Trick or Treat (8 page)

“No,” Conor said. “I didn’t.”

“I don’t believe you,” Martha told him, and Conor rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what to believe! I’m not staying in that room another night!”

“You don’t have to,” Conor said agreeably. “I’ll change rooms with you if you want.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” He pulled himself up to his lean height and went over to the stove. “We’d better eat this stuff before it boils away.”

“Oh, Conor, how can you even
think
about eating at a time like this?” Martha groaned. “This whole thing is just so awful —”

Conor regarded her a moment, then replaced the lid on the pot. “It’s not awful. It’s perfectly natural.”

“Natural! Oh, right, it’s natural that someone was murdered in the room where you’re sleeping — it happens every day!”

“I’m not talking about the murder.” Conor looked away, and Martha wondered if he was trying to hide a smile. “I’m talking about the house.”

“And what could be natural about this horrible house?”

Conor remained unruffled. “When something so … so tragic happens in a house, it’s natural that all those high-charged emotions should be … well … absorbed by it. By the rooms … the atmosphere. Sort of like … tangible memories.”

“So what does that mean? It’s the bad memories haunting our house?”

Conor stared at the stove, at the low blue flame sputtering on the burner. “It means … yes. Bad memories are haunting our house.”

“Is that why my room is so cold?”

“Because it remembers, probably. Yes.”

“So what about the fire last night?”

Conor hesitated. He averted his eyes, and Martha had the uneasy feeling that he was holding something back from her.

“It
could
have been an accident, right?” Martha insisted. “You
could
have just forgotten — left it on and gone to bed.”

He gave a vague nod. “Maybe I had my mind on other things,” he murmured.

“You
always
have your mind on other things. And you don’t really believe what you just said, and you know it,” Martha challenged him. “And next you’re gonna tell me the phone call was just a joke, and the wind blew that scarecrow up in the tree, and my closet is just drafty, and there’s absolutely
nothing
else in the house with us but bad memories — and —”

She shook her head in exasperation and hurried up to her room. For a long while she lay on her bed, her mind churning.
What was happening?
She was
terrified
being in this house — in this
room
— and maybe all those things really
were
coincidences, but Conor was holding something back, she could
feel
it —
but what?
And Dennis was dead, and
she
was in the room where he’d murdered Elizabeth in an insane rage….

Something cracked against the windowpane.

Martha jumped up and switched off her light, edging cautiously towards the window. She could hear the wind wailing, a long mournful sound, and for one split second clouds struggled apart, splashing the ground with pale, pale moonlight. The trees arced back and forth in a slow kind of frenzy. Straining her eyes, Martha saw something on the ground below her window and realized a branch must have fallen and knocked against the house. She closed her eyes in relief, a headache beginning to pound behind her temples.
I should have eaten something … that was so stupid … I haven’t really eaten anything all day
….

The phone rang.

With a surge of relief Martha remembered that Blake was going to call, and she raced for the phone before Conor could answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Elizabeth,” the voice whispered.

And it wasn’t Blake who drew a long, raspy breath … and let it out again … breathing … breathing … while her heart beat like a frantic wing in her throat.

“Who — who is this?”

It wasn’t Blake who began to laugh and then suddenly went quiet — the awful, terrible silence going on and on forever….

“Hello?” Martha cried. “Who
is
this!”

“You’re dead, Elizabeth. Trick or treat.”

Chapter 7

“Who was that?”

Martha spun around, the receiver clenched in her hand, and Conor pried it free. “I … he called me Elizabeth … he said I was dead….”

“Dead, huh?” Conor considered this for a moment. “Nice touch. Wasn’t I supposed to answer the phone from now on?”

“I thought — I mean, it was supposed to be for me,” Martha stammered.

“Hmmm….” Conor raised an eyebrow, but didn’t pursue it. “Martha, don’t say anything back to him. Don’t even answer the phone, okay?”

“You didn’t hear that breathing — he said ‘Trick or treat’ — just like before —”

“Martha, it’s just a crank caller. Everyone in town knows that Elizabeth Bedford died here on Halloween — what did you expect him to say?”

“You still think this is funny, don’t you?” Martha raged at him. “It’s never entered your mind that something terrible might happen!” She ran to her room and slammed the door, bracing her body against it, trembling all over.
That voice! That horrible voice!

“
First there were the phone calls … he killed her on Halloween
….”

“No,” Martha said sternly to herself, “it can’t be happening again. Conor’s right … someone’s just trying to scare me.”

“
You’re dead, Elizabeth
.”

She pressed her fists against her eyes, as if she could obliterate the blinding terror behind them. She hated Conor —
hated
him! So casual, like nothing had happened. Just preachy and patronizing and bossy and —

She jumped as the phone rang again. She heard Conor answer, then mumble, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. She put her ear to the door, then jumped again as he pounded on the other side.

“Martha, it’s Blake,” Conor said. “Do you think your heart can take this?”

Angrily she flung open the door and stomped past him, flashing him a look of loathing. Conor smiled and disappeared into his room, shutting his door behind him.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

Martha shook her head, her palm already sweaty against the receiver. “No, I wasn’t doing anything. I mean … just homework,” she lied.

“Well,
that’s
certainly not important,” Blake chuckled. “Listen — Greg and Wynn are over here, and we thought we’d go out for pizza — it’d just be for an hour or so — why don’t you come along?”

“Me?” Martha couldn’t believe her ears. “I mean — now?”

“Hey, it’s okay if you’ve got something else going on — I know it’s kind of short notice and —”

“No, I’d love to go. I’m starving.”

Blake laughed. “Great. We’ll pick you up in, say, half an hour. Oh, and Wynn says to come grubby — it’s a real dump.”

“I’ll be ready,” Martha promised. She hung up the phone in a daze, then scrambled to her room to look for something to wear. As she started downstairs, she noticed Conor’s door slightly ajar and stood looking at it resentfully. She supposed she ought to tell him she was going out, but it irked her having to tell him anything. Finally she knocked and inched the door open.

He was sitting on his bed, papers spread out around him, a clipboard on his knees. At first she wasn’t sure he’d even heard her, then he raised his head, one eyebrow lifting at the intrusion.

“I’m going out,” Martha announced.

Conor nodded and went back to his papers. “Have fun.”

Martha stood there, staring at his bent head, the thick mane of hair obscuring his features. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. It might be a long time.”

“Okay,” Conor said.

Martha started to say more, then clamped her lips together and closed the door. Then she opened it.

Conor didn’t look up.

“I’m going out for pizza. With some friends.”

“Lucky you.”

Martha slammed the door and went downstairs to wait.

When Greg’s car finally stopped in the drive, it was Blake who hopped out to help her into the back and then sat beside her. Wynn huddled next to Greg in the front, keeping her face turned from the house, but she gave Martha a nervous smile.

“Martha, my newest and prettiest student, how’s life treating you at dear old Bedford?” Greg turned and winked at her, and Martha glanced over at Blake, feeling suddenly shy.

“Come on,” Blake shot back. “She hasn’t been here long enough to even
live
the Bedford life.”

“Well, we’ll fix that,” Greg decided, steering the car onto the road. “We’ll take you on the exclusive cruise — Bedford by night.”

Wynn looked amused at that. “You guys stop it. Nothing’s open in Bedford past nine o’clock.”

“Not even the sidewalks. They close up at eight.” Blake grinned at Martha. “We’re going to the hot spot in town, though.
It
doesn’t close till eleven tonight.”

Martha leaned back, letting the banter rush over her in warm, soothing waves. It was so good to be with people again — people who weren’t total strangers, hearing the laughter and jokes and good-hearted insults. The cousins shared an obvious camaraderie, and that cheered her like nothing had for a long time.

The pizza place was noisy and crowded. As Blake led the way to a back booth, it was obvious to Martha that everyone knew everyone else, and they were
all
staring at her.
Is one of them the voice on the phone?
She bent her head and studied the menu, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and apprehension. She was glad when Greg finally ordered and they all started talking again.

“Have you written your ghost story yet?” Wynn asked. Blake and Greg were arguing loudly about the basketball coach, and she leaned across the table towards Martha.

“No,” Martha said. “I really haven’t thought about it.”
It’s the last thing I want to think about right now
….

Wynn shook her head; she looked unhappy. “I wish the class had voted on something else.”

“A romance?” Greg bent close to her, lowering his voice dramatically. “A mysterious stranger who sneaks into girls’ rooms at night and —”

“A stranger with sexy blue eyes,” added Blake as Wynn tried to push Greg away.

“Look at her, she blushes every time,” Greg deadpanned. “Every time we mention that blue-eyed stranger —”

“It’s true,” Blake nodded. “He just has something the rest of us guys don’t have —”

Wynn bent her face into her hands as they laughed. “You two — will you
please
— ”

“We’re a little upset with Wynn,” Blake said seriously to Martha. “See, we
really
wanted to invite your brother but —”

“
Blake!
” Wynn’s face went a deep scarlet, and she looked so distressed that even Martha found it hard not to laugh.

“No, Wynn said we couldn’t ask your brother,” Greg continued, just as solemn. “She said she wouldn’t come if
he
came, so —”

“It was between Wynn and the blue-eyed stranger,” Blake said. “And I hated to see her starve, so —”

“Stop,” Wynn moaned, but she was laughing now, in spite of their teasing. As it suddenly dawned on Martha that Conor was the topic of their conversation, she looked at Wynn in barely concealed astonishment.

“Conor? If
he
had come, I wouldn’t have come, either. Then you’d have missed out on both of us.” It was said before she even thought, but the guys burst into laughter, and Wynn cast her a grateful smile.

“Then we made the right decision.” Blake shook Greg’s hand, nodding emphatically. “After all, there’s only room for two real men at this table.”

“Then you’d better leave so they can sit down with us,” Wynn threw back and looked smugly at Martha.

“So what’s the story with your brother, anyway?” Blake asked Martha, draping his arm casually over the seat behind her. “Besides the fact that he’s obviously a genius and has every girl in Bedford fantasizing.”

“Stepbrother,” Martha said automatically. “And I didn’t know he
was
a genius.”

“Are you kidding? I’m in three classes with him, and he knows
everything
. The guy’s a walking encyclopedia.”

“You mean he actually talks in class?” Martha looked doubtful. “He hardly says a word at home.”

“Well, let’s put it this way.” Blake spread his hands, explaining. “He never volunteers —
never
speaks up. But if he’s called on — watch out. By the end of class, he and the teacher are in some deep discussion, and the class is hanging on every word. It’s incredible.”

“He must read a lot,” Greg surmised, and Martha squirmed uncomfortably.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe he’s got one of those photographic memories,” Blake suggested. “What does he do around the house?”

Martha cleared her throat, conscious of their eyes upon her. “I don’t really know.”