a counter piled high with bolts of varied colors of material. There had been blues and greens and lavenders, shades which I knew were flattering to my coloring. I had looked past them as though they weren’t there and had reached instead for the hot pink.
“Julia, what are you choosing?” I had asked happily, and Julia had said, “I don’t sew. Besides, I don’t need a new dress.”
Of course she hadn’t needed a dress! I could see that now! I made her one! In total ignorance, I had sat on the living-room floor hour after tedious hour meticulously cutting and basting. Later I had sat at Mom’s sewing machine and carefully stitched it together, the exact dress that Julia wanted!
And I hadn’t even realized it! That was the most terrifying fact of all. I had thought I was doing something I myself wanted to do. Now, suddenly, I was able to understand how it was that Mike was so convinced the love for Julia that had swept him up was wonderful and natural. “It happened so fast,” he had told me. “It happened like—well, like being hit by lightning.”
Now, turning to look at Julia, I said, �
��You won’t get away with this.” I struggled to keep my voice steady. “Not any of it. I can convince my parents, and I will.”
“You do that,” Julia said, “if you can.” She laid the brush down on the dresser and surveyed her reflection in the mirror. “I like my hair this way, don’t you? It makes my face look—softer somehow. Mike likes it this way. So does your father.”
“I don’t like anything about you,” I said coldly. “That includes your hair.”
“That’s rude,” Julia said. “You’d better not let your parents hear you say something like that. They’ll be very upset, even more than they are already.” She flashed me another bright smile. “Enjoy your moving and be sure to leave me enough hangers. I’m going to get some breakfast.”
She left the room, pulling the door shut behind her.
I sank down onto the edge of the bed, more disturbed than I had been the night before. I’d imagined that, with time to think the situation over, Julia would have begun to realize the power of my position. I had a strong ally in Professor Jarvis, or at least I would as soon as I was able to talk with him and fill him in on all the things that had happened. He would recognize the significance of the spattered photograph; he would also know about the spells that could be concocted from the contents of the jar that Julia had brought with her in her suitcase.
But that jar—I hadn’t seen that since she had unpacked. And the picture—
I jumped up from the bed and lifted the edge of the mattress. The photograph I’d hidden there was gone.
I was sickened by my own stupidity. The only real evidence I had was gone, as if it had never existed. Knowing what I did about Julia, how could I have left the picture in the room? For someone with her powers, locating a hidden photograph must have been simple.
I released the mattress and let it fall back into place. The library books still lay as I had left them on the table between the beds. It was clear that Julia considered them unthreatening, or she would have disposed of them also.
I went over and picked up the top book, the one about superstitions. What would Mom say if I carried this downstairs to her right now? Would she read it if I asked her to? I doubted it. My only hope was to talk to Professor Jarvis. If I could get him to describe some of the things he’d told me to my parents, it would open their eyes to the possibility that I might be telling the truth.
It was then that I noticed a slight, acrid scent in the air. A sulfurous odor, like someone had been burning matches.
Matches! I turned to the bedside table and there it was, a pile of burnt matchsticks stuck into the base of the lamp exactly as it had been before. I’d wondered then what it was Julia had been doing. Now I didn’t have to wonder. I knew.
For a moment I stood, stricken, too horrified to move. My heart was beating so hard I could feel its pounding in my head. The matches—the lamp—the table—swam before my eyes.
So this was why Julia had seemed so lighthearted in the face of my threats! She had no intention of letting me bring Professor Jarvis or anyone else to talk to my parents. Somewhere in this house at this very moment there was a little wax figure in which were embedded some orange hairs, taken no doubt from the brush on the dresser. Whenever she chose, Julia would begin to melt it.
Or had she begun to do so already? Even as I asked myself the question, a blinding pain shot through my head directly behind my eyes. Terrified, I staggered backward and fell upon the bed, clapping my hand against my temples.
She’s doing it, I thought frantically. She’s shut herself away in a closet somewhere and has lit a match, and at this exact instant, she’s holding it to the wax doll’s head!
But that was impossible, for at that moment I could hear Julia’s voice floating up from the yard beneath my open window. Struggling against my pain, I hauled myself up from the bed and crossed the room to look out. Yes, it was Julia, and she was talking with Bobby, who had taken the mower out of the garage and was kneeling beside it, adjusting the blades.
I stood there, staring down at the two heads directly beneath me: the black one, and the butter-colored one that was my brother’s.
“—when you cross a parrot with a tiger?” Bobby was asking. “I don’t know, but when it speaks, you’d better pay attention!”
He burst into uproarious laughter, the way he always did when he told idiotic jokes, and Julia’s low, throaty laughter joined his.
“That’s a good one,” she said. “I never heard that one before.”
The yard was filled with sunshine, and the roses along the back fence were a riot of pink and crimson. In the yard on the far side of the fence, I could see Mrs. Gallagher in her vegetable garden picking beans. It was all so peaceful, such an innocent setting. No normal person could look at a scene like that and think about destruction and evil.
What was it my father had said when he found me sleeping on the sofa? It isn’t normal behavior, he’d told me, and there had been worry in his voice.
So I’m abnormal, I thought. Who wouldn’t be under the circumstances?
The pain in my head had vanished. Evidently I had produced it myself with my own fear. That didn’t mean that next time it wouldn’t be real. At this moment Julia was standing in the yard, chatting with Bobby, but it wouldn’t be long before she went back inside. I couldn’t watch her constantly. That would be impossible. Somewhere there existed a wax doll that probably bore my features, and I wasn’t safe for a moment until I found it.
Would she have left it in the room? It seemed unlikely, but not impossible. It was with no hesitation this time that I pulled forth the dresser drawers and emptied out their contents. Then I plowed through the closet and bookshelves and tore the sheets from the beds. Without a trace of guilt I investigated the inside of Julia’s pillow case and rummaged through the pockets of her clothing.
By the time I’d completed my search the room looked as though it’d been hit by a cyclone, and I had discovered absolutely nothing.
I went again to the window. Bobby and the mower were gone now, but Julia was still there, standing in the same spot where she had been when I had last looked out at her. Her head was tipped sideways as though she was listening. She seemed to be waiting.
For what, I couldn’t imagine, but I found myself waiting too.
In a moment it came. Bobby’s voice shouted something from someplace down the street. I couldn’t understand the words, but in the next yard Mrs. Gallagher could, for she dropped the basket with the beans and took off in a run around the side of the house. I had never seen plump Mrs. Gallagher run before. Under normal circumstances it might have been funny. Now the sight of it sent a stab of fear through me.
I left the window and hurried across the room and out into the hall.
“Mom!” I cried. “Something’s happened!”
When there was no answer from the house below, I raced down the stairs and through the front door and out onto the porch. Mom was already in the yard, and Bobby was there with her, gesturing wildly, his eyes huge against the dead white of his face.
“Slow down, dear,” Mom was saying. “I can’t understand you when you talk so fast. What happened? You’re not hurt, are you?”
“It’s not me!” Bobby drew a long sobbing breath and forced his voice into a lower key. “It’s Professor Jarvis! I went down to his place to mow his lawn. I rang the bell to tell him I was there, and he didn’t come. He didn’t answer the bell.”
“Is that all?” Mom asked with relief. “For heaven’s sake, Bobby, there are all kinds of reasons why people don’t answer doorbells. He might have been busy with his writing or taking a nap, or he might have had the TV on—”
“I know,” Bobby said. “I thought that too, so I tried the door. It wasn’t locked. It swung right open. The professor was there, right there on the floor in the hall! His eyes and his mouth were open and he wasn’t moving!”
I knew what his next words would be before he spoke them. If I could have I would have lifted my hands and covered my ears. But
I could not move. I could only stand there and listen.
“Mom—” Bobby said brokenly, “Mom—I think he’s dead!”
The next twenty minutes seemed to last forever.
By the time the ambulance arrived, half the neighborhood had congregated in the yard in front of Professor Jarvis’s house. The only ones inside the house were Mrs. Gallagher and Mom, but people kept shoving up onto the porch, trying to see in the window.
“He hanged himself!” somebody shouted. “I can see the rope!”
Bobby, who was standing next to me at the edge of the sidewalk, shuddered convulsively. “There wasn’t any rope,” he whispered hoarsely. “He was just lying there in the hallway. Why are they saying there’s a rope?”
“People just like to make things worse than they are,” I told him, putting an arm around his shoulders. Really, though, there was no way anyone could make things worse than they were. The truth was more horrible than any assumption.
When the ambulance came the crowd parted to make a path for the EMTs with the stretcher. Mom opened the door for them, and they went into the house. When they emerged a few moments later there was a blanket-covered form on the stretcher, and as they came opposite I could see a familiar shock of snowy hair protruding from beneath one end of the blanket. The attendants loaded the professor into the back of the ambulance and Mrs. Gallagher got in with him, and the door closed and they drove away. The thin wail of the siren lingered in the air long after the ambulance itself was gone.
With the excitement over, the crowd began to disperse, chattering eagerly, as though the thing they had just witnessed had been planned for their entertainment only.
“—blood all over the place,” the round-faced woman from across the street was saying. “He was literally lying in a pool of it! A regular Jack-the-Ripper case right here in our quiet neighborhood!” And another woman from farther down the block was as firmly informing everyone who would listen that “he starved himself to death. Old people should not be allowed to live alone. They don’t know how to take care of themselves properly.”