The Second Evil (14 page)

Something's wrong here, Corky thought. There's something wrong with this story.

“What a strange guy,” Sarah Beth said thoughtfully. “He's scary, I think. Really scary.”

The room grew silent. A clock somewhere in the back started to chime. Corky glanced at her watch. Nine o'clock.

“Sure I can't get you some coffee?” Sarah Beth offered. “It's all made.”

“No, thanks,” the two girls said, again in unison.

“Then I guess I'll tell you about Sarah Fear,” Sarah Beth said, stifling a yawn. “That's why you've come, right?”

“Yes. We really need to know about her,” Corky said, studying Sarah Beth's face.

“I'm afraid you'll be disappointed,” Sarah Beth told them. “I don't know all that much. Most of it I got from old newspapers and what few family records I could find. One of Sarah's cousins, Ben Fear, kept a journal. That was helpful up to a point. But believe me, there are a lot of gaps in the story. A lot of gaps.”

She tucked her legs beneath her in the big chair, leaned on one of the overstuffed arms, and began to talk, moving her eyes from Corky to Debra, then staring down at the dark carpet as she spoke.

“I guess I'll begin with Sarah's death. Or I should say,
near
-death. That would be in … uh … 1899, I guess. Up to that point, I think you could say that Sarah had managed to escape the curse of the Fears. Meaning she had had a fairly happy life.

“In his journal, Ben Fear described her as a lovely flower of a young woman. That's the way Ben wrote. He was pretty flowery himself. But I guess it can be said that Sarah was beautiful in every way. She was a lovely young woman, kind, generous, and loving.

“I'm starting to sound like Ben Fear,” Sarah Beth muttered, rolling her eyes. “Oh, well, bear with me. According to family records, Sarah was happily married. For a brief time, anyway. She never had any children.

“She and her husband lived close to Simon Fear's mansion. Their house was always filled with people. Cousins, friends, servants. It was quite a life.

“And it didn't change much, even after Sarah's
husband died of pneumonia. She mourned him for an entire year. Then she resumed her busy, people-filled life.

“Then in early 1899, the good life abruptly came to an end. Poor Sarah fell ill—deathly ill. I don't really know what the sickness was. Perhaps no one back then knew either. In his journal, Ben Fear described it as a ‘wasting disease.' Old Ben had a way with words, didn't he?

“Well, the doctors gave up on Sarah. She was given up for dead. In fact, a grave was dug in preparation, in the Fear Street cemetery. And a minister was called upon and told to prepare a funeral ceremony.

“But then there was some kind of miracle. To everyone's surprise, Sarah Fear didn't die. In fact, she made a remarkably fast recovery. Her strength seemed to return overnight. And despite the pleas of her family to rest and regain her energy, she pulled herself out of bed the very next day and returned to her duties of running the house.

“Here's where the story gets strange. After her illness, Sarah changed. She wasn't the same sweet ‘flower' anymore. According to Ben Fear's journal, she became withdrawn, reclusive. She developed a terrible temper and was known to throw tantrums for no apparent reason. She turned away from all of her friends.

“The details in the diary become sketchier and sketchier toward the end of her life. My theory is that Ben Fear was no longer invited to Sarah's house, and so he had little firsthand information about her to write in his journal.

“He did tell of rumors that Sarah and a servant had become lovers.

“There were reports of strange gatherings in her house. Late-night meetings. Séances. Wild parties. The police reports are very discreet. Don't forget—Simon Fear was still around, still a powerful figure in the town. Nevertheless, the scandalous stories about Sarah began to spread.

“The newspaper became full of frightening stories about the events that took place at Sarah's house. One spring day a kitchen maid was found murdered in the garden, stabbed through the heart with an enormous pair of hedge shears. A houseguest was also murdered, his leg severed, cleanly cut off his body and found lying beside him on the floor of the stable.

“Sarah Fear was never under suspicion for these murders. And the mysteries were never solved.

“Then came the biggest and most tragic mystery of them all. The pleasure boat trip. Sarah Fear's final trip. It took place on Fear Lake. You know. Tranquil, flat Fear Lake. The tiny, round lake behind the Fear Street woods.

“There were five people on the boat. Sarah Fear. Three of her relatives. And one servant. According to the newspaper report, it was a beautiful summer day, a perfect day, no clouds, no wind.

“Sarah's large pleasure boat sailed away from the shore. And a few minutes later it happened—from out of nowhere. A mysterious hurricane-force gale. Totally unexpected—on the calmest, most beautiful day of the summer. A wind so powerful that it capsized the large boat. Turned it over in a flash.

“And everyone drowned. Everyone, including Sarah Fear. Within view of shore—only a five- or ten-minute swim at most. And yet all on board Sarah's boat were drowned. There were no survivors.

“Which brings us to the strangest part of all,” Sarah Beth said, leaning forward in her big chair, staring at the two girls across from her on the couch, lowering her voice to just above a whisper. “The strangest part of all. When the bodies were pulled ashore, their skin was bright red, blistered, and scalding hot—as if Sarah and her companions had all drowned in
boiling water!”

“D
rive around,” Corky said. “I don't feel like going in just yet.”

“Let's park and talk,” Debra said. She pulled the car halfway up Gorky's driveway and cut the lights and the engine.

Corky turned her eyes to the house. The lamp over the door cast a yellow triangle of light on the front porch. All the other lights were out. Her parents were either in the back or had gone to bed early.

“Did you get the feeling that Sarah Beth was holding something back?” Debra asked, tapping her gloved hands on the steering wheel.

Corky slid down low in the passenger seat, raising her knees to the dashboard. “Yeah. I think she knows more than she let on,” she agreed. “But I don't know what it would be.”

“I asked her if she thought Sarah Fear had been possessed by an evil spirit,” Debra said. “She just looked at me as if I were from Mars or something.”

“She wouldn't answer any of my questions, either,” Corky complained. “You heard me when I asked what happened to the servant who was supposed to be her lover? And all she would say was that Sarah Fear's secrets were buried with her,”

Debra sighed and rubbed her glove against the side window, which was starting to steam up. “Weird lady,” she said quietly.

They had left Sarah Beth's house a little after ten o'clock, their heads spinning with the bizarre details of the story she had related to them. “I hope I've been helpful,” Sarah Beth had said as she walked them to the door. “If I come across anything else, I'll get in touch with you.”

But Corky and Debra left with more doubts and suspicions than when they had arrived. They had driven the short distance back to Corky's house in silence, each going over in her mind what she had heard. And now they sat in Corky's driveway as the car windows steamed up around them, eager to share their thoughts.

“It's just too perfect,” Debra said, squeezing the steering wheel with both hands. “She's telling us about Sarah Fear—and
her
name is Sarah Fear. It's too perfect, and too strange.”

“They died in scalding hot water,” Corky said thoughtfully, closing her eyes. “That's how my sister died. In the shower. In scalding hot water.”

“I know,” Debra said in a whisper, staring straight ahead.

“And remember the teakettle? That afternoon when I scalded my hand?” Corky cried, her mouth dropping open in horror as the memory flew back to her. “Again—scalding hot water.”

“I remember,” Debra said, putting a hand on Corky's trembling shoulder. “You're right. Hot water is a clue. It's definitely a clue.”

“But a clue to
what?”
Corky asked shrilly, feeling her frustration build. “A clue to
what?”

“What about those gross murders at Sarah Fear's house?” Debra asked, turning in her seat to face Corky. “The houseguest with his leg cut clean off. Just like Chip. Just like Chip's hand.”

Corky swallowed hard. “I—I hadn't thought about that, Deb. But you're right.”

The two girls sat silent for a long moment, staring at the steamed-up windshield.

“So what are we proving?” Debra asked finally.

“Well …” Corky thought hard. “I guess we're proving that it's the same evil spirit doing the same horrible things—then and now.”

“And how does that help us?” Debra demanded, staring intently at Corky.

Corky shrugged. “I don't know.” She shook her head unhappily. “I just don't.”

“There has to be another clue in the Sarah Fear story,” Debra insisted, her features tight with concentration. “There has to be a clue about how to defeat the evil spirit. Somehow the spirit ended up in Sarah Fear's grave; we know that. Somehow it was forced to stay down there for a hundred years. But how? How did Sarah Fear defeat it?”

“She didn't,” Corky said dryly. “She didn't defeat it. It killed Sarah Fear—remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” Debra said softly.

They lapsed into silence again.

“Now, a hundred years later, more death,” Corky said, staring at the clouded windshield. “Jennifer, Bobbi, Chip …” A loud sob escaped her throat.

“I wonder who'll be next,” Debra muttered, her eyes dark with fear.

Corky's parents were watching TV in the den in back. Pulling off her coat, she went in to say hi to them. They were engrossed in some cop show, and she could see they didn't want to chat. So Corky said good night and headed up to her room.

She didn't feel like talking to anyone. Her head felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds, weighted down by all she had heard and by her confused thoughts and theories.

If only we could trust Sarah Beth Plummer, she thought, starting to pull off her clothes and get ready for bed. But I know we can't trust her. For all we know, Sarah Beth herself could be the evil spirit!

If only we could trust
somebody.

She pulled on a long nightshirt and deposited her clothes in a neat pile on the chair across from her bed.

Debra and Kimmy and I—we're all alone, Corky thought. We're all alone against this ancient evil force. We're the only ones who know about it. The only ones who
believe
in it. And what can the three of us do?
What?

I don't know
what
to think, she told herself, heading to the bathroom across the hall to brush her teeth. We shouldn't have gone to Sarah Beth's. Now I'm even more confused than before.

And more frightened.

She had just started to put toothpaste on the brush when she heard her phone ringing. Dropping the toothbrush into the sink, she dashed back into her room and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hi, Corky. It's me. Kimmy.”

“Kimmy!” Corky cried in surprise. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

“Better, I guess,” Kimmy replied uncertainly. “My temperature is down. But I didn't call about that.” She sounded breathless, excited.

“What's happening?” Corky said.

“Did you hear about Jon Daly?” Kimmy asked, nearly squeaking the words.

“What about Jon?” Corky demanded. “Did they find him?”

“Yeah, they found him all right,” Kimmy replied. “They found him in Fear Lake. Drowned.”