The Haunted (5 page)

Luckily, there were already some coffee grounds inside the coffeemaker, so all I had to do was fill it with water. It trickled down into the glass pot, its steady stream a rich, dark brown. The first couple of drops hissed and splattered until the coffee began to fill up the bottom of the carafe. I shook my head once and moved to grab an empty mug.

The taste was sharp and bitter, and I added another heaping
spoonful of sugar. Then I poured in some more milk for good measure. It didn’t help very much.

I walked over to a large window in the living room, snagging a padded chair along the way and dragging it with me. The sky was bland and gloomy. It didn’t look like rain, but the sun wasn’t out either. Sinking down onto the chair, I stared outside, sipping as I watched several birds pecking the ground in search of worms.

Early bird gets the worm.
I held my mug up and toasted the birds. Then I readjusted myself and got comfortable. I didn’t even notice when my head began drooping and my eyes started to close.

When Mom woke me up two hours later, baffled as to why I was sleeping in the chair, I was more baffled at how I’d managed to put my half-full cup of coffee down on the floor next to me without remembering that I’d done it
or
spilling a single drop. Apparently, I was some kind of sleep juggler or something.

I staggered back to my room, rubbing my eyes the whole way.
You can’t go back to bed,
I told myself.
The ceremony is less than six hours away, and you have to think about what you’re going to say.

Grabbing a spiral-bound notebook and a pen from the desk,
I sat down on the window seat. But the pen wouldn’t work, and it took me a good five minutes before I finally gave up and grabbed a different one. Putting pen to paper, I tried to sort out my thoughts.

Kristen Maxwell, who had a tragic drowning accident…
I crossed that out. Everyone who was going to be at the bridge probably already knew what had happened there. No need to state the obvious.

Today we are here to celebrate…
Another scratch line. That sounded too happy. This needed to be more… somber.

The Good Book says that there is a season to be born and a season to die.…
Too preachy.

I balled up the piece of paper and sat back. What was I
really
trying to say here? Was this about her death? Or her life?

Trying a different angle, I bent over the notebook and wrote down some of the things I’d admired about Kristen. Her laugh. Her infectious smile. Her kindness. Her loyalty. Her fierce protection of our friendship. If only people could see
those
sides of her, my job would be done. She had been an easy person to love.

Satisfied with what I’d come up with, I took another short nap and woke up with plenty of time to get ready. I knew right away what to wear. It only seemed right to put on her favorite
maroon corset-style top—the one I’d taken from her bedroom after I’d found the diaries—and a flowing black skirt. She would have liked that outfit.

“Boots or flats, Kristen?” I debated, as I rummaged through my closet. One heavy black boot fell at my feet with a solid
thump
, and I looked down. “Okay. Boots it is.” I laced them up and moved to the bathroom to style my hair. I was finished ten minutes later.

I almost forgot my notebook as we got in the van to leave, but I hurried back to my room and grabbed it. Dread tied my stomach into knots, and the short trip to the bridge passed all too quickly.

“How many people are going to be there?” I asked Mom as Dad pulled into the Old Dutch Church parking lot. The church was next to the bridge, and it looked like that was where everyone was parking.

“Fifty, a hundred. I’m not really sure. I don’t think any more than that.”

Swallowing hard, I locked my hands together and squeezed until they turned white. The fierce pressure was a welcome distraction from the mind-numbing fear that was threatening to take over at the thought of “fifty, a hundred” people all listening to what I had to say.

“Are you
sure
I have to do this?” I asked. “Why does it have to be me that says something about her?”

Mom opened her door and stood up, smoothing out the edges of her wrinkle-free black pantsuit. Pausing for a moment to look back at me, she said in a soft tone, “Because
you
were her best friend, Abbey. You knew her better than anyone.”

Unlocking my hands, I released my seat belt and climbed out of the car. I gripped the sides of my skirt. The parking lot was full. It reminded me of Kristen’s funeral.
There was standing room only that day.
And it was raining.

If I turned to glance at the mausoleum on the hill, would he be standing there? Watching me? White-blond hair and a black suit. Green eyes and an easy smile.
Caspian
…

Forcing those thoughts away, I clutched my skirt harder. A bead of sweat ran down my back, and I shifted uncomfortably. Several people stood by their cars, most of them smoking and talking with one another, while a local TV van idled nearby. A reporter was clipping some sort of wire pack under her suit jacket.

Mom said something to me, but I didn’t hear her. I was focused on just making it through this and getting it over with. All I could think about was how much I
didn’t
want to be here.

We crossed the street and passed by a police officer who was directing traffic and holding up a
SLOW
sign. When we walked closer to the huge wooden beams that made up the main arch of the new bridge, I glanced up. There weren’t any windows cut into the sides of the bridge, and it seemed oddly cumbersome and wrong. All sharp angles and rough seams. Not at all what I’d imagined from the Sleepy Hollow legend.

It was out of place.… Like me.

A podium had been set up on the sidewalk off to the side of the bridge entrance, and the man standing behind it waved us over. We had to push our way through several groups of people clustered tightly together. There wasn’t much room for anyone else to stand on the small patch of concrete.

The man introduced himself as Robert, the master of ceremonies, and then he and Mom started talking. As far as I could tell, he wasn’t going to actually be
doing
anything during the ceremony, but he seemed to like his title. I turned away and went to stand closer to the water.

Bracing myself with one hand on the edge of a beam, I stared down into the Crane River. It was calm and clear. Tiny pockets of current swirled and danced as they rushed farther and farther downstream.

My fingers found each crack and split that made up the
wood grain and followed the scattered, random squiggles and lines that blended into one another. As I traced across the wood, my pinkie snagged on a piece of cold metal.

Wood and metal. Tough and strong.
Things that could stand the test of time. Things that hadn’t been here a couple of months ago. What if they had? Would things be different? Would Kristen not have fallen into the river?
Would those thick beams have caught her? Stopped her… ?

I pondered that over and over again, running my pinkie round and round the screw head, until I felt something catch. Quickly pulling my hand away from the beam, I looked down. The skin had split, right down the middle of the finger pad.

Holding my breath in anticipation, I waited for that dark red drop to well up. For some sign of life to come pulsing out of me.

It didn’t.

Surely I would bleed. I was cut. But the blood didn’t come. Instead my pinkie just began to throb.

I held it up and watched as my finger pulsed, each movement in sync with my heartbeat, like there was a gossamer string attached from my heart to my hand. The noise of the traffic and reverberation of people began to fade. Only white static filled my ears, and I couldn’t turn away.

“Abigail!”

The sound of my name shook my concentration, and I blinked once. Mom was standing to my right, one hand gesturing for me to come over to her, and I realized what a freak I must look like, standing there with one finger raised in the air.

I blinked again. Noises started returning, and I came back to where I was and what I was supposed to be doing. The low buzz of people resumed, and I lowered my hand. Wiping my palms hastily on the sides of my skirt, I found myself repeating Mom’s earlier actions and smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle.

Get it together, Abbey. You’re in public.

I made my way over to Mom. She was nodding and smiling, talking to a reporter, while also casting discreet
Is everything okay?
glances my way.

I grabbed Mom’s hand and squeezed it tight, trying to send her my best
I’m fine
vibe. Her grip tightened and then relaxed, and I could tell she got the message. I tried to stay out of the reporter’s way, but then she must have realized I was another person to talk to. Her body language changed, and she started to inch the microphone away from Mom’s face.

Mom just compensated by smiling wider and moving her head forward each time the mike moved backward. Mom hated to give up the spotlight. By the time she was done answering
a question about how the town council had arranged the ceremony, her neck was craned at such an angle that she looked like a giraffe. It would have been comical if I hadn’t been concentrating so hard on trying to keep up my smile and decide what I would say if the reporter asked me about Kristen.

I didn’t have much time to rehearse.

“And I understand that you were a friend of Kristen Maxwell’s?” A big, round foam piece was stuck in my face, and the reporter turned my way simply by shifting her padded shoulders. It was seriously impressive. “You two went to school together, correct?”

Picturing the little caption with my name spelled wrong that might appear on the TV screen if this piece ran on the news, I leaned forward to speak directly into the foam covering. “Yes,” I said a bit too loudly.

The woman’s face got kind of pinched around the eyes, and she tilted the microphone down and away from me.

Mom quickly slid into the picture and put one arm around me in a gesture of sympathy. “Abbey and Kristen were best friends since they were seven years old. I think it’s wonderful that Kristen will be remembered this way.” Her arm tightened, and I tried to keep my smile on.

“And how do you feel about the fact that this tragedy occurred?
Do you think the town of Sleepy Hollow could have done more to prevent it?” She didn’t pause for me to answer. “Do you think that construction-site safety needs to become a higher priority for our city?”

I froze. She redirected the foam at me, and I just stood there with a blank smile. What was I supposed to say here? Did she want me to answer
all
of those questions? Or just the last one? Mom’s grip turned into an anaconda death squeeze, and I got the hint that she wanted me to stay quiet.

“I’m sure all of us wonder,
Could we have done more?
when tragedy strikes,” Mom said. “As concerned citizens, we always want to learn how we can prevent something like this from
ever
happening again. We just have to do our best to make sure safety rules are followed to the fullest extent and push for better laws to protect our communities.”

Mom was a real pro.

The cameraman made some sort of
Wrap it up
gesture with his hand, and the reporter stepped back in. “Truer words have never been spoken. I’m Cara Macklyn with Channel Eight News, reporting from the dedication ceremony at the Washington Irving Bridge.”

We stood with frozen smiles on our faces until the camera guy called, “
Aaaaand
we’re out.” Then Mom complimented the
reporter on her lovely outfit, the reporter complimented Mom on her lovely daughter, and I stood in the middle of it all, not knowing when would be the right time to stop smiling.

Finally we all shook hands, and then Mom shuffled me toward the podium. Mayor Archer was there now, studying several note cards, but he looked up as we approached. I said hello and went through another round of handshakes.

Mom stood by my side, looking so proud of me. But all I could think was,
Why did I agree to do this? What if I mess up?

More perspiration trickled down my back, and immediately, I wanted a shower. It was hot and sticky out, and the growing crowd was adding to my overwhelming feeling of clamminess and unease.

Then it hit me.

I can’t do this! This is a lot of people. I can’t speak in front of crowds!

Taking deep breaths, I tried not to hyperventilate. But I could hear little gusts of air being sucked in and out as I started breathing faster and faster. Mom turned to me, and I saw the color leave her face.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “You look like you’re going to throw up.”

“Crowds… can’t do it… feeling sick…”

“Yes, you can, Abbey,” she said. “It will be over before you know it. Just say a couple of words about Kristen, and then you’re through.”

I shook my head at her. “Can’t… do… it.” I looked around me. I needed to leave. I had to get out of here.

Mom must have realized my intentions to bolt, because she latched on to my arm and squeezed gently. The pressure actually managed to distract me from hyperventilating… a bit.

“You wrote down what you’re going to say, right?”

I nodded.

“Then you’re going to be fine. As soon as the mayor calls you, just read what you wrote. I’ll be standing right here next to you to give you my support. Okay?”

I nodded again, and then Mayor Archer started talking. He greeted the crowd and thanked everyone for coming. Naming all the members of the town council and the building committee, who had “worked tirelessly on this project and shown true community service and pride,” he encouraged a round of applause and then announced that I would be coming up to give the dedication.

Mom had to propel me toward the podium, but true to her word she stood up next to me. Mayor Archer introduced me as Kristen’s best friend, and then everything fell silent.

I glanced down at the paper I held clenched in one fist, then placed it on the podium and flattened out a folded edge. Everything I wanted to say was there. In front of me. All I had to do was open my mouth and read the words. They were waiting for me.