The Haunted (8 page)

“If they want to.”

That seemed to satisfy him, and the two of them headed downstairs together.

Their guests began arriving soon after: Claire’s parents first, then her sister’s family ten minutes later. As always, they ended up separating into groups, women in the kitchen, men in the living room, and Julian saw James shoot him a look of anger and betrayal as Claire herded the kids upstairs. He vowed to make it up to his son after dinner and rescue him, allowing James to hang out with the adults and letting the bratty cousins fend for themselves.

Claire’s dad criticized the furniture arrangement, then complained about the comfort level of the chair he settled into, and Julian turned on the television, switching to an Albuquerque newscast, hoping the weather or sports or whatever was on would lead to a more general discussion. He would much rather have been in the kitchen with the women—their conversation was sure to be more interesting—but he was stuck here and knew he had to make the best of it.

On the television, a reporter was standing in front of a pueblo, talking to a Zuni spokesman about recent vandalism at one of the tribe’s sacred sites.

“Don’t even get me started on those Indians,” Rob said.

This was not a subject Julian wanted to pursue, but Claire’s dad took the bait. “What happened?”

“This
college
boy who’s working for us found some pieces of pottery with his backhoe, so he went and told someone, and now the entire site’s shut down for two weeks until they can dig up all that Indian crap. Meanwhile, we got a whole crew’s not getting paid.”

“Yeah,” Julian said. “Those college boys are nothing but trouble. People should never try to get a higher education. It only leads to problems.”

Rob’s face turned red, though from anger or embarrassment, Julian couldn’t tell. Claire shot him a warning glance from the kitchen doorway, and Julian knew he’d better keep his opinions to himself for the remainder of the evening.

Which he did, as hard as it was.

After dinner, Megan immediately went back upstairs to hide in her room. Diane told her two boys they could go play, but before James could finish pushing out his chair and dejectedly follow them, Julian told his son that he could stay if he wanted or watch something in the living room. James shot him a grateful look that made it almost worth putting up with everything else.

Almost.

Luckily, everyone left early, with mutual assurances that they’d had a wonderful time, and after putting the kids to bed, Julian helped Claire with the dishes and both of them retired to the living room. “Long day,” Julian said, settling onto the couch and flipping through channels on the television. He stopped on a rerun of the original
Star Trek
.

“Thank you,” Claire told him, sitting down to his left.

“For what?”

“Putting up with them.” She patted her lap, motioning for him to lie down and use it for a pillow. It was something they used to do a lot but had done less and less frequently over the years. When they were first married, they would watch movies this way, Blockbuster rentals, and sometimes, after a hard day at work, he would even fall asleep with her running her fingers gently through his hair, although, generally, it was a prelude to sex.

Laying his head on her lap now, he could smell her arousal, a heavy, musky odor that permeated the crotch of her jeans. The scent of her made
him
aroused, and he
turned his head to the side, pressing his face into her and breathing deeply. Neither of them had to say a word after that. Julian sat up, then stood, and both of them walked down the hall to the bedroom, where they closed the door, locked it and got undressed.

He was already naked when Claire took off her panties, rubbing them gently in his face. He could feel their dampness.

“I bet your mama doesn’t know you do that,” he said.

“No one does.” She bent over the side of the bed, presenting herself to him, and he took her roughly from behind as she screamed her pleasure into the thick quilted comforter so the kids wouldn’t hear.

Robbie wasn’t talking.

The two of them were sitting on the field in the park, drinking Slurpees, while Robbie’s younger brother, Max, practiced baseball with his Little League team. Robbie’s dad was the team’s coach, and he was having the kids take turns batting. James had just asked his friend about the night he’d stayed over, about why he’d been so desperate to leave. He was hoping to hear that Robbie had felt the same thing he had, and the reason he hadn’t brought up the crying was that he didn’t want Robbie to get all defensive. He wanted an honest answer.

But Robbie wasn’t saying a word.

James changed the subject, talked about the latest episode of a Cartoon Network show they both watched, asked about the day camp where Robbie had spent the past week, complained about his annoying cousins who’d come over the other night, wondered about whose class they’d be in this year at school. But then he brought it back again: “How come you wanted to go home so bad?”

Robbie shrugged.

James tried another tack. “Do you want to stay overnight next weekend?”

“No!” his friend said quickly, then hastily added,
“Maybe you could stay over at my house this time,” saying it in a way that tried to make the notion seem casual and unimportant.

Actually, that sounded like a fine idea. Although James had managed to convince himself that their new home was friendly rather than creepy (with the exception of the basement—which he would
never
like), the truth was that he was often tense inside the house. If he was with Megan or one of his parents, or if he was busy with something such as reading, watching TV or playing a game, he was fine. But when he was by himself with nothing to do and time on his hands … well, then he started noticing things. Like the way the stairs creaked sometimes, even though no one was on them. Or the way some of the windows didn’t let in as much light as they should. Or the way he saw movement out of the corner of his eye when nothing was there.

So the thought of staying overnight at Robbie’s sounded like a relaxing respite.

“That’d be fun,” James admitted.

“I’ll ask my dad.”

Robbie refocused his attention on the batting practice, and James saw his chance at a real discussion slipping away. Glancing over at his friend, he decided to come clean. “I don’t like the basement in our house,” he said. He watched for a reaction but saw none. “I think it’s creepy.”

Robbie didn’t respond, continued to watch his brother’s teammates swing at softly lobbed balls.

James didn’t know what more he could say. Maybe he’d been wrong all along. Maybe Robbie
hadn’t
been scared by the basement.

“I thought I saw something,” his friend said finally. The boy spoke so softly that at first James wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Robbie refused to look at him, his eyes
remaining focused on the Little Leaguers. “In the cellar. Not when we first went down there. That was cool. But later, before we went to bed, when I went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. I was the only one in the kitchen, and it was kind of dark, and the cellar door was open. I didn’t think it was open before; I remembered it being closed, and then I thought maybe your mom or dad was down there, getting something. So I walked by, peeked in. …” Robbie’s voice trailed off. He stopped talking, suddenly becoming very interested in the latest batter, and for a moment James thought he was going to have to prod his friend to continue. But then Robbie said, “It looked like there was a man down there. Maybe there wasn’t, but it looked like there was, and I got scared and hurried back to where you were.”

James suddenly felt cold.

“I had a nightmare about it when I fell asleep. You were right about that, but I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“What was it about?”

“The same thing that happened. I went to get a drink of water, the cellar door was open, and I walked past it and saw a man down there. It wasn’t your dad. I couldn’t see all of his face, but I could see his mouth. His smile. He was smiling up at me and it was like his teeth were glowing, and … and I knew he wanted me to go down into the basement. I think … I think he wanted to kill me. Then he said my name. …” Robbie sucked in his breath. “That’s why I wanted to go home.”

Even here in the park, in the open, surrounded by people, James was frightened. But he refused to give in to fear, forcing himself to be brave. He decided not to tell his friend that he, too, had had a nightmare about the cellar and that their two dreams were very close.
Too
close. Instead he said, “It’s just a dream.”

“You’re afraid of the basement, too,” Robbie pointed out.

“But it’s
just
the basement,” James insisted. “My
room’s
not scary at all. In fact, it’s great. I’d live in there twenty-four hours a day if I could.”

“I like your room,” Robbie admitted.

“See?”

“And your garage.”

“Me, too!”

“Last year, my dad read me this book. It was one of
his
old books, and it was about these two kid detectives, about our age. One of them was this genius named Brains Benton, and he had a secret lab above his parents’ garage. That’s what yours kind of reminded me of.”

“We could do something like that!” James said excitedly. “No one really goes into the garage, and I bet my dad would let us use the loft!”

“That would be cool!”

They started talking about what they could do, how they could make a secret entrance, have a couch and a TV up there, and they forgot all about the basement.

After baseball practice ended, Robbie’s dad drove both of them back to James’s house, telling Robbie that he’d be back to pick him up in around an hour, after he dropped Max off at home and ran a few errands. James announced to his dad that they were back; then he and Robbie went over to the garage, letting themselves in through the small side door. The garage
was
cool, he decided, looking around. Despite everything he’d said, he thought for a moment, when he first opened the door and his eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness, that it might be scary, but it looked the same as it always had, and he gazed appreciatively at the wooden ladder attached to the far wall that led through a hole in the ceiling up to the loft.

It really was just the basement that was creepy, and James thought he could probably learn to live with that. There were plenty of people who lived in haunted houses and coexisted with ghosts. He’d seen a Discovery Channel show about celebrity ghost stories, and there were famous actors and rock stars who’d been living with ghosts for years. Some of the spirits were even friendly.

James recalled his dream of the dirty grinning man in the basement.
He
certainly wasn’t friendly. But even if he existed, he was probably trapped there in the basement, and as long as James stayed out of that room, there should be no problem.

“Check it out!”

Robbie had climbed up the ladder and was peering down through the hole in the ceiling. James hurried up after him, and though he’d been up here before, he saw it now through new eyes and realized that he and Robbie really could make this into some sort of secret hideout. Maybe
they
could be detectives, he thought, and he imagined turning this room into a crime lab, with beakers and test tubes, microscopes and chemicals. Excitedly, the two of them began planning out what they needed to do to turn the loft into their crime-fighting headquarters.

Time passed quickly, and it seemed they’d been up there for only about ten minutes or so when James’s dad called, “Boys!” Hurrying to the small window that looked out over the backyard, they saw both fathers standing on the back patio, waiting for them to come out of the garage.

“We need one-way glass on this window,” Robbie said. “So we can see out but no one else can see in.”

“Yeah,” James agreed. “Coming!” he yelled down to
his dad, and the two of them climbed back down the ladder and exited the building.

After Robbie left, James snagged some potato chips from the kitchen—trying not to look toward the closed door of the basement—and took them out to the living room to eat in front of the TV. But there were no good movies on, and only baby cartoons, and he soon got bored. He returned the Pringles canister to the kitchen, then headed upstairs, figuring he’d play on his computer or DS. His mom was still at work, and his dad was back in his office, but Megan was sitting on the floor of her bedroom, and, as he walked by, she asked in a voice loud enough for their dad to hear, “Want to play a game?”

That was weird.

It wasn’t unheard-of—in fact, they used to play board games a lot during the summers when they were younger, before she’d turned into such a brat—but it
was
unusual, and he figured she was trying to show their dad how bored she was in order to get him to agree to let her go somewhere or do something with one of her friends. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, however, and he
did
like playing games, so he agreed, stepping into her room. She pulled something off a shelf, then sat down on the rug, showing him what she held in her hands.

Old Maid.

He looked nervously at the battered red box. He’d never liked Old Maid. It wasn’t the game, which was kind of fun; it was the Old Maid herself, the way she was depicted on this particular pack of cards. All of the other characters were humorous caricatures of cartoonish boys and girls. But the Old Maid was
old
, and the expression on her wrinkled face was one of barely suppressed rage: a flat hardness in the small eyes, a mouth set in a thin, angry line. He’d been afraid of that visage
ever since he’d been little, and while he wanted to tell himself that he wasn’t afraid of it anymore, he knew that wasn’t true.

She was on the cover of the box, and even seeing her eyes peering out over Megan’s fingers gave him the creeps.

He sat down on the floor as his sister took out the cards, shuffled them, then dealt them. He was directly across from her, and before picking up his own pile, he watched her sort through her cards. Megan was not good at hiding her emotions, and he knew he’d be able to tell whether or not she’d gotten the Old Maid. Seeing her smile after she’d fanned out the cards in her hand, he knew that she hadn’t.