Trick or Treat (6 page)

“Hurry, Martha,” he said calmly. “I smell smoke.”

Chapter 5

As Martha stumbled out into the hall, Conor steered her towards the stairway and pushed her along in front of him as they raced down.

“Go outside and wait for me.”

“I’m not going out there by myself!”

“Martha, don’t argue — just do it.”

“Conor, I can smell it! It’s really strong down here!” Turning in panic, Martha pointed to the back hall. “It smells like it’s there —”

Conor froze, but only for a second. “Christ,” he muttered, “what’s that kitchen door doing closed?”

“Conor, don’t —”

“Get outside and stay there. I mean it!”

Conor’s body was slamming against the kitchen door now, and as a wave of acrid smoke billowed out, Martha screamed and ran out into the yard. The chill was intense — biting through the thinness of her nightgown as she stood there shivering. Chimneys and rooftops reared their ugly heads against the night, and Martha stared back at them, terrified they would suddenly explode in clouds of smoke.
The house is burning down, I just know it
. What if the whole house suddenly collapsed right in front of her, burying Conor alive?

“Conor!” she screamed. “I’m calling the fire department!”

The door banged open and her heart nearly burst. Conor walked calmly over and tossed something at her feet.

“Don’t bother. It’s out.”

Martha gazed down at the lump on the ground, coughing as smoke came up in her face. For a crazy moment she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“A dish towel! Do you mean to tell me —?”

“It was on the stove,” Conor said.

“No.” Martha held up her hands. “Let me guess. On a burner that
someone
forgot to turn off.”

“That’s pretty good.” Conor looked suitably impressed. He kicked at the charred mess and glanced up again into Martha’s furious expression.

“Conor….” She was so limp with relief, so shaky with anger, that she could barely speak. “I really think I could kill you right about now —”

Conor didn’t seem to be listening. He was poking the smoky fabric with a stick, and his jaw was set in concentration.

“I can’t believe you were so careless.” Martha wouldn’t let up. “We could have died in our beds! The house could have burned down around us — we could —” She broke off, looking at him in desperation. He was still staring at the dish towel, making no effort to defend himself. “Something was in my closet tonight!” she burst out.

There was a long moment of silence. Conor finally raised his eyes and looked at her. “I don’t suppose it could have been a dream?”

“Could
this
have been?” Martha retorted. She took a deep shuddering breath and tried to keep from screaming at him. “Conor, you almost killed me — why should I expect you to be bothered about something hiding in my closet!”

His sigh came out wearily. “Is that what you want to believe?”

“What I want,” Martha clenched her teeth as she yanked open the door, “is to get a decent night’s sleep for a change!” She slammed it behind her and stomped upstairs, shutting herself in her room. But she couldn’t shut out the smell of burnt cloth … or the soft sound of Conor’s door closing hours later. And even though she forced herself to search the closet and finally barricaded it with a chair, shapeless fears haunted her dreams the rest of the night.

After another silent ride to school, she dragged herself through her classes the next morning, the lectures and discussions like meaningless blobs in her brain. The only thing she
was
aware of was how everyone still seemed to be staring at her, and she’d just decided to go off-campus for lunch when a familiar voice stopped her at her locker.

“Hey, Martha! Where’ve you been hiding?”

Even before she saw him, Martha’s heart fluttered into her throat. A second later Blake Chambers caught her by the arm, his eyes sweeping over her approvingly as he smiled.

“You on your way to lunch?”

“Well … I …”

“Let’s brave the cafeteria. Unless you have other plans.”

“No, I’d really like that.”
That’s tight, sound desperate
. She flushed as he guided her into the noisy building, straight through the crowds to a small table in the corner.

“Here we are. Just leave your things — nobody’ll bother them.”

Martha smiled. “Did you reserve this?”

“It’s
always
reserved for me,” Blake laughed, and Martha realized he was serious.
Of course it would be … he’s the school star
…
so what on earth am I doing here?

Martha knew she wouldn’t be able to eat a thing, not with her stomach jumping around the way it was — but she didn’t want to look silly and not take something. Blake stood behind her, so close she could smell the faint scent of his aftershave. He was talking about a test he’d just taken, but he might as well have been speaking a foreign language — she was so nervous, she barely heard a thing.

“What’s the matter, aren’t you hungry?”

Martha jumped as his lips brushed her ear. Unlike her own tray, his was crowded with food, and they were nearing the end of the line. In desperation Martha grabbed several small bowls, and they clattered onto her tray.

“Don’t tell me — diet?” Blake grinned, nodding at the pitiful lunch she’d selected. “You don’t need it, Martha — not with your body.”

“No, I’m not —” Martha rummaged in her purse for money. “I mean — I’m —” In dismay she watched all her change spill out onto the floor and roll in all directions. She started to bend down to retrieve it, but Blake took her by the elbow.

“Relax. My treat. You’re the kind of date to take to dinner — you sure wouldn’t cost much.”

“Oh — I —”

“Hey, I’m kidding.” He straightened, dumping a handful of retrieved coins onto her tray. “New kid in town — stomach all in knots — I wouldn’t be hungry, either.”

Martha managed a weak nod as he grinned at the cashier and handed over his money. When they got back to their table he sat down and regarded her with interest.

“So now that I’ve bored you with all my troubles, how’s your day going?”

“Oh, you didn’t bore me,” Martha said quickly. She watched him shake a carton of milk and fill his glass. “And my day’s going okay.”

“Just okay, huh?” He leaned back in his chair. “I hear you’ve got a terrific advisor.”

“Oh — Mr. Chambers.” Martha smiled, twisting her napkin in her lap. “There seem to be lots of you around.”

“Yeah, but Greg turned out
good
,” Blake chuckled. “Not like the rest of us.”

“That’s not what
he
says,” Martha countered. “He’s really very proud of you — I mean, he
should
be — all the things you’ve done and …” She lowered her eyes.
Great, Martha, fawn all over him, why don’t you?

Blake shrugged off the compliments. “I love sports. I’m lucky I can do what I love. That’s all.”

“I was never good at sports. I’m too clumsy.” Martha smiled in spite of herself, and Blake leaned towards her across the table.

“You don’t
look
clumsy. You look … what’s the right word?”

Martha glanced away, her cheeks going hot. She wished he wouldn’t stare at her that way … his eyes so dark … so warm….

“Martha. What a surprise.”

As someone touched her back, she jumped, tipping over her water. Blake grinned and rose halfway.

“Conor. Right?”

Oh, damn!
Martha squirmed in her chair as Conor looked down at her, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Blake Chambers.” Blake held out his hand and Conor shook it. “Here, sit down and join us.” Blake motioned to an empty chair, but Conor took a step back.

“Thanks, but I’m kind of in a hurry. Nice to meet you, though. I’ve heard a
lot
about you.”

Martha went a deep, furious red. She put her napkin up to her face.

“Is that your lunch?” Conor asked innocently. “Since when do you eat cottage cheese?”

Martha wished she could die. Just crawl under the table and quietly die. Blake was watching her — her and the uneaten bowls of cottage cheese on her tray.

“I always eat cottage cheese. I love cottage cheese, as a matter of fact.”

“That’s funny. Your dad said it makes you sick.”

Martha threw him a look of pure hatred.

Conor smiled back. “See you later. Good meeting you.”

“Yeah, you, too.” Blake watched Conor walk oft, then turned to Martha with a smile, “Seems like a nice guy. How is he as a brother?”

“
Step
brother,” Martha muttered. “
Step
brother —”

“Hey, sorry!” Blake held up his hands in mock defense, and Martha finally gave in to a laugh. “Wynn says your dad’s a writer.”

“He writes articles mostly. Human interest stories.”

“You mean two-headed alien changelings, things like that?” Blake tried to keep his expression serious.

“Not quite. Right now he’s off in Hawaii on some new assignment.”

Blake gave a low whistle. “I’m impressed. Too bad you couldn’t go along and take notes or something.”

“It’s also his honeymoon,” Martha sighed. “Plus, he’s very strict about school.”

“I can sympathize.” Blake buttered a roll, and chewed thoughtfully. “My old man’s a tyrant when it comes to grades. Wants me to have it better than he did — you know the old story.”

“Well, it sounds like you’re doing plenty to make him happy,” Martha said.

Blake looked mischievous. “Hey, I enjoy winning, that’s all. But you — how do you like your classes so far?”

Martha hesitated, shrugged. “They’re okay, I guess. I think writing will be fun….” She glanced at him, hesitating. “Can I ask you something?”

“Never on the first date.” His eyes met hers with a twinkle. “Sure. Ask away.”

“Our house,” Martha said.

“The old Bedford place.”

“Yes. Wynn said … well, is it really … evil?”

Blake leaned back in surprise. “You mean you didn’t know? Nobody told you?”

Martha shook her head, frowning. “I’d really like to hear the story, if there is one.”

For a minute his face seemed to struggle between sadness and uncertainty. He turned his glass slowly between his fingers. “I’m not sure you really do. Or that you really should.”

“But I’m living there and it’s —” She broke oft, and his eyes raised slowly to her face.

“It’s what?”

Martha frowned, one hand trailing across her forehead. “I … I can’t explain it exactly. I was going to ask Wynn about it but —”

“No, don’t.” Blake looked at her, his expression serious, and he pushed himself back from the table. “Don’t ask Wynn. Let’s go someplace where we can talk.”

Martha felt uneasy as she followed him across campus. A light drizzle had discouraged much outside activity — hardly anyone seemed to be around as they walked past the buildings towards the athletic field behind school. Blake waved distractedly as several runners jogged past them on the track, then he steered Martha to the bleachers.

“Mind a little fresh air?” Blake smiled, but it seemed strained. He bowed slightly and helped her up. “Have a seat. It’s been trying to rain for weeks now — when it finally comes, it probably won’t stop till Christmas.” He eased down beside her and leaned back, propping his elbows on the seat behind. His brown eyes searched her face. “Do you believe in ghosts, Martha?”

She wasn’t quite prepared for that. As he continued to stare at her, her own eyes widened in alarm.

“I … what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your house. The Bedford house. That’s what people around here believe, you know — that the tormented spirits there can’t be put to rest.”

“
Do they really come back to the scenes of their tragedies … bound there forever, even in death
…?” Dad’s words floated back to her, and Martha shook her head slowly, trying to clear it.

“Are you trying to tell me this whole
town
is superstitious about that stupid old house?”

A faint smile passed over his face. “That stupid old house has been around as long as the town. Built by the original founders. Most of the family’s died out through the years, though. The last heirs put it up for sale last year.”

“I can see why,” Martha said wryly.

“The family was never big on updating anything — as you’ve probably found out by now.” Blake ran one hand over the wooden seat, his brow furrowed in thought. “But the murder’s not an old story. The murder just happened a year ago.”

A long cold wind curled around them, rattling the bleachers. Martha glanced nervously at the sky and huddled deeper into her jacket.

“The Bedfords had money, so the house sat empty a lot. They were funny people — kind of eccentric, I guess — and Bedford was just too small for their tastes. Then George Bedford decided to move back to his roots, so he and his wife and daughter lived in the house the last few years. Elizabeth, the daughter” — his voice lowered, and for a minute Martha thought he looked sad — “Elizabeth was Wynn’s age. Really pretty … really sweet girl. She and Wynn got to be best friends. They spent a lot of time together. The parents were pretty social — they went off to the city a lot and left Elizabeth by herself, so Wynn was good company for her.”