Lure (10 page)

18 - Max

I waited until I was sure my parents were asleep before sneaking out of my room. It was twenty minutes past midnight when I crept down the stairs as silently as my big feet would allow and stole out into the late October night. Luckily I didn’t have far to go, because the sight of me with the shovel in my hand and my hood pulled down low over my face would have raised red flags in even the most trusting of passersby. Strangely enough, if it was just one day later on the calendar my ghoulish appearance probably wouldn’t lift a single eyebrow. The next night was Halloween, after all. For the past week, most of the houses in this residential neighbourhood have been getting into full ‘fright’ mode. On my way to the library, I passed gang after gang of decorative monsters, witches, and bloody corpses. And vampires. Seems like there were way more vampires than usual this year.

I shivered as I skulked down the street toward the library, wishing I’d thought to bring along a pair of gloves. It was cold outside. There would be a frost tonight, for sure. My shoes kicked through the river of dried leaves that had collected on the sidewalk, crunching and crackling with every step.

When I got to 10 Colborne Street, I paused for a moment in the driveway and stared up at the second-storey window, looking for the figure of the shadowy grey lady.

If I see her, it’ll be a sign … no, a warning. A warning to forget this crazy scheme and go home to bed.

I waited for a full minute, half hoping she’d appear and relieve me of my responsibilities. The white building seemed to glow against the backdrop of the night sky. But the windows remained dark and empty. With a sigh, I balanced the long shovel handle over my right shoulder and trudged up the garden path toward the spot where John had drawn the X in the dirt almost two weeks ago. You’d think I would be a bit more excited to finally be digging up that lure for him. But I wasn’t at all. Somewhere in the deepest pit of my stomach, a bad feeling was beginning to grow — a feeling urging me to walk away from the library and not look back.

But I couldn’t do it. For some reason, the pull of this place was stronger tonight than it had ever been before. There was no turning back now.

I snuck around to the side of the building, looking for the spot behind the balsams where John had marked the X. It was dark back there away from the dim light of the streetlamps, like the gardens had been wrapped in a thick layer of shadow. Damn, I should have brought a flashlight, too! For the second time in a matter of minutes, I considered turning around and going home. The thought was tempting. Maybe I could try to sneak out here another night when I was better prepared. This job would definitely go easier with the proper equipment. But I’d made a promise to John — I was going to get his lure back. The ground would start to freeze soon. It was now or never.

Now …
the maple tree beside me whispered, as a breeze shook the last of its red leaves to the ground. Yes …
now
, my heart silently agreed.

Lifting the shovel up in the air, I plunged the sharp end into the dirt with a gritty thump. I did that three more times until the surface of the cold ground was broken up nicely. And then I started to dig. But before the hole was even a foot deep, the sound of a siren screaming somewhere in the background froze my arms with fear.

Had someone seen me sneak back here with the shovel? Had they called the police?
I went over the list of criminal activities I was in the midst of committing. Trespassing, destruction of property, defacing an historic building … oh crap, this was so bad! I clung to the metal handle of the shovel, trying to decipher whether the siren was getting nearer or farther away. Despite the cold night air, my entire body was breaking out into a nervous sweat. A few seconds later, my heart stopped racing as I heard the siren fade away into the distance. Only when it had completely disappeared into the dark night did I wipe my sweaty palms off on my jeans and start to dig again.

With every shovel full of dirt I hoisted from the hole, the bad feeling in the pit of my stomach got stronger and stronger. What exactly did I think I was doing out here in the middle of the night? Why exactly was I carrying out the bidding of a ghost? I must be certifiably crazy! Just a few weeks ago, I didn’t even believe in ghosts! And now suddenly I’d become a gofer for a teenage phantom with a fishing obsession? If someone found me out here, I’d be in all kinds of trouble. And what would I say to defend myself if that happened?

Sorry Officer, but I’m digging up the heritage garden because a soggy book told me to do it.

Yeah, right! Nobody in their right mind would believe me! They’d lock me up in an asylum and throw away the key! And I wouldn’t even blame them. And what about my parents? They’d ground me for life if they knew what I was doing!

But as ridiculous as I knew this whole scheme was, I kept right on digging. Even though my stomach felt like it was going to erupt with nerves. Trickles of sweat ran down my nose and dripped into the hole below me. My muscles started to protest with pain as the hole slowly grew bigger. How deep down was I going to have to dig for this thing? A part of me (the rational part) doubted I was going to find something down there, anyway. And even if there was a lure buried in this garden, what was I going to do when I found it? How exactly was I going to give it back to John? He was a ghost, after all.

Yeah, this was without a doubt the stupidest thing I’d ever done. Caroline would probably never talk to me again if she knew what I was doing out here. I closed my eyes and pictured her face, her hair, her eyes. I was most likely ruining whatever slim chance I might have with her by doing this.

And then, just as that last thought was forming in my head, the shovel hit something hard.

Crack!

The aching muscles in my back and arms twitched with relief at the sound. My eyes flew open.
Finally, this must be it!
Immediately, I eased up on the shovel and dug with much more care. Now that I’d worked so hard to find this thing, I didn’t want to break it. It was probably fragile, like any antique would be. Especially one that had been buried underground for a century, or maybe even more.

After another harsh-sounding crack, I put down the shovel and peered into the hole. But it was so dark, I couldn’t see anything. Not even my freezing bare hands rubbing together for warmth in front of me.
That flashlight would have been really useful right now
, I thought, kneeling to get a closer look at what was down there. But there was no use. I was blind back there in the dense shadows.

Stretching myself out on the ground, I reached as far as I could into the hole. Luckily, my arms are long, so I could just make contact with the object. I ran my fingers over it, trying to gauge its size and shape. It felt like a large, stone container … or maybe it was carved out of wood. It was hard to tell just by the feel of it because it was so caked with dirt. It was definitely roundish, but it had two large openings on the top the size of quarters. I dug around the edges of the object, trying to loosen it from the soil. When it was finally free from the ground, I yanked it up from the dark depths of the hole. I was so eager to finally have a look at this thing that John wanted returned so badly.

But what I pulled from that cold, black earth wasn’t a lure at all. And it wasn’t a round, wooden box, either. What I pulled from the hole turned my blood to ice the instant I realized what I was holding in my hands. Worms twisting and flailing out from every socket, its horrifying grimace was practically glowing in the dark.

Flinging the thing back down to the ground, I closed my eyes and began screaming at the top of my voice, not caring who heard me. Not caring if I woke up the entire neighbourhood. Not caring if someone called the police. And then I tore out of that garden and raced back home like I was being chased by the devil himself.

Because what I’d dug up from that hole in the middle of the night was the most terrifying, shocking, grotesque thing I’d ever had the misfortune of seeing in my entire life.

It was … as you’ve probably guessed by now … a human skull.

19 - John

William stretched out on the muddy bank, flattening his body like a large slab of stone. Then he reached his shaking hand as far into the water as possible without falling into the pond himself.

“John! John!” He was screaming my name over and over, as if trying to salvage the severed connection between us. When he saw my limp arm floating near the surface he grabbed onto it with both hands and pulled mightily. The mud loosened its grip on my feet and my heavy, waterlogged corpse was laboriously heaved out of the water and laid out on the shore. A thin length of white fishing line was still tangled around my ankles, like a spider web wrapped around its prey. The dripping lure dangled ridiculously from the hem of my pants.

How ironic that I’d been caught by the line while Sir John A. had managed to escape.

However, in his panic, William took no notice of this. “Wake up, John!” my cousin commanded. But by that point, it was too late. My spirit had flown from its human shell and was already watching from the top of the old, bent willow tree behind us.

Of course, William didn’t know that. Tearing open my soaked shirt, he pushed and thumped on my chest like a maniac. Was he trying to force the water from my lungs or restart my stalled heart? I’ll never know the answer. When he was done hitting me, he picked me up by the shoulders and shook me like rag doll.

“Come now, John! Don’t do this!” he shrieked. “Open your eyes!”

My head flopped ridiculously back and forth. Droplets of water sprayed from my hair in all directions, like a dog just come in from the rain. But William’s dim-witted efforts to revive me were fruitless. There was no trace of life left in my body to salvage. When my cousin finally realized this truth, he grasped my sodden hand between his and began to weep.

If my heart were still beating, it would most certainly have been touched.

William sobbed hysterically beside my lifeless body for several minutes, until the sound of the milkman’s horse trotting up the dirt road caused him to stop crying and look up. I can only guess that the notion of a witness to the tragic scene on the shores of the mill pond is what brought him back to his senses. The sky was now a light shade of grey. Daybreak was approaching and the rest of the village would soon be awake. What was William going to tell them? How was he going to explain my death? I was morbidly fascinated to find out.

Keeping very still, William crouched down behind the reeds and waited for the milkman to pass. As soon as he and his horse were out of sight, William hoisted my limp body into his arms and began to carry me back through the mist-covered fields … back to the house at 10 Colborne Street. My spirit followed close behind like a cool, dark shadow.

Looking back, I think my cousin must have entered a state of shock at that point, for he was shaking uncontrollably, his skin had turned a sickening shade of green, and he was mumbling to my dead body, as if the two of us were engaged in a real conversation. Knowing this, perhaps you’ll judge his actions less harshly. That will be your decision. As for me, I will continue to damn his soul to eternal hellfire for what he was about to do.

“Dear Lord, how am I going to face Aunt Elizabeth? How shall I tell her that you’re dead? Her only child? It will surely kill her, too. And Uncle Robert? What will he say? Will he hold me responsible for your death because I lured you out to the pond?”

Guilt quickly changed to fear as his rambling thoughts turned to his soft, blue-eyed fiancée and the life they were planning together.

“What will Martha think of all this? Will she still want to marry me?” He looked down at my battered face, my bent nose, my bloated, unblinking eyes. And then he gasped audibly at the horrible notion forming in his head.

“Good God! What if they accuse me of killing you, John?” he whispered into my unhearing ears. “There were no witnesses, after all, to attest that it was an accident. What if they try to hold me responsible for your death?”

And then he paused, as if hoping I might possibly give him an answer. We were just coming up behind the house at that point and the sky was changing from grey to white. A bird twittered a morning song from a nearby tree. Soon the rest of the village would be awake and William would have to explain what had happened. He skulked through the opening in the fence outside our home and laid my body down next to Mother’s rose garden. His head whipped around in all directions, as if searching for a solution to his ghastly dilemma. In just a few more minutes, his fate would be laid out for others to decide.

“Who will believe me if I tell the truth?” he moaned under his breath.

Fresh tears streamed down his cheeks as he struggled to decide his next move. Did I mention before that my cousin had reclaimed his senses? Surely, it was a fleeting recovery. For if I didn’t know William so well, I would have thought him a madman by his appearance as we hid in the shadow of the house, waiting for daybreak. His clothes and face were still covered in mud, the cut on his forehead where I’d butted him was caked with dried blood, his eyes were wild with fear, and his teeth were chattering violently. He was frightening to behold.

And perhaps he did go mad that morning, for certainly his next decision was not that of a rational man. There, amidst Mother’s beloved roses, arrived the pivotal moment in William’s life. His soul was balancing on the point of a deadly knife.

Now, if William had had the courage to do the right thing, my spirit would have been able to rest and this would have been the end of my story. But in the early rays of dawn on that late August morning, my cousin made an appalling decision … a treacherous decision. A decision that stole away my rights to a peaceful demise. As the first fiery rays of sunlight broke across the sky, William chose to take the path of deceit. And his deceit has left my spirit unsettled for all these years.

With only minutes to go before my parents would be rising from their beds, William ran to the barn to retrieve Father’s shovel. And then he dug a hasty grave and buried me in the garden at the side of the house.

“I’m sorry, John,” he moaned, lowering me down into the wet, black earth. At least he’d done me the decency of closing my eyes to keep the worms out. “I’ll tell them you stayed on at the pond while I returned to pack my bags. I’ll tell them you wouldn’t listen when I begged you to come … that you hit my head when I tried to drag you home. I’ll tell them you were threatening to run away so you wouldn’t have to work in the forge anymore. Oh God, forgive me, John!”

While the rooster at the neighbouring red cottage announced the start of the day, William finished covering me up with dirt and wilted flowers. And with that, the thick curtain of darkness fell over me and I disappeared.

But of course, as you already know, my restless spirit remained.