Creepers (6 page)

All the walls were paneled with cedar, and the living room was separated from the loft by thick rafters, where I guessed their bedrooms must be. The coffee table, armchairs, and couch—all the furniture, really—reminded me of mountain houses we had rented on summer vacations.

“It's a rental cabin,” Margaret affirmed, as if she could read my mind. “Come sit with me at the table,” she instructed, pulling out a chair. “I want to show you what we have found about Prudence so far.”

I nodded enthusiastically and plopped myself in the chair beside Margaret. I was eager to see what they had discovered.

“Girls!” Mr. Geyer called from the door. “Such energy! Let's just be thankful that it's always cool in here.” He paused at the table to survey the materials spread on its surface.

“Do you mind if I show Courtney now, Dad?” Her eyes suddenly softened as if she were pleading with him. Her smile remained.

“No, of course not, honey. You go ahead and I'll get some refreshments.” We both watched as he retreated into the kitchen.

“Look at this, Courtney.” Her hands were trembling as she held up a yellowed newspaper clipping, which was all that was needed to release a torrent of stories. The article was about the sale of the section of the cemetery where the cornfield is now.There was a picture of the farmer and his three daughters. They each held a basket with flowers and were smiling shyly. The farmer wore overalls and a straw hat and was leaning toward the camera as if he did not trust its eyesight.

There was no stopping Margaret as she dove into the pile of papers. There were more tattered clippings, photocopies of clippings, and photographs of people all more
than one hundred years old. Margaret showed me old maps that divided Murmur into parcels of land with people's names on each parcel. One map had the cemetery as it appeared before it was divided and sold. It must have been thousands of acres wide and it ran all the way to the creek that still runs through downtown Murmur. Our house was even on the map, titled “Cemetery House”. I frowned uncomfortably at it.

“How about this, Courtney?” Margaret thrust some black-and-white photos that showed men in long coats carrying coffins to a horse-drawn wagon. Someone had written 1897 in their corners. “See, we do have some proof that they were moved, but we haven't been able to find the document that says where each was moved to.”

“Those are from reproductions of glass negatives, Courtney,” Mr. Geyer called from the kitchen. Obviously he was standing in there and listening to us.

“Dad, quit interrupting,” Margaret ordered. “I must read you this, Courtney. Dad copied it from a page of Christian's journal.”

I was suddenly so anxious to know its contents. I wanted to reach out and snatch the paper from Margaret's hand, but instead I sat and politely listened.

Margaret's voice dropped to signify Christian. I felt the goose bumps spring up all over my arms.

 

For a moment, I did not say a word. Incredibly, I felt as if I might cry.

Margaret nodded at me. “I know. It's heartbreaking, isn't it?”

“Was she really a witch?” I finally asked.

“What is a witch?” Mr. Geyer asked from the kitchen doorway. “Someone with particular talents and perhaps an affinity for nature?” His voice sounded sad. “I don't know. Margaret and I tried to find out who she was, but Christian never called her by name.”

“But Margaret thinks she was a witch, don't you, Margaret?” I trusted Margaret's instincts about the ivy. Margaret was the one who believed that it was searching for something. She seemed to believe that the ivy was something more than just another plant.

Margaret looked at me with an appraising smile. “Yes, Courtney, I do. I
sense
something about the ivy. Something that's not natural.”

I felt the same cold thrill I had felt in the basement when Mr. Geyer revealed the ivy carvings behind the boxes. The ivy that looked like it had been fed plant food compared with the carvings I had spied the night before. I sensed something, too, and having Margaret affirm my feelings made my blood course cold.

Mr. Geyer frowned. “Just because we don't
understand
something, Margaret, does not make it strange,” he said. His voice was suddenly stern, as if Margaret had broken a rule.

“Yes, Dad,” Margaret replied, unrepentant. She flashed me a look as if to say as much.

I felt a weird tension between them for the first time, which bothered me because they got along so well. They were
always
together, I realized.

I looked at my watch. “I had better get home to finish the weeding,” I announced quietly. “Please let me know how I can help you both with the search.” I needed to be a part of this. I felt like I had no choice. I was bound to Prudence—by the house that she had once lived in, by the witch who used potions to try to bring her back to life, by the cemetery that seemed to have a living presence of its own, and by the ivy that I felt was somehow stalking me, too.

“We will.” Mr. Geyer's voice had softened. “In the meantime, show the carvings in your basement to your parents and share with them the history of your house.”

“I will,” I promised as I threw Margaret one last nervous smile before I opened the door.

I WAS HOLDING THE GARDEN HOSE OVER MY HEAD AS Mom screeched into the driveway. My face was pounding with the heat, and my back was sore from bending down over and over again to pull the remaining weeds that had been given a reprieve by my break. The ivy must be training them, I thought. Their roots seemed to extend toward the center of the earth.

“Courtney! Look at you!” Mom yelled as she slammed the car door. Dad hates when she does that. I almost told her so since she was looking at me with such a huge smirk.

My clothes were wet, and the water running refreshingly down my arms and legs left streaks of mud like vertical stripes. I was sure dirt was smudged all over my face, too. I have a hard time remaining dirt free when working in a garden.

“And my gloves, Courtney! They're soaked!” She crossed her arms as she leaned against the hood of the car.
I could tell she was feeling a little cocky today. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she was wearing her bright red lipstick.

“They were soaked when I found them behind that azalea bush!” I protested, taking one glove off and tossing it at her. It landed with a wet thud on the roof of the Jeep.

“Hey!” She laughed, walking toward me and gingerly giving me a kiss on the forehead. “I know. I was just testing you.” Her startling blue eyes stared into my own. “You did a nice job here, Courtney. Did Dad see it yet?”

“Nope.You beat him home.” I peeled off the other wet glove as I surveyed my work. The tiger lilies, mums, and other odd assortments of flowers had breathing room now. At least only the ivy clung to the stone of the house and didn't seem interested in trespassing in the flower bed.

“
Hmm
. Dad sure knows how to pick flower combinations.” She smiled, shaking her head. Suddenly she switched gears.

“Courtney, come into the kitchen and clean up. I'll pour you a glass of iced tea. I need to talk to you about the article I'm working on.”

Uh-oh
. My mother is also known as a writer-activist. She grabbed my hand and propelled me through the front door. The comparable coolness of the house gave me a sudden chill.

She tossed me a dish towel after I washed my hands.

“Courtney, you won't believe what I found out today,” she insisted while pouring me a glass. “Dry your hair so you won't catch pneumonia,” she added.

“What?” I asked warily.When she got that crazed look in her eyes, I knew that any idea could become a plan.

She pulled out a chair and joined me at the kitchen table. Her back was to the ivy. I scowled at the leaves drooping against the bay windowpanes. The heat must be getting to the ivy, too.

“Don't frown that way. It's unattractive,” she admonished me. “Anyway, the editor of
The Murmur Mercury
,” she added when she saw my eyebrows shoot up in a question, “asked me to do a story on urban sprawl. Do you know what that is?”

I did not answer right away, as I was still swallowing a giant gulp of tea. “Yes,” I finally replied, enduring her impatient stare. “It's when developers build homes far from cities, usually on farmland or other open areas.We learned about it in school last year.” I thought about my eighth-grade teacher who was passionate about all things green. “Mr. Clark was a real environmentalist. He and his friend tied themselves to a bulldozer or something one time.” My classmates and I thought that Mr. Clark was a nut.

“Good for Mr. Clark!” my mom practically cheered.
“Anyway, I found myself interviewing this developer about the fifty or so homes he hopes to build right outside of Murmur's downtown.” She stared at me to draw a reaction.

I could not help but think that at least there would be some more people around here. “Where does he want to build the homes?” I asked to appease her.

“On a portion of the remaining cemetery. It's over two hundred acres. The developer claims that there is no room left for new burials, and he's willing to pay a nice price to relocate the existing remains.” She slapped her palm on the table. “No one will care, he insisted. Can you believe that?” Her face was now as red as mine.

I suddenly saw the vines of ivy swaying outside in the wind. I tried to recall even the slightest breeze when I was weeding.
Someone will care . . . a lot.

We were waiting for Dad on the front steps when he pulled into the driveway in his pickup. The candy-apple-colored pickup was new with the house. Dad said we needed one now that we lived in New England. Mom told me that all little boys want a pickup truck, and if they never get one, it's like dying with an unrequited love
hanging over their heads. Mom gave the pickup a mean stare. Suddenly the truck symbolized builders and the sprawl left in their wake.

“Whoa,” Dad said, pulling the truck in front of the steps. “Did I do something
that
serious?” His tie was off and the truck's windows were down. His red hair was standing on end.

“Nice look, Dad,” was all I could say before Mom was up and standing by the driver's side door.

“Tom, did you know that there is a developer interested in buying up some of the cemetery and building houses on it?” Her arms were crossed over her chest as if she dared him not to know.

“You're kidding.” His tone was serious to match my mom's. His “Mom antennae” were usually well tuned. “Is that the story you were assigned? I got your message at work but it wasn't clear.”