Creepers (5 page)

“Does that make you nervous, Courtney?” Margaret was looking at me with those big green eyes.

“I don't know. Maybe a little.”
A trail? A trail leading to what?
“But that's silly,” I argued more with myself than anyone. “Prudence died over two hundred fifty years ago.”

“Did she?” Margaret asked lightly.

Mr. Geyer shook his finger at her. “Margaret, stop teasing Courtney.”

“But we don't have the bones to prove it,” she shot back.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, my voice rising. The sane part of me did not want to hear anymore, but the curious part of me yearned for more information.

“Please, Margaret. Don't burden Courtney with our quest.”

“But she wants to know!” Margaret objected. “Don't you, Courtney?”

I looked at Mr. Geyer. Little beads of sweat had formed above his upper lip.

“Yes,” I whispered. Like it or not, Prudence was a part of my life now. I suddenly noticed how silent the world appeared to be. All I could hear, besides my own beating heart, was the impatient call of a crow.

I turned to Mr. Geyer, who sighed. “Yes. It's true,” he admitted sadly. “The cemetery grounds have changed over the centuries. Prudence was originally buried where those cornfields are now.” He shielded his eyes with his hand as he looked over at them. “The coffins, of course, were relocated, at least they were supposed to be. But years ago we discovered that whoever was responsible for the move lost Prudence.There was no coffin beneath her tombstone.”

“And we think that the ivy is still searching for Prudence,” Margaret added excitedly.

“You're kidding.”They glanced furtively at each other, and then their gaze settled on me. “You must be!” I insisted. I stared at Mr. Geyer's clown-like eyes. “Whatever made you dig up her grave in the first place?” I asked incredulously.

Mr. Geyer shrugged as he put his arm around Margaret's shoulder. “Well, we didn't exactly dig up her grave. I guess you could say that we dug up the information after Margaret first voiced her suspicions last summer.”

“It was the ivy,” Margaret interjected. “It reminded me of a mother looking for her lost child.”

I'm sure my mouth had dropped open. My forehead was on fire.

“We've already said too much, Margaret. Courtney will think we are crazy.” He seemed anxious as he made that pronouncement, looking again from Margaret to me. I got the feeling that he did not want Margaret to lose the chance of having a real friend.

Yep.
From the corner of my eye, I could see the ivy on the sides and front of my house, basking in the sun like it owned the place.

“Can I help you look for her?” I heard myself say.

Margaret responded with a big, beautiful smile.

“That would be nice,” she agreed.

The three of us were sitting around our kitchen table. I had invited Mr. Geyer and Margaret in for a glass of Dad's iced
tea. He made the best, I had promised them, as he allowed the teabags and fresh lemons to steep in boiled water for hours. They sat, their hands folded patiently in front of them, like kindergartners waiting for their cookies and milk. They both looked around the room as if they were familiar with its space.

“Just look at that collection of copper pots and kettles, Margaret,” Mr. Geyer instructed, pointing to the assortment that hung from the rafters.

Who are these people?
The thought shot unprovoked through my head.
Why do I feel strange in the company of Mr. Geyer and Margaret?
He was older than my dad and a lot weirder. And Margaret was unlike any girl I had ever known. She was beautiful, mysterious, but didn't seem to care about normal things, like talking about boys or going to the movies. She only cared about Prudence. Having them in my kitchen made it feel like a different place.The room was suddenly charged with intrigue.

“How do you look for a coffin?” I asked as I poured the tea, unable to hold back my question. Margaret began swirling the ice in her glass with her finger to make it colder.

“Thank you, Courtney.” Mr. Geyer placed a napkin beneath his glass before he replied. “It's like being an historian or a detective.” He took a long sip before he
continued. “My compliments to your father. This tea is delicious.”

“We've done a lot of research, Courtney,” Margaret continued for him. Now she was running her finger up and down the outside of the sweating glass. “Dad and I spent hours at Murmur's town hall and library, searching for old property deeds, town records, and newspaper clippings. When pieced together, they're our best clues.”

Mr. Geyer was nodding in agreement. “We found information on the gentleman who acquired a portion of the cemetery in the 1880s. The section that is now the cornfield across the street from your house.”

“You mean that other people were once buried there, too?”
Mom and Dad sure knew how to pick a house
, I thought, trying to hide my displeasure.

“Yes.” Mr. Geyer smiled, like I was a quick study. “The farmer,Tom Pritchard, owned a few hundred acres adjacent to that part of the cemetery. He had three daughters and, when they married, he wanted to subdivide his farm so that there was enough land for all his relations to make a living. He must have loved those girls, wanting to keep them so close.” He smiled at Margaret as if he perfectly understood the sentiment.

Margaret ignored him, though. She was staring out the kitchen bay window, watching the vines of ivy swaying in
the light breeze. They draped across the windowpanes like a curtain.

“Can we go into the basement?” Margaret asked. Her eyes were wide and bright, like she could see or smell something that excited her.

“Sure.” I was more than happy to show them the ivy carvings. I wanted an expert opinion on what the carvings symbolized, and I didn't quite trust Mom or Dad to supply it.

We quickly drained our glasses. Even Mr. Geyer seemed excited about the prospect of seeing the carvings again. I led the way down the basement stairs after switching on the lights, describing again how I had found the carvings behind the rows of boxes.

The musty smell of earth and stone was more pronounced today. I checked the walls by the basement windows to see if any water had leaked in from the rain, but the walls were dry.

“Smells like a crypt,” Margaret said without the trace of a smile in her voice. I looked at her nervously.
How does she know what a crypt smells like?

“It's behind the boxes.” I pointed to the top row as Mr. Geyer approached them. “We can pull them away from the wall, if you'd like.”

Mr. Geyer gave me that concerned-adult look. His eyebrows arched skeptically above his glasses. “Are you sure
your parents won't mind, Courtney? I'm not sure that I would feel comfortable with strangers rummaging through
my
basement.”

“You're not strangers,” I protested.We had known Mr. Geyer and Margaret for at least a few days, I thought. It felt like weeks, though. “Mom plans to empty all the boxes before school starts anyway. And besides, we're conducting research. Mom
loves
research.”

Mr. Geyer smiled, remembering Mom's enthusiasm about the cemetery tours. “All right, but we must be careful and put everything back as we found it.”

“Here, Margaret.” Mr. Geyer lifted a box from the top row. “Put this along the front wall, away from the window. The heavy boxes should be on the bottom.”

“Here. I can help, too,” I offered anxiously. Suddenly I felt frantic to reveal the entire wall.

It only took a few minutes to expose the carvings.The natural light from the adjacent basement window threw a gentle spotlight across the face of the wall. I watched as Mr. Geyer and Margaret approached the carvings reverently. They looked like a pair of archaeologists who had just uncovered an Egyptian tomb, but instead of scarabs, the wall swarmed with sculptured ivy.

Mr. Geyer traced one vine with his finger before speaking. His face was only inches away from the wall.

“I don't remember the carvings being this detailed and furious,” he said. “Look at this, Margaret.What do you think?”

At first, Margaret stayed unmoved. I noticed that she was trembling ever so slightly when she finally raised a hand to touch a particularly prominent leaf. It seemed three-dimensional, as if Margaret could grasp it. Even its veins were contoured in relation to the wall.

I stepped back.The bits of carving I saw last night were impressions, faint images of what occupied the wall now.

“It looks as if someone carved these again,” Margaret whispered as she turned to face Mr. Geyer. Her face was paler than usual. “Who could have done this?”

They both then looked at me.

“I don't know,” I blurted out, feeling suddenly defensive. “When I found the ivy last night, I had to get really close to see it.” I pictured myself staring at the vines, squinting to see where they led. “But I didn't move the boxes like we did,” I added.

Mr. Geyer cocked his head for a moment, as if he were noticing something about me for the first time. His eyes brightened, and then just as quickly went blank as if someone had blown out a candle. “You're probably right. And it's been a while since Margaret and I have seen the carvings. Maybe our memories are playing tricks on us.”

Margaret's hands were on her hips, and her chin was raised. “Perhaps the ivy thinks it has found something,” she stated.

I looked back to Mr. Geyer to gauge his reaction. He said nothing as he walked back to the wall to stare at it again.

“In the
basement
?” I yelped. “It's not like we're talking about the
real
ivy. It's just a carving,” I insisted.

Margaret shrugged. “Dad, I think we should show Courtney our work, since she wants to help us find Prudence.”

Mr. Geyer turned away from the carvings. He wrinkled his forehead when he looked at me. “Do you
want
to see our work, Courtney?”

A shiver ran down my spine.“Sure,” I said softly. I didn't want the ivy to hear.

I left Dad a message at work and Mom a message on her cell phone. Mr. Geyer insisted that I let them know where I was going, just in case one of them came home before I returned. Of course, all I said was that Margaret invited me over and that she lived off a little dirt road that hooked into the woods just about a quarter mile south of our house. I
was surprised that they lived that close to me. Why had they not told me this before?

The afternoon heat slowed our pace as we walked along the grass swale on our side of the road. Today, under the pounding sun, the stalks of corn looked weary, not threatening as they did yesterday. Instead, it was the heat that pricked at our skin instead of slapping wind or stinging rain. After only a few minutes, our shirts were darkened with sweat.

“You'll be surprised at how much cooler it is at our house, Courtney. The woods keep our house in the shade all the time,” Mr. Geyer said cheerfully.

I glanced at a white Ford as it slowed cautiously to pass us. An old couple stared at us with big eyes as they crawled by.

“How long have you lived there?” I directed the question to Margaret.

“Ummm, about a year, I think, right, Dad? We're just renting.” She bent to pull a tall blade of grass from the ground.

“Oh,” I replied.“I guess I thought you always lived here, maybe because of your cemetery tours,” I added lamely.

“Well, that's understandable.” Mr. Geyer nodded pleasantly. “I'm a historian of sorts, and my job requires me to travel quite a bit. It's hard on Margaret, I fear,” he amended gently.

Margaret tossed her head at the suggestion, her two braids whipping at her right shoulder. “It's not hard at all, Dad. I like our work.”

“But it must be hard going to lots of different schools, though, isn't it? I'm always a wreck when I have to meet a whole new set of people, even though I look forward to new adventures,” I said sympathetically. I searched Margaret's face for the slightest sign of vulnerability. Her serene features did not crack as her big green eyes locked onto my face.

“You met us just fine, Courtney. You never seemed a bit nervous,” said Margaret as she surprised me by slipping her arm around my shoulder.

“Here's the road.” Mr. Geyer pointed to what looked to me like a hiking path that turned into the woods. He sounded relieved.

“Me first!” Margaret yelled. She waved for me to follow her as she suddenly sprinted up the path. I did just that, running along the serpentine trail as it zigged and zagged among massive pine trees. In less than a minute, we stood in a clearing in front of an old stone house.The yard was composed of tree stumps and ragged grass.

“This is like
Little House on the Prairie
.” I sputtered. We both were breathing hard and I smiled at Margaret to let her know that I was kidding. If you ignored the row of
open cat food cans that were lined along the front wall of the house—tuna, chicken, meat, and cheese, each with various proportions still remaining—all the house needed was some smoke curling out of the little chimney.

Wild Cats in the Woods
? Margaret just laughed. “Come on in. Dad will catch up in a minute.” She pulled a key from her back pocket and pushed open the door. I caught a lingering smell of burned logs from the fireplace.

The house was a bit dark. I guessed the sunlight had a tough time penetrating the woods' thick canopy in the summer. Margaret turned on a table lamp by the couch. The first floor, from what I could see, included the living room with the fireplace, a small dining room with a table covered with papers, and a kitchen with just the appliances in the back.The powder room, as my mom would say, was next to the kitchen.