Страница 41 из 49
“Why no, he was Benedict Ridge. John Ridge was his brother.”
“And Ivy Coleman was his mother?”
She looked surprised. “Yes—how do you know that?”
“Are you related to the librarian?”
“Delores Oliver?” She rocked a little faster. “Good heavens, Alexis, what do you have there? Yes, we’re cousins, but we never spoke. Her father didn’t like the family. He was very religious and she didn’t approve of my grandfather’s fondness for whiskey….I suppose it’s silly that I don’t just go say hello to her.”
My head was spi
“I have a picture of my grandmother,” Mary said. “Would you like to see it?”
“Sure,” I said absently, thinking I’d gotten all I was going to get out of Mary.
She shuffled away and shuffled back a minute later with an ancient black-and-white photo in her hands. It was so old the white parts had a silvery cast to them. She handed it gently to me.
“See? Second from the left,” she said.
The photo was a group of young girls lined up in their Sunday best and staring at the camera with solemn faces.
I flipped the photo over and saw a list of names:
Mildred Shore
Ivy Coleman
Patience O’Neil
Molly Saint
Cora Pittman
Mercy Bambridge
A
Lucy Schimidt
“Patience O’Neil,” Mary said, lowering herself back into her chair. “She became a Michaelson. That’s your mother’s family.”
“Wow,” I said. “This is amazing.”
“Why don’t you keep it?” she offered.
“I can’t do that,” I said. “It wouldn’t be right.”
“What use do I have for it?” Mary asked, waving dismissively. “It’s a piece of your family history. You should know where you come from.”
I looked at her face, creased and lined with age. Her eye shadow had been applied with too heavy a hand; the color on her lips was two shades too bright. She looked lonely and worn out and old.
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks a lot. It’s really cool.”
She smiled, pleased.
“I’d better get going,” I said. “But you’ve been really helpful.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “Now, you don’t have to be a stranger. I know you have your MTV and your e-mail Web sites, but if you ever have a little time, come by and say hello.”
“I will,” I said. “I promise.”
She made a move to stand.
“No, stay,” I said. “I can let myself out.”
I closed the door carefully behind me and started down the sidewalk, then stopped short.
Kasey was coming across the street, carrying a tray with a little pitcher and a box of cookies.
When she saw me, she raised her eyebrows but kept walking.
“What are you doing?” I asked, grabbing her by the elbow.
She jerked away. “Being neighborly.” “Listen to me, Kasey,” I said. “I need to talk to you about your friend.”
“Why?” she asked, her lip twisting into a sneer. “Does Megan want to ask her some questions?”
“Stop it,” I said. “Leave Megan out of this.”
She stared at me intently for a long few seconds.
“Megan is on my list,” she said, looking me up and down. “And so are you.”
“What is your list?” I asked. “I don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“You are not meant to understand,” she replied.
Her gaze fell on me like a heavy coat weighing me down. I felt as if my feet were rooted to the ground. She turned and walked up to Mary’s door, ringing the doorbell in quick bursts.
I couldn’t even move.
But as she disappeared inside, the leaden feeling dissolved, and I dashed home and into the kitchen. I looked in the trash and found an empty packet of lemonade mix.
My heart stopped pounding quite so hard. Maybe Kasey was just going to do what I’d done—ask Mary about the names.
I went to the sink to get a glass of water, and that’s when I noticed the grains on the counter. For a second I thought they were sugar crystals, but then I flipped the light on to see that they had the faintest cloudy green tint.
I opened the cabinet under the sink.
The first thing I saw was a box of ant poison sitting slightly askew.
I poured a little into the sink.
Tiny green grains, no bigger than sand.
I didn’t bother to close the front door behind me. I tore back to Mary’s house, pounded on the door, and pulled it open without being invited. I heard Mary exclaim from the living room and found my sister pouring the second of two glasses of lemonade.
“Kasey,” I said. “Stop.”
“She’s not causing any trouble,” Mary said. “It’s really all right.”
Kasey looked at me. “You heard Mary,” she said. “I’m not causing any trouble.”
She stared straight into my eyes, but her glare didn’t seem to lock on to me the way it had outside. I didn’t get the same heavy, captive feeling.
“Go home,” I said.
Neither of us spoke. After a long few seconds, Mary cleared her throat and stood up. “Alexis, dear, I’m so glad you came back…You forgot your sweater.”
She hung it over my arm and then retreated, sensing that her gesture hadn’t eased the tension.
“I’m sorry, Mary,” I said. “My sister has to go home.”
Kasey cocked her head.
I took a step forward.
And Kasey took a step back.
…Huh.
“Go,” I said. “Now.”
Kasey took another step backward, then turned to Mary and glowered as intensely as a lion watching its prey.
I began to move closer, and Kasey took off at a full run, down the hall and out into the night.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Mary, trying to sound casual, dumping the lemonade back into the pitcher and setting everything on the tray. “She’s just way behind in her schoolwork and our parents will get really mad if she doesn’t…”
Mary was watching me, wide-eyed.
“Mary,” I said, turning to face her. “Do me a favor? Promise me you won’t let Kasey back in tonight. Or tomorrow. Not until I tell you it’s safe. No matter what she says.”
She didn’t seem to hear me. She pulled her shawl a little snugger over her shoulders and shuffled toward a window. She checked the lock, and then shuffled to the next window and checked that lock.
“Um…are you okay?” I asked.
She faced me, and I noticed a shudder in her hands and a faint quiver in her voice. “Alexis,” she said, “the last time someone looked at me like that was…” My whole body went stiff with fear. “Nineteen ninety-six,” she whispered.
I sat on my bed with the photo. Mildred. Patience.
These girls…they were in my dream.
They were the ones who had chased the little girl in my story. They’d thrown rocks at her until she’d fallen from the tree.
But if these girls weren’t just minor characters in a story I’d made up…if they’d really existed…
I shifted my weight, and the books I’d stacked on the pillow tipped over. The Sawamura paperback fell open. Someone had written something on the inside cover.
Just like Megan, I thought, leaning in to read it.
SHARA C. WILEY, 989 WHITLEY STREET, SURREY CA. SEPTEMBER 20, 1996.
My breath caught in my throat.
Shara had owned that book. And the only reason she would own that book was if there were already something in the house—something evil.
Looking at the neat handwriting, I thought of the whispers that first night, eight years ago…and how they had invited me outside to play. Wasn’t that what Kasey had said to me the other night, when she came into my room? Come play.
I’d been starting to wonder why the ghost chose Kasey and not me.
But something had reached out to me.
And I might have been lured to my death the very first night we lived here, if I hadn’t grabbed on to the necklace—which had belonged to Shara.
When we were inside Mary’s house, near my sweater—in the pocket of which I’d left the charm— Kasey wasn’t able to control me.