Creepers (16 page)

“And I will see you tomorrow, Courtney,” Margaret said, giving me a quick hug.

I did not want to let her go. I had not had the chance
to tell Margaret about my theory that Christian and Prudence were buried somewhere near us. I hoped that she would read my mind and come looking for me tomorrow morning.

I wandered over to the kitchen window to watch the rain as Mom and Dad walked Mr. Geyer and Margaret to the door. The rain fell in ferocious slanting waves, and a ground-clinging mist hovered inches above the grass. At the edge of our yard, at the rim of the woods, the fog was thicker, I guessed because of the extra heat emitted by the bark and leaves of the trees.

Something moved along the border of the grass and trees. I saw a number of things flashing in and out of the soupy mix of mist and rain that hemmed the woods.

Only after I continued to stare did I realize that it was the cats, pacing along the edge of the woods, brushing against one another, as if in a dance. Their tails, ramrod straight, briefly relaxed to caress one another.They stopped for a moment simultaneously, to look expectantly toward our kitchen window at me. They had an impatient air about them, as if they were waiting for the thing or person that meant so much to them.

Not this time
, I silently said to myself and to them.

AFTER MR. GEYER AND MARGARET WENT HOME, DAD, Mom, and I went upstairs to change our clothes. We then somehow all migrated back to the kitchen table as if it were the only safe spot in the house. Rain continued to throw itself on our roof in waves instead of drops.Thunder rolled like crashing surf.

Mom poured us a second mug of hot chocolate and we stared at the floating marshmallows as if they were tiny life preservers. For a long time, we hung out in the kitchen, me sipping loudly, trying to kill the silence. They kept looking at me, prodding me with their relentless staring to tell them something. Finally Dad caved.

“There's got to be some explanation,” he said.

“You mean, beyond a hand from the grave?” Mom tried to joke but she sounded nervous. Dad didn't seem to hear her.

“You saw this ivy carving itself into the floor as you stood there, Courtney?” Dad asked gently.

I nodded. “Margaret said that it was a sign, just like Mr. Geyer said,” I replied, as if that explained it all.

“I don't know what to think about Christian's story, Jen,” he said to my mother, even though he was looking at me. “I mean, they're nice people and the cause is a good one, but doesn't this all sound like an episode from
Tales from the Dark Side
or something?” He sighed heavily and ran his hand through his red hair. He obviously had not bothered to comb it while he was upstairs.

Mom paused thoughtfully. She was wearing her comfortable pink robe.“I don't know,Tom,” she said slowly, using her finger to push a marshmallow below the surface.“Sometimes I get a funny feeling in this house. I will be doing the dishes and I get the weird sensation of somebody watching me. Then I turn around and all I see is that ivy.” She stopped to stare at it, now plastered against the window. “Of course it sounds crazy, but how do we explain the new growth of
carved
ivy in the basement? It wasn't there yesterday morning.”

My eyes darted between my mom's and dad's faces as if I were watching a tennis match. It was Dad's turn and he was frowning.

“I don't know how to explain it, but surely there
is
an explanation. Maybe it's some sort of mold,” he offered weakly.

“That chisels itself into walls and floors?” I asked sarcastically, unable to help myself.

Dad gave me the evil eye.“I know it sounds far-fetched, Courtney, but until we have a good explanation, I don't want you going into the basement, okay?” His face softened with concern, and I felt bad.

“I was just kidding you, Dad. Don't worry. I'm not going down there without you guys.”

Mom sighed heavily. “Okay. Let's tackle one challenge at a time. I still think we'll have a good cemetery story. People seemed really interested during the tour. So first thing tomorrow I'm going to write the story and get those photos developed. Right now, it's all a jumble in my mind.” She cleared her throat. “I think I need to put a little time between my article and what Christian shared with us this afternoon.” She smiled. “How about we go into town for dinner tonight? I know I could use the change.”

Dad and I nodded our agreement. It would be nice to join the present for a little while. If nothing else, downtown Murmur at least would look
normal
on a Saturday night.

It had finally stopped raining and we ate dinner at one of the Main Street sidewalk cafes that blossomed like dandelions in the good weather.That was Dad's simile, as he did not like
to eat his dinner
outdoors
, unless it was a barbecue. For that reason the tables and chairs that sprang up along the sidewalk reminded him of those cheerful weeds. Mom and I loved cafes, though, and marveled how even Murmur, Massachusetts, could look like Paris on a warm summer night. The sidewalks and curbs were crowded with people flowing in and out of stores or simply sitting on the curbs with a coffee or soda in hand. The streetlamps provided a soft light to the thick summer air. Although this was small-town America, as Dad liked to point out, here on Main Street the witch and her ivy seemed worlds away.

I did not get that nervous tickle in my stomach again until we got home. Mom tried to scoot me right up the stairs, but not before I saw Dad draw the latch on the basement door. For some reason, that made me all the more nervous, because I expected Dad to not take any of this seriously. I wanted him to scoff at the notion of spirits and ivy.

Even as I lay in bed, watching my ceiling fan hypnotically whir and wobble above my head, I was unable to relax. In the darkness of my room, the day's events unfolded before my eyes, saving me the trouble of having to dream. And although I did not want to relive the basement scene, I saw in my mind that ivy budding on the basement ceiling and floor.

I must have fallen asleep, because when I woke, I heard the clock in the hallway chiming one. And then I heard what sounded like humming somewhere outside my bedroom window. A girl's voice was sliding up and down a tune I did not recognize.

I tugged on the sheet, turning over so that I was facing the window. I listened harder and only heard the crickets, a sound I always found comforting in the middle of the night. Then it came again, weaving in and out of the crickets' rhythmic breathing. I sat up slightly, still drowsy.The humming grew louder.

My heart began to speed up. I got out of bed, walked the few feet to my window, and sat on the ledge. I peered down into the yard at the grass glowing softly in the moonlight. Beyond, the cemetery spread out as if it were infinite, replacing all homes, roads, and fields. The tombstones gleamed like macabre night-lights, simultaneously inviting and warning all who dared to both enter and stay away. The humming became faint again but I could still detect it. Where was that sound coming from? Was it coming from the woods?

I realized I was trembling and felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle. Then a thin figure dressed in white with long sleeves and a long, billowy skirt hopped over the cemetery wall into our yard.Without looking back, she ran
to the shed and stopped.

My mouth moved but no sound came out. I wanted to step back from the window but felt my nose pressing against the screen. I watched her dart to the edge of the woods, standing on tiptoe as if she could see into the darkness. She acted as if she were playing hide-and-seek with herself at a frantic pace. The tune she hummed sped up when she did and slowed when she stopped to inspect the grounds around her.Then she dashed across the yard to our basement window, stopping to drop to her hands and knees to peer in.

And then she looked up, as if she could feel my eyes following her every movement.

This time I did cry out at the sight of the face looking up at me. It was a girl about my age with black hair pulled into a bun and piercing green eyes. She looked like Margaret, or as Margaret would have looked if she dressed like a Puritan. Her face was thinner, whiter, and more angled than Margaret's.

“Prudence?” I called out, my heart banging so hard that I had to grab hold of the windowsill to keep my balance.

She cocked her head at me and stared, squinting at first until her face softened into a smile. She raised her arms to me like a little kid does to her parents when she is tired of walking.

As Prudence stood in the yard, I thought I saw another movement behind the shed, but I was not sure. It was so dark and the shed was shielded even from the moonlight by the trees. It was like a shadow skirting along the edges of our yard, keeping within the blackness of the tree canopy.Then the witch stepped into the moonlight.

She took her time approaching Prudence. I watched, fascinated, as the soft summer breeze played with the long tendrils of the witch's unbound hair. She gripped the edges of her cape with both hands. I was afraid that she would look up at me, but she only had eyes for Prudence.

Prudence was standing directly below my window, as if expecting me to lower a sheet to hoist her up. The witch walked faster. Her eyes shone like a cat's in the moonlight.

“Prudence!” I screamed as the witch suddenly reached out to grab her. It was then that Prudence disappeared, her body shimmered into dust touched by moonbeams. The witch looked up at me then and released her cape so that it flapped like crows' wings behind her. I pushed myself away from the window and nearly fell against my bedroom door. I had to tell Mom and Dad.

The hallway darkness was only slightly tinged by the weak light of the lamp on the table at the bottom of the stairs. I grabbed the newel post on the banister at the top of the stairs, using it to steady myself as I tried to slow my
breathing. I listened to the air. I could not hear the humming now, but instead heard a faint tapping coming from downstairs—a sharp, incessant, steady tap like a hammer hitting concrete. I knew that sound. I felt as if somebody was squeezing my heart in their hand like a bird's egg. It was the chiseling.

I do not know why I went down the steps instead of bursting into my parents' bedroom. One part of me screamed from inside not to go down there, but another part felt a tug from something else. It was not terrifying but gentle and needy, as it led me to the front landing. The chiseling was louder and more frantic now. I turned to look at the basement door, the best-lit feature of the house, thanks to that table lamp squeezed between it and the stairway. I drew the latch and opened the door. I nearly fell back from the force of what sounded like hundreds of hammers and chisels, the metallic clanking buffeting my eardrums.

“Prudence?” I whispered, although whatever drew me here told me it was not Prudence. I clicked on the basement light, but the chiseling did not stop. I figured that since I did not scare it the first time, it would not be afraid of me now. I walked down a few steps, bending to peer into the belly of the basement. The sound, magnified to a deafening roar, vibrated off of the walls and floors and
pounded against my body in frantic waves. The basement door closed behind me.

I stood on the steps, my muscles frozen, the fear beginning to swell in my stomach. More than anyone else, I wanted Margaret by my side.
The witch won't hurt us. She is just trying to tell us something.
I repeated Margaret's words.
What would Margaret do if she were with me?
I knew she would walk to the center of the basement, and look the ivy chiseled or real, right in the eye.

The plaster walls and slate floor were ringing as I slowly edged toward the center of the room. This time, every exposed surface that I looked at—walls, ceiling, floor—was covered with the intricate, dizzying patterns of ivy vines. I covered my ears with my hands as I looked around the room, spying little puffs of plaster dust where a new ivy leaf was suddenly appearing. Yet I was unafraid. The presence that I felt in the basement seemed friendly, like it wanted to share a secret. I remembered the ivy connected Prudence and Christian. At least that was what the witch told Christian, according to his journal.

“What is it?” I whispered, trying to understand. “What do you want me to know?” My teeth chattered as I asked the question, not daring to shout above the ringing of invisible chisels hitting stone and their echoes colliding against one another.

Then the chiseling stopped. My ears stung slightly from the noise. I suddenly could hear footsteps on the floor above me and the basement doorknob jiggling in its socket. My attention was pulled back to the center floor, where a tiny chiseling sound began tapping a new shape into the slate that was already crammed with ivy. The tapping was slower this time, and the strike of the hammer chipped deeper into the slate. I felt a sudden chill and hugged myself as the new carving was completed. It formed a simple
P.
It reminded me of Sleeping Beauty, protected and hidden by monstrous thornbushes for all those years. Suddenly I wanted to shout.
I understood!