by R. L. Stine
Mr. Fear nodded and strolled out of the room, still fiddling with his pipe. Ruth-Ann ran to the front door, nearly tripping over the thick pile of the carpet.
She flung the door open. “Where have you been?”
Ruth-Ann gasped when she saw that it wasn’t Peter. She stared openmouthed at Rebecca’s friend Lily. “Oh. Lily. Hi. I—I thought you were someone else.”
A sudden gust of wind fluttered Lily’s long skirt. She grabbed her hat with one hand to keep it from blowing away. Ruth-Ann felt a few cold raindrops in the air.
“Lily, come in.” She stepped back, and Lily slipped into the entryway. “Rebecca isn’t here.”
“I—I know,” Lily stammered. “Ruth-Ann, I thought maybe you could do a favor for her. Is your father’s automobile at home?”
Ruth-Ann squinted at her. “Well . . . yes.”
“Your sister left this at my house.” Lily held up a small, silvery purse. The tiny rhinestones that covered the purse gleamed in the bright light of the entryway chandelier. “Can you take it to her? I’m late for a family party at my cousin’s house.”
Lily shoved the little oval-shaped purse into Ruth-Ann’s hand. Ruth-Ann gazed at it. “Uh . . . where?”
“Rebecca is dancing at the Hot Bunny Club,” Lily said. “She really needs her purse. I’m so sorry to bother you, Ruth-Ann. But can you drive over there and drop it off? She’ll kill me if she doesn’t get it.”
“Well. Sure,” Ruth-Ann said. “That isn’t a problem. It’s very nice of you, Lily.” My Saturday night isn’t working out anyway, she thought bitterly.
Ruth-Ann stood at the doorway and watched Lily run down the gravel driveway to her car. The wind swirled the shrubs in the yard, and raindrops pattered the front stoop.
“When Peter finally shows up, tell him to wait for me,” she told her father. He was finally puffing on his pipe, in his favorite armchair in the den, with a book of Sherlock Holmes stories on his lap.
Ruth-Ann pulled on a rain slicker with a hood, grabbed the little purse, and made her way to the car, a 1922 black Pierce-Arrow coupe, at the top of the driveway.
The drive to the Hot Bunny Club was only about twenty minutes. But Ruth-Ann drove slowly, leaning over the steering wheel, peering through the curtain of raindrops on the windshield. The single windshield wiper was slow, and the wind kept making the car veer from side to side.
Questions slid through Ruth-Ann’s mind. . . . Where is Peter? Why is he so late? Why was Rebecca at Lily’s? Is that where Nelson picked her up to go dancing?
Gripping the wheel in both hands, staring hard into the white light of her headlights, she had to concentrate on driving.
She followed Bank Street to Division Street. Luckily, there were few cars on the road until she got to the Old Village. Her mum said the mayor had promised streetlights for all the major roads in town. But so far, there was no sign of them.
Traffic nearly slowed to a stop. With its small clubs and restaurants, the Old Village was always crowded on a Saturday night. Ruth-Ann wondered if Peter was at her house this moment, waiting for her.
The pink neon sign proclaiming THE HOT BUNNY CLUB, with red flames darting over a giant dancing rabbit, came into view just past the village. Ruth-Ann turned the car into the crowded lot. The tires crunched over the gravel surface. She slid into a parking spot under the neon sign.
She grabbed Rebecca’s little rhinestone bag and stepped down from the running board of the car. The pink-and-red neon of the sign above sent a wash of color over her, and she suddenly felt as if she was inside the darting flames.
She began crunching over the gravel toward the low square building. The rain had stopped, but the wind still carried a chill.
A painted sign over the double doors of the entrance proclaimed: JAZZ DANCING GOOD FOOD NO ALCOHOL. Red flames were painted across the doors.
Ruth-Ann pushed the doors open and stepped into a pulsing room of shadowy bodies dancing in a swirl of purple lights. Blinking, struggling to adjust her eyes to the new light, she saw tables at one side, a long bar, a jazz band in tuxedos filling a small bandstand, and couples dancing. The music was deafening, a trumpet wailing high above the rest of the band, but voices and laughter somehow blared through the din.
A young man with oily slicked-back hair and a pencil-thin mustache, dressed in a checkered suit, moved quickly to greet Ruth-Ann. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “We don’t allow unaccompanied women. You must have an escort.”
“I—I’m not staying,” Ruth-Ann stammered. “I just need to give this to my sister.” She raised the purse to the man’s face.
He nodded and waved her toward the dance floor. Then he turned and headed toward the food tables.
Still blinking, Ruth-Ann took a few steps toward the center of the room. The band finished one number and began the next, a slow romantic waltz.
Ruth-Ann peered into the swirling violet lights, studying the dancers’ faces. There were many couples swaying slowly to the soft song. But it didn’t take long to locate Rebecca.
The purple lights made her blond hair glow. She was moving slowly, in a tight embrace. Her cheek was pressed against her date’s face, and Ruth-Ann saw that she had one hand tenderly cupped at the back of his neck, gently stroking his skin and hair as they moved to the music.
And when they turned, Ruth-Ann sucked in a mouthful of air, felt the purse drop out of her hand, felt her heartbeat stop, felt her heart leap into her mouth.
Her legs started to fold. She stared. Stared at Peter in Rebecca’s arms. Peter’s cheek pressed so tightly against Rebecca’s. Rebecca moving with him through the haze of purple light, moving as if they had danced so many times before, moving as if they were one.
Six
Of course, the little rhinestone clutch purse didn’t belong to Rebecca. It was only Lily’s way to get Ruth-Ann to the club. Lily wasn’t Ruth-Ann’s friend, but she was a decent person, and she must have thought that Ruth-Ann should know what was going on. That Ruth-Ann should confront the truth.
As she stared at Peter and Rebecca dancing, flames of anger, red as the flames on the neon sign, burned her chest. Her throat tightened. She had to force herself to breathe.
Ruth-Ann’s first impulse was to hurtle across the dance floor, claw their faces, rip them both to shreds. But the driving pain in her chest and the haze of the lights and the dizzying shock held her back.
She kicked the rhinestone purse across the floor. Spun away, started to the door, bumping through couples just arriving. The picture of Rebecca’s hand on the back of Peter’s neck lingered in her eyes. And the dreamy expression on his face, eyes shut, lips turned up in a smile, refused to fade from her mind.
She crashed out of the club, shoving the double doors so hard, a couple screamed and stumbled back. And then she lowered her head against the rain, which had started up again, and ran over the gravel, into the pink-and-red neon reflection, to the safety of her car.
Panting like a dog, she sat behind the wheel, watching the raindrops slide down the windshield like sparkling red and blue jewels. How long did she sit there? She lost track of time. What did it matter? Peter wasn’t back at her house waiting for her. Peter—her Peter—was wrapped in her sister’s arms, pressed against Rebecca as if they belonged together.
“You don’t belong together,” Ruth-Ann said out loud. “Peter is MINE.” Her breath fogged the windshield.
He isn’t mine. He’s Rebecca’s, she thought. He was all that I had, and now she has taken him, too.
Ruth-Ann knew that the coppery taste at the back of her throat was hatred. She lowered the car window, leaned her head out, and spit—surprised to see the dark blood that spurted from her mouth.
Hatred.
Ruth-Ann didn’t sleep that night. She paced her room, anger burning her whole body, her skin tingling, first icy, then hot, feeling the blood pulsing at her temples, pulsing until she couldn’t think straight, couldn’t form the words she wanted to say to her sister.
She h
eard Rebecca come home a little after midnight. She heard her sister in the hall, making her way to her room. Ruth-Ann froze in the center of her room, froze like a statue, and listened.
She knew she wasn’t ready to confront Rebecca. She wanted to be in total control. Ice not fire, she thought. Ice not fire. But would her burning hatred allow her to speak to her sister without leaping on her and clawing her to death?
Peter was mine. I worked so hard to get him. I had to use so much magic, cast so many frightening spells to make him mine.
Now Rebecca waltzes off with him.
She thinks she’s entitled to everything.
The next morning, Rebecca had already left for her job when Ruth-Ann came downstairs for breakfast. Like every morning, Rebecca had ridden downtown with their father.
Ruth-Ann spent the day in her room, trying not to cry, then giving in to it, hating herself for crying, hating Rebecca for making her cry, trying to stop . . . to think of something else. But, of course, that was impossible.
Peter isn’t worth it, she told herself at one point.
But she knew that Peter wasn’t the important idea here. Peter was just the object that Rebecca had stolen from her. Rebecca cared so little about her, loved her so little, that she would steal the only thing Ruth-Ann cared about.
Ruth-Ann tore at her hair. She beat her fist against her pillow. But she didn’t explode until dinnertime, when Rebecca came into the dining room, hand in hand with Peter.
Seven
Ruth-Ann and her parents were just sitting down to a dinner of roast chicken and mashed potatoes, the aroma making Ruth-Ann hungry, despite the gnawing ache in her stomach.
Rebecca burst in, tugging Peter beside her. Her blue eyes flashed excitedly, and she had a tense grin that she could not rein in.
Ruth-Ann gasped loudly.
Peter glanced at her once, and his cheeks burned red. He lowered his eyes to the floor and didn’t look her way again.
He was dressed more formally than usual, in a dark suit with a single-breasted jacket, a white shirt with a stiff collar that rose up to his chin, and a dark blue necktie, the knot tight against the collar.
“I have an announcement to make,” Rebecca said in a trembling voice. She squeezed Peter’s hand tightly. He kept his eyes on the floor. His whole face was red, as if his necktie was choking him.
“I know this family doesn’t like surprises,” Rebecca continued. She, too, avoided Ruth-Ann’s eyes. Her eyes darted across the table, from their mother to their father, as if Ruth-Ann was not in the room.
“You hate surprises, but I hope this is one that you will accept with happiness,” Rebecca said. She squeezed Peter’s hand again.
Mr. Fear set down his fork. He narrowed his eyes at Rebecca, his expression tense. Their mother lowered her hands to her lap. Ruth-Ann saw that she was biting her bottom lip.
They are hiding their surprise at seeing Peter with Rebecca, Ruth-Ann thought. But they both look about to burst. They do hate surprises; they hate anything that disrupts normal family life.
“I might as well just spit it out,” Rebecca said. “Peter and I are going to be married.”
Ruth-Ann saw her parents’ mouths drop open. Her father made a choking sound. Her mother scooted her chair back noisily, as if about to stand up.
But Ruth-Ann was already on her feet. “No, you’re not!” she shrieked. “No, you’re not! No, you’re not!”
Her hand sent the crystal water pitcher crashing to the table as she bolted toward them, screaming. “No, you’re not! No, you’re not!”
She slammed into Rebecca, who uttered a startled cry. Ruth-Ann grabbed her sister by the shoulders and shook her, shook her so hard that Rebecca made a gagging sound, and her arms flew up helplessly, and she sank to her knees with Ruth-Ann still gripping her shoulders and shaking her like a stuffed doll.
“No, you’re not! No, you’re not!”
The fury that Ruth-Ann had held in now roared out of her. Rebecca was on her knees, shrieking, crying for help, beating her fists weakly against Ruth-Ann’s arms. Ruth-Ann slid her hands from Rebecca’s shoulders to her throat and began to strangle her.
And that’s when Ruth-Ann felt strong hands on her shoulders. Her father pulled her back. Peter wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her off Rebecca.
Ruth-Ann pulled free of their grasp and stumbled back to the side table, sending two serving dishes and a flower vase shattering to the floor. Peter pulled Rebecca to her feet.
Sobbing, Rebecca rubbed her throat with both hands. Her long hair fell over her face in wild tangles. Her chest heaved in and out as she struggled to catch her breath.
Mr. Fear stepped between the two sisters, his arms outstretched to form a shield. “No more! Stop!” he cried. He turned his angry gaze at Ruth-Ann. “Control yourself. This is a civilized household.”
“Ha!” Ruth-Ann cried bitterly. “What Rebecca has done isn’t civilized.” She glared at her sister, resisting the urge to attack her again.
“We—we couldn’t help it.” Peter spoke up for the first time. He had his eyes on Mr. Fear, not Ruth-Ann. “We—uh . . .”
“We fell in love,” Rebecca said, her voice breaking. “It happened so quickly. But we know we love each other, and we want to get married.”
Mrs. Fear cleared her throat. She stood gripping the back of her dining room chair, her face even more pale than usual. “This is something we all need to discuss, Rebecca. You can’t burst in here at dinnertime and drop such big news on us, and expect that we can digest it immediately.”
“I—I don’t expect you to digest it,” Rebecca snapped. “And we don’t need to discuss it. It’s my life and I’ll do what I want to do.”
Mr. Fear sighed. “You always have. We’ve always given you everything you wanted. But—”
Ruth-Ann let out a cry. “She just wants Peter because he was the only thing I had. No one else can have anything. She has to have it all.”
“That’s not true,” Peter chimed in. He took a few steps toward Ruth-Ann, looking at her for the first time. Behind his glasses, his eyes were wide. His cheeks were still bright pink.
“We can’t help how we feel, Ruth-Ann,” he said. “We can’t control our emotions. They control us.”
“Very deep,” she said sarcastically. “Did you get that line out of one of your magazines?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Rebecca cried.
“I understand perfectly,” Ruth-Ann shot back, crossing her arms tightly in front of her. She hugged herself, trying to force her heartbeat to slow.
“You think everything is about you,” Rebecca said. “Well, this isn’t about you. This is about Peter and me.”
Peter nodded in agreement.
“I’m sorry you got hurt,” Rebecca offered. But she said it without any kindness or warmth. She took Peter’s arm. “But you’ll get over it. You’re only seventeen.”
“Get OVER it?” Ruth-Ann cried. “Get OVER it?”
Mr. Fear stepped between them again. “I think we need to take some time,” he said. “Perhaps we could meet later tonight. After dinner. Or—”
Ruth-Ann let out a disgusted groan. “Are you really going to sit down and eat your roast chicken while she ruins my life?”
Mr. Fear waved both hands, signaling for Ruth-Ann to calm down. “This is difficult. This is a surprise,” he said. “A surprise for all of us, and—”
She could see his mind whirring. She knew her father well. She could see when he was stumped, when he had no idea what to say next.
He’s useless, Ruth-Ann thought. He’ll give in to Rebecca and do whatever she wants. He always does.
And look at Mum. Standing there biting her lip, holding on to the back of the chair for dear life. She’s useless, too.
“I’ll tell you one thing right now,” Ruth-Ann said. The words blurted out of her mouth before she had time to think about them. “You will never marry Peter. I’ll make sure of that.”
Rebecca tossed her he
ad back and uttered a scornful laugh. “What are you going to do, Ruth-Ann? Cast a spell on us like some kind of witch?”
Ruth-Ann stared at her. “What a crazy idea.”
Eight
After their dinner-table battle, the two sisters didn’t speak. Ruth-Ann spent most of her time in her room. She also sneaked into her private attic, where she lost herself in the ancient books, delving into the spells and dark magic her family had practiced for nearly three hundred years.
She didn’t have a plan. She imagined all kinds of revenge in her mind. She plotted against Rebecca, keeping her mind open about which course of action she might take.
She knew only one thing for certain: Rebecca will never be married to Peter Goodman.
Both of her parents pleaded with her:
“She is your sister. You cannot cut her off forever.”
“You will get over your hurt. You will meet someone else. You are only seventeen.”
“Peter isn’t the man we would have chosen for Rebecca. But they are in love. You need to soften your heart, Ruth-Ann. Soften your heart and accept what will be.”
Soften her heart?
Were they living some kind of fairy tale?
Prince Charming has chosen his bride, and now the kingdom shall rejoice! Hardly.
Ruth-Ann’s heart only hardened at her parents’ words. “Of course they have taken her side,” she told herself. “Of course Rebecca can do no wrong. And I’m the one who has to accept it.”
She spent hours sitting on the floor in the attic room in the middle of the circle of black candles. She read again about the horrifying curse between her family and the family named Goode. The history of bizarre murders and unimaginable evil.
Of course, the rivalry with the Goode family was all in the past. But it reminded Ruth-Ann that she was a Fear, that in these old books, she had the power of evil that her ancestors used.
Sometimes the whole idea made her laugh. Bitter laughter.
This is 1924. We have cars and telephones and electric lights. We are all modern today. There is no place for this old sorcery.
