Deep and Dark and Dangerous (14 page)

"You know what? Edith looked like a dead body floating in the water." Sissy waved the doll in my face. "And you know what else? I bet Teresa looked just like Edith after Dulcie pushed her into the lake."

I tightened my grip on my book to keep myself from throwing it at her. "Get out of here!"

Sissy leaned over me, close enough for her damp, stringy hair to brush my cheek, close enough for me to smell its stale, doggy odor. "I know you hate me, but I'm not going anywhere till I feel like it."

"You ought to wash your hair," I said. "It stinks."

"You don't smell so good yourself." Clutching Edith, Sissy made a face and dashed out the door into the rain. "Catch me if you can, Ali Ali Alligator!"

As before, she ran into the woods and took the trail along the cliff top. Once again, I followed her. I had to find out where she lived and who she was. If her mother knew how much trouble her daughter caused, she'd keep her at home, make her stay away from Gull Cottage. With no Sissy to spoil things, Emma, Dulcie, and I might actually have fun again.

At first, I had no trouble keeping Sissy in sight. The red sweatshirt flashed around bends in the trail and in and out of rocks and boulders. I ran behind her, keeping a decent distance between us. Just as I was beginning to think I'd be successful, she turned away from the lake and disappeared into that dark grove of pines where I'd lost her before.

Determined to find her, I walked slowly, listening for footsteps and looking for the red sweatshirt. Maybe it was the gloom of the day or the slow, sad murmur of the wind in the trees, but the grove seemed to grow darker and colder. Overhead, a crow cawed, and farther away another answered. I stopped, suddenly afraid.

That's when I realized where I was. The mossy rocks I'd noticed before were tombstones. Most were so old they blended into the trees and bushes, their inscriptions worn and covered with lichen. Some were newer, their names and dates still legible.

Scared almost witless, I ran toward the road. In my panic, I tripped on small headstones and tumbled to the ground more than once. Brambles caught my hair and scratched my arms, and pine branches whipped my face, but nothing slowed me down. I ran with all my strength.

Then I glimpsed what I'd been looking for—the red sweatshirt.

With a shout, I burst out of a grove of trees. "I see you, Sissy!"

But Sissy wasn't there. Like an offering, the red sweatshirt dangled from the hand of a stone angel.

Heart pounding, I looked around, sure she was hiding nearby, laughing at me. "Sissy?" I called, my voice unnaturally loud in the silent cemetery.

No one answered.

"Where are you?" I called again.

Still no answer. Not even a giggle.

"Stupid brat!" I yelled. "You can't scare me with your dumb tricks."

This time, crows answered, shattering the quiet with raucous cries.

Angry now, I walked right up to the angel. Sissy wasn't going to frighten me. Or make me look like an idiot. I'd show her.

But as I grabbed the sweatshirt, I noticed the words carved at the angel's feet.

In Memory of Our Beloved Daughter and Sister
Teresa Abbott
March 11, 1967 to July 19, 1977

May her soul rise fom the deep and be at peace

Teresa, Teresa.
The name ran round and round in my head like the words of a song you don't want to hear.
Teresa, Teresa,
the wind whispered while the raindrops beat out the rhythm.

The angel's blank eyes gazed at me, its hand reaching out as if to seize mine. I edged away, but the angel continued to stare at me, its marble face expressionless, stained from years of rain and snow.

Unable to bear those eyes, I ran toward the road, dodging headstones and trees. Somewhere behind me, I thought I heard Sissy laugh, but I didn't dare look back.

It wasn't until Ms. Trent opened her door that I realized I was still clutching the sweatshirt. I threw it down and flung myself, sobbing, into the woman's arms.

"Ali!" she said. "What's wrong?"

"I was in the graveyard up the road," I stammered. "I saw an angel there, a memorial for Teresa Abbott."

Ms. Trent nodded, but she was clearly puzzled. "The family erected it years ago."

"That sweatshirt was hanging from the angel's hand." I pointed at the wet, dirty heap on the floor. "Sissy left it there."

Ms. Trent stooped to pick up the sweatshirt. "I'm not sure what this is all about," she said, "but you're soaked, Ali—as usual." She laughed and shook her head. "You know the drill. Put on the robe and give me your wet clothes. I'll stick them in the dryer, along with the sweatshirt. When you're warm and dry, we'll talk."

A few minutes later, I was once again wrapped snugly in Ms. Trent's fluffy bathrobe. Chauncy sprawled on the floor near me, sighing contentedly from time to time. The warmth inside the cottage had steamed up the windows, but deep inside I was cold and shivery.

Ms. Trent handed me a cup of tea and sat down in her rocker. "Promise to visit me on a nice sunny day next time," she said with a smile.

A log in the stove shifted and fell. I watched Ms. Trent prod it into place with a poker. Firelight danced across her face, showing a fine network of wrinkles.

"What's wrong, Ali?" She looked at me kindly.

"What did Teresa look like?" I asked in such a low voice that Ms. Trent asked me to repeat the question. "Teresa Abbott—what did she look like?"

She thought a moment, as if trying to remember. "An ordinary kid, kind of plain," she said at last. "Skinny, small for her age. Sharp featured. Didn't smile often."

"Did she have blond hair?"

"Yes. Yes, she did. In the summer, it turned almost white." She smiled. "That was the only thing about Teresa I envied—her hair. When I was a teenager, I wanted to be a blond."

I huddled deeper into the soft sofa. "Was Teresa's sister, Linda, ever Miss Webster's Cove?"

"Yes, but—"

I interrupted. "Did she wear a tiara and ride in a motorboat parade and throw roses in the lake?"

"Did Dulcie tell you that?" Ms. Trent asked. "I didn't think she remembered anything."

"No, not her. Somebody else." I fidgeted with the bathrobe's sash, twirling it this way and that. What I was thinking couldn't be true—at least I hoped not. "Was Linda beautiful, and did she have lots of boyfriends?"

"Linda Abbott was the prettiest girl in high school. All the boys were in love with her." Ms. Trent took a sip of tea. "Has Jeanine been telling you about Linda?"

I shook my head. There was one more question. And it was the scariest one of all. Hoping she'd say no, I asked, "Did Linda ever call Teresa...'Sissy'?"

Ms. Trent put her teacup down slowly. "Yes," she said slowly, as if remembering something long forgotten. "That was Linda's nickname for Teresa when she was little—Sissy."

I pulled the bathrobe tighter, but I couldn't stop shivering. Cold seeped in through every seam. My feet were frozen, and so were my hands. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

Ms. Trent looked at me, hands clasped, face serious, and slowly shook her head. "I know what you're thinking, Ali, but Sissy's a common nickname. That girl might be a troublemaker, but she's
not
Teresa."

"She looks like Teresa," I replied. "She acts like Teresa. She won't tell me her last name or where she lives. If I try to follow her, she disappears."

When I began to cry, Ms. Trent moved to the couch and put her arm around me. "I know you're upset, but you're letting your imagination run away with you. Sissy is Sissy—a real girl. She's not Teresa's ghost. It's impossible."

I wanted to snuggle into her side like a little kid, I wanted to believe her, I wanted to be comforted by her soft, reasonable voice. But no matter what excuses Ms. Trent made up, I knew what I knew.

"What about the sweatshirt?" I asked. "Sissy put it in the angel's hand because she wants me to know who she is."

"She left the sweatshirt there to scare you," Ms. Trent said, still calm, still reasonable. "You know—for a prank, a joke. It's exactly the sort of thing a girl like Sissy would do."

"That's what I thought at first, but..." I drew away from her side. "What if Mom and Dulcie were in the canoe with Sissy? What if they did something to her? What if she wants revenge?" My fears tumbled into words as I spoke.

Ms. Trent peered into my eyes. "What happened to Teresa was very sad. But this is the real world, Ali. You exist, I exist, millions of people exist. Ghosts do not exist—there's no room for them."

"You're wrong," I said, weeping. "You're wrong."

Ms. Trent tried to hug me again, but I shrugged her arm away. If she really wanted to comfort me, she'd believe me, she'd help me, she'd tell me what to do.

With a sigh, she got to her feet. "Your clothes must be dry. Why don't you get dressed, and I'll drive you home. My old Volvo seems to be working. At least for now."

Silently, I took my jeans and T-shirt, still warm from the dryer, and headed for the bathroom to change. Just as I closed the door, I heard the phone ring. Ms. Trent picked it up.

"Yes, Ali's here. I just told her I'd—"

Dulcie. What did she want?
I yanked on my clothes and ran to Ms. Trent's side.

Ms. Trent handed me to the phone. "It's your aunt."

"Where is Emma?" Dulcie shouted into my ear.

"Isn't she with you?" I gripped the receiver, frightened by the panic in her voice.

"No! We came home, you weren't here, I gave Emma an antibiotic and put her to bed." Dulcie's words fell over each other and tangled themselves into a knot. "I just went to check on her. The window's open, and she's gone. Where would she go all by herself? It's raining, she has a fever, she should be in bed."

"I don't know where she is. I've been here—"

"If you'd been home, where you belong, she wouldn't be gone," Dulcie broke in. "Don't you ever think of anyone but yourself?"

"But, Dulcie, I—"

She slammed the receiver down with a bang that hurt my ear. "She's with Sissy!" I yelled into the phone, but of course she couldn't hear me.

Ms. Trent caught my arm as I ran toward the door. "Where are you going?"

"To find Emma!" I pulled free and dashed out into the rain.

"But the sweatshirt," she called after me. "Don't you want it?"Without answering, I darted across the road. If Emma was really with Sissy—and I was sure she was—she was in danger, and I had to save her.

Heart pounding, I raced back through the cemetery. Even though I didn't look at the angel, I sensed its blank eyes following me, its hand pointing the way to the lake and the cliff top.

Once I reached the path, I slowed down. The rain had changed to a heavy mist, and I could see only about three feet ahead. I didn't want to miss my way and fall off the rocks.

"Emma," I called. "Emma!"

There was no answer. Drops of water fell from the pines, gradually soaking my clothes. Now and then, I heard a gull cry, its voice sad and lonely. I was alone in a gray nothingness, no colors, no shapes.

At last, I heard Emma's high, piping voice. "Let's go back. I'm cold."

"Scaredy cat," Sissy taunted. "
Edith's
not afraid of the canoe. Why are you?"

I slid down a narrow path to the lake, scattering pebbles. The two of them looked up. Emma was surprised to see me, but Sissy grinned as if she'd been expecting me. Even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't have returned her smile. Now that I knew what she was, I didn't even want to look at her. She seemed as real and solid as ever, but I was scared she'd shed her skin the way I shed my clothes and stand before us in her true form—bones, nothing but bones, topped with a grinning skull and a tuft of hair, dressed in the rags of her bathing suit.

"Did you find the sweatshirt?" Sissy asked, mocking me with a sly grin. "I didn't want it anymore."

She stood knee-deep in the lake. Her faded bathing suit almost matched the fog, giving her an appropriately ghostly look. Beside her, an old canoe rode low in the water. Edith lay on the middle seat, her dirty face turned up to the foggy sky.

"Where did you get the canoe?" I asked.

Sissy shrugged, and the bones beneath her skin shifted. "It's just an old wreck of a thing. No one wants it. Not anymore."

Turning to Emma, she said, "Come on. Get in."

I grabbed my cousin's shoulder. "She's not going anywhere with you!"

Sissy laughed. "Want to bet?" Turning back to Emma, she held out the doll. "If you come with me, you can hold Edith."

Emma pulled free of my hands. Before I could stop her, she clambered into the canoe and sat on the middle seat, cradling Edith. "See? I'm not a scaredy cat baby like Ali."

Sissy jumped in and picked up the paddle. "There's room for you, too, Ali."

I splashed into the cold water and grabbed the side of the canoe. "Get out, Emma, and come home. You're sick, you've got a fever. Your mother doesn't know where you are. She's worried to death."

"Worried to death?" Sissy laughed. "What does Dulcie—or you—know about death?" Her eyes dared me to ask what
she
knew about death.

For Emma's sake, I kept my mouth shut. It would be better if my cousin never learned what her so-called friend really was. "Please." I grabbed her arm and tugged. The canoe rocked back and forth, and Emma clung to the sides.

"Stop, Ali," she cried. "You'll turn it over!"

Sissy dipped the paddle in the water. "Come or don't come," she said to me, "but I'm taking Emma for a ride."

Full of dread, I climbed into the canoe and took a seat in the front. With Emma sitting between us, Sissy paddled away from shore. In a moment, the mist surrounded us. Rocks and trees vanished as if they no longer existed. I could barely see Sissy and Emma, and I heard nothing but the gurgle and splash of the paddle moving through the water. It was like the dream I'd had of the three girls—only now it was real, and I was one of them.

Emma looked around uneasily. "Where are we going?" she said. "I can't see anything."

Sissy kept paddling.

"Take me home," Emma begged. "I don't like the canoe anymore. I don't like the fog. I want Mommy."