Wait Till Helen Comes (8 page)

11

AS SOON as I came out of the woods behind the church, I knew something was wrong. The air shimmered with heat, and it was very still. No breeze ruffled the leaves of the maples; no bird sang; no car sped down Clark Road. The clouds in the sky seemed to hover overhead, silent witnesses waiting and watching as I followed Michael toward the back door.

"Wait," I called to him. "Wait for me, Michael!" I ran across the grass and caught up with him at the steps. "Don't go in there!" I grabbed his arm, almost making him drop the bowl of salamanders.

"What's the matter with you?" Michael yanked his arm free and stared at me, almost as if he were afraid of me. "Are you going off the deep end or something?"

"There's something wrong." I stared at the back door, my heart pounding wildly and my knees shaking. "There's something in the house!"

"Molly, stop it." Michael's eyes widened behind his glasses, but he didn't move toward the door.

Before he could say more, we heard a crash from somewhere inside. Then another. As the noise increased, we clung to each other, too frightened to move.

"Let's get out of here!" Michael cried after a resounding thud from inside seemed to shake the entire house.

Running after him, I glanced back once, just in time to see a pale figure emerge from the back door. It hesitated on the steps for a moment, looking after us, then vanished.

"Did you see her?" I clutched at Michael's shirt, making him stop for a moment.

"Who?" He looked back at the house from the edge of the woods.

"Helen," I cried. "Helen! She was in the house, I saw her on the back porch."

He shook his head. "You must have seen heat waves or something," he whispered. "Whoever's in our house isn't any ghost. It's probably a motorcycle gang or something. What are we going to do, Molly?" He edged backward into the woods, putting a screen of trees and bushes between us and the church. "I wish Mom would come back."

Sinking down next to him on a log, I shivered. "I know what I saw, Michael. She was standing on the porch looking at us, and laughing. Why won't you believe me?"

"Because this is the twentieth century, and I don't believe in ghosts!" His voice shook and he moved farther away from me.

"What about poltergeists? I've even read stuff in the newspaper about them. They throw furniture and destroy stuff, and scientists don't have any explanation for them."

"Yes, but you never see them. They cause a lot of destruction, but they don't manifest themselves the way you claim Helen does." He stood up and began walking away from me.

"Where are you going?" I leapt up and crashed through the bushes behind him.

"I think we should wait up the road for Mom and Dave. The worst thing you can do is come home while the burglars are in your house. That's how people get killed."

"She's gone now," I told him. "I saw her leave."

Ignoring me, Michael pushed through the woods, still carrying the salamanders. "It's almost three o'clock," he said. "They should be coming along any minute."

We plunged through trailing vines of honeysuckle and stumbled out into the sunlight by the side of the road. Without saying a word to each other, we sat down in the shade and watched for the van.

After a half hour or so, I heard the sound of a motor. Jumping to my feet, I saw the van bouncing toward us: Dave at the wheel, Heather beside him, and Mom sitting in the back. He braked quickly when he saw Michael and me, kicking up a cloud of white dust.

"What is it? Is something wrong?" Mom struggled to open the side door as Michael and I jostled each other, anxious to get inside.

"Somebody broke into the house!" Michael gasped. "We heard them when we came home from the swamp."

"Are you sure?" Dave craned around from the front seat, frowning as if he thought Michael was lying.

"Of course I'm sure!" Michael leaned toward Dave, his face flushed. "They were making a lot of noise. I think they've wrecked the house."

Mom put her arm around me, holding me close, her face buried in my hair. "Thank goodness you didn't go inside," she murmured.

Dave put the van into gear and drove toward the church. "If they're still inside, I'll keep on driving into Holwell and call the police," he said.

"Don't worry, they're gone," I said, glancing at Heather as I spoke. She was looking out the window, her face turned away from Dave, smiling past her reflection at the green trees.

Sure enough, when we pulled into the driveway we saw no sign of anyone. The little church sat silent and deserted in the shade of the maples.

"It looks all right to me," Dave said. "This better not be your idea of a joke, Michael."

Michael stiffened beside me, a scowl on his face, but he didn't say anything. Silently he followed Dave up the steps and into the kitchen, with the rest of us close behind.

"It's freezing cold in here," Mom said, folding her arms across her chest and shivering.

Again I glanced at Heather, who had pushed her way to Dave's side. Catching my eye, she smiled. "I told you so, Molly," she whispered, never letting go of Dave's hand.

Dave led us down the hall. Everything seemed to be in order until we reached Michael's room. When Dave opened the door, we stepped back as cold air rushed out to meet us. Hesitating on the threshold, we stared at the room in horror. Everything that Michael cherished lay in a heap of rubble in the middle of the floor. His books, his specimen cases, his fossils and rocks, his microscope, his aquarium—all were smashed and broken, ruined. His bureau lay on its side—its drawers emptied, its mirror shattered. Not even his bed had been spared. The blankets and sheets had been hurled across the room, and the mattress leaned against a wall, his clock radio in fragments beside it.

"Oh, Michael!" Mom put her arms around him and let him cry great, gasping sobs that shook his whole body.

"My insects, my butterflies, everything's ruined," he wailed. "Everything."

Dave rested a hand awkwardly on Michael's shoulder. "The police will get to the bottom of this. Whoever is responsible will pay, believe me he will."

Then he turned to me. "We'd better take a look at your and Heather's room," he said.

But Heather was there ahead of us, sitting on her bed, still smiling. Her side of the room was untouched, but mine was destroyed. My books, my diaries and journals, my teddy bears had been ripped to bits. Like Michael's, my bed had been torn apart, my clothes scattered about, my china and glass unicorns shattered.

"They must have heard you and Michael," Dave said. "You scared them off, I guess, before they wrecked the entire house."

But I wasn't listening. Instead I was staring at a scrawled message on the wall over my bed. Written faintly in an old-fashioned hand, it said, "I have come. H.E.H."

"What did I tell you?" Heather whispered. Without my noticing, she had crept to my side. One cold hand touched my arm as she smiled up at me, her back to Dave.

Pulling away from her, I ran to Mom who was standing in the doorway, one arm around Michael. "It's all her fault," I cried. "She made this happen!"

"What are you talking about?" Mom drew me to her side.

"Good God," Dave said, exasperation darkening his voice. "Heather tries to comfort you, and you turn around and try to blame it on her." He lifted Heather, and she buried her face in his beard, sobbing.

"Molly, I can't believe you said that." Mom sounded shocked. "I know you're upset, but Heather couldn't possibly have had anything to do with this."

"Look!" I pointed at the wall. "See that?" But, even as I spoke, I saw Helen's message fade away like letters written in the sand as the tide rises. What had been words, letters were now meaningless cracks and scuffs on the wall.

"Darling," Mom drew me closer, caressing my back. "It's all right, Molly. We'll get it all put back together somehow."

Frightened, I collapsed against Mom, letting her stroke my back, my hair, crying as if I would never stop.

"We should check the rest of the house," Dave said after a while. "And our studios. Then I'll call the police."

Silently we followed him through the house. His and Mom's room, the living room, the kitchen, the bathrooms—nothing had been touched. Relieved, he walked down the driveway toward the carriage house, towing Heather behind him like a pull toy. A glance inside told him nothing had been disturbed. His bowls and mugs, his vases and platters sat on their shelves, either glazed or waiting to be glazed. The kiln and the pottery wheel stood silently in their places. Overhead in the rafters, a barn swallow twittered and flew back and forth, worried that we would disturb its nest.

Satisfied, Dave led us across the yard to the side door of the church. Once again we recoiled from the cold air, and I clasped Mom's hand, knowing what we would find.

Mom's big canvases had been slashed and thrown to the floor. Her easel was smashed, and her oil paints were smeared all over the walls. For a moment, I was sure I saw Helen's initials scrawled there, but, as before, they vanished too quickly for me to point them out.

Mom fell against Dave, too upset to speak. He put his arms around her and stroked her hair as if she were a child, letting her tears soak his shirt.

Heather hovered near her father, obviously displeased by the attention he was giving Mom.

"Don't cry, Jean, don't cry," Dave whispered. "If I can't fix the easel, I'll get you another one."

"But we can't afford it," Mom sobbed. "We were counting on the sale of my paintings to get through the winter. Now they're ruined. How will we pay the mortgage? How will we heat the house?"

"Don't worry, Jean. I can teach a few classes. And we've got insurance. I know it won't replace your paintings, but it will help." As Heather tugged at his trouser leg, he turned to her. "Not now, Heather!"

She recoiled from the anger in his voice. "You love her more than me," she whimpered.

Dave either ignored her or failed to hear. He started toward the house, his arm around Mom's shoulders. "We'll call the police," he said.

As Heather hung back, frowning at Mom and Dave, Michael turned to her. "Poor little Heather," he said. "Left out in the cold by Daddy."

She stared up at him. "Do you believe in Helen now?" she hissed. "I told you she'd make you sorry! The next time it will be much, much worse. You just wait!"

"You little creep!" Michael grabbed her and shook her. "You know perfectly well you're lying about Helen. What makes me mad is the way you enjoy seeing us unhappy! You just love it, don't you?"

"I hate you all." Heather tried to pull away from him. "Now let me go! Let me go! Daddy! Daddy!"

Dave turned back just in time to see Heather and Michael struggling. Running toward us, he pulled Heather away from Michael. While she clung to him sobbing, he caught Michael by the neck of his tee shirt. "Don't you ever do anything like that again!" he yelled. "Aren't things bad enough without your picking on a kid half your size?"

As Dave strode back toward the house, carrying Heather, Michael and I sat down on the church steps. "I despise him," Michael muttered. "I despise them both."

"Me too." Although I didn't say it aloud, I knew I hated Helen most of all. Fearfully, I glanced toward the graveyard. For a second, I saw a glimmer of white in the shade of the oak, just a flash through the hedge. You're there, aren't you? I thought. Watching all of this, enjoying it even more than Heather.

A few minutes later, I saw the back door open. Heather ran down the steps and across the yard. Pausing at the graveyard gate, she looked at me, smiling. Then she pushed the gate open and vanished behind the hedge.

As I leaned toward Michael to tell him where Heather had gone, I was interrupted by the arrival of a police car. It pulled up by the steps, and a fat man in a light blue shirt and dark pants got out and went inside. From where Michael and I sat, we could hear his radio squawking.

Around twenty minutes later, he came outside with Mom and Dave. "It's a shame, a real shame," he was saying as he walked toward the church. "Never had anything like this happen around here before. Most folks don't even bother to lock their doors when they go out. Must have been some kids from Adelphia or somewhere. Baltimore maybe. Just passing through, doing drugs, looking for fun, who knows?"

Nodding to Michael and me, he followed Mom and Dad into the church and up the stairs to the loft. We could hear them walking around, talking. As they emerged from the church, the policeman stopped and wiped his forehead with a big handkerchief. His face was red and shiny from the heat.

"Are these the two that interrupted the vandals?" He peered down at Michael and me.

Mom introduced us, and Officer Greene asked us a few questions, but we couldn't tell him anything that would help him. As he put his notebook into his pocket, he thanked us. "You sure you didn't see anybody?" he asked.

"My sister claims she saw a ghost," Michael said, taking me completely by surprise.

"A ghost?" Officer Greene stared at me.

"Oh, Molly!" Mom touched my shoulder. "No more of that!"

Officer Greene turned to her. "Well, ma'am, she wouldn't be the first person to see a ghost at Saint Swithin's. I know grown men who don't like to drive past the graveyard at night." He chuckled. "'Course I don't believe in ghosts myself. Never saw one and never hope to see one. But then they tell me only certain folk can see them. So who's to say?"

The officer patted my head and said that he was sorry about my room. "I hope we get it all straightened out, but I know that you'll never be able to replace some of those things." Turning back to Mom, he added, "I'd sure hate for you folks to think anybody from Holwell made this mess. There's not a living soul in these parts who would do something like this."

As Officer Greene walked back to his car, still talking to Mom and Dave, I turned to Michael. "You were trying to make me look stupid again, weren't you?" I accused, but he didn't answer. He stood beside me, his shoulders hunched like an old man's, frowning at the ground.

"Why did you tell that policeman about Helen? He thought I was nuts!" I glared at Michael, feeling that he'd betrayed me.