by R. L. Stine
His grip on her arms tightened. His dark eyes burned into hers.
“It was you!” Ruth-Ann screamed. “You did it. You—you monster! You killed your own daughter!”
“You are insane!” her father growled.
“NO!” The cry burst from Ruth-Ann’s throat. She pulled back with all her strength—and broke free. Broke free of her father’s two-handed grasp.
She stumbled backward, the pain of his grip still on her shoulders. She thrashed her arms, bent forward, struggling to catch her balance.
But she couldn’t stop. The thrust of her attempt to free herself sent her hurtling backward. Nothing to grab on to. Nothing to stop her.
And she went tumbling over the side of the cliff. Her hands grabbed the hard dirt on the cliff edge, then slid away. And Ruth-Ann fell, without a scream, without another breath. Fell straight down in a flurry of cold wind, the blue sky stretching wide above her. Joined her sister after a moment of crunching pain . . . and then darkness.
Twelve
Randolph Fear dropped to his knees on the grass. He held his head in both hands. He covered his face and didn’t move. Only his shoulders shivered, revealing that he was sobbing.
The circle around him tightened. No one spoke. The screams had died. The only sounds were the sobs and muffled crying of those who remained on the mesa top.
When Randolph raised his head, he looked for his wife. He saw two women walking with her, holding her arms, helping her to the lodge.
Randolph didn’t bother to wipe away the tears that stained his reddened cheeks. “What did I do?” he said to those standing around him. “What did I do to deserve this?”
His shoulders shook again, and a sound escaped his throat, a choking sound. “I . . . lost two daughters. Two daughters on a day that was supposed to be full of joy. Why? I did nothing. I am innocent.”
A man reached out to help Randolph to his feet. But Randolph shoved his hands away. He gazed around. “Where is Peter Goodman? Where is he? He married my daughter, then threw her away. Where is he?”
“He isn’t here,” a woman called. Her face was tearstained, too. She dabbed at it with a damp lace handkerchief. “I didn’t see him leave.”
Randolph uttered a loud sob that ended in a hiccup. “Peter murdered my daughter. Then he vanished? Can this be happening? Do nightmares really exist in the daytime?”
A shadow fell over Randolph. Still on his knees, he shivered. He raised his eyes to the young man in a dark suit who stood above him. In his grief, it took his mind a few seconds to recognize the man.
“Nelson Swift.”
Nelson nodded solemnly. He held his hat tightly in one hand.
“Mr. Swift.” Randolph squinted up at him. The sun over Nelson’s head cast his face in shadow. “Why are you here?” Randolph’s voice came out in a quavering whisper.
Nelson hesitated. “I . . . came to tell you . . . But . . . I was too late.”
“Tell me? Tell me what?” Randolph Fear demanded.
“It’s about Peter,” Nelson replied. “I learned the truth about him.”
“Truth? Spit it out, Mr. Swift. Tell me what truth.”
“His name isn’t Peter Goodman,” Nelson said. “His name is Peter Goode.”
Randolph gasped and covered his face again. “The curse . . . ,” he murmured. “The curse between our families . . . the Goodes and the Fears . . . It continues.”
Huddled there on the grass, he realized the truth . . . all of it. Peter wasn’t under a spell. Randolph had accused his daughter Ruth-Ann unjustly. No one had cast a spell on Peter to force him to murder Rebecca.
Peter was a Goode. Because of the curse, a Goode and a Fear could never marry. He murdered Rebecca of his own will. Murdered her for revenge against the Fears.
But revenge for what?
Randolph raised his hands and let Nelson help pull him to his feet. “It won’t end today,” Randolph murmured. He leaned heavily on Nelson as they began to walk to the lodge. “Now I will have to take my revenge on the Goodes. It won’t end. Not before I have avenged my daughters.”
Nelson guided him between the tall grass on either side of the carpeted aisle. He didn’t speak. He didn’t know what he could say.
Nelson heard again in his ears the screams of the two girls.
Maybe it will never end, he thought.
A burst of wind carried the girls’ dying screams back to his mind. He shut his eyes and guided Randolph Fear down the mesa to the lodge.
Part Two
This Year
Thirteen
I laughed and ran my hand through Max’s silky blond hair. “Max, Robby and I can’t be identical twins,” I said. “Because he’s a boy and I’m a girl.”
His serious blue eyes were locked on mine. I could see he was thinking hard about it. My cousin Max is only five, but sometimes I think his brain is much older. He always seems to be thinking hard about things.
“Harmony, are you and Marissa twins?” he asked finally.
I had to laugh again. “No. We’re just sisters.”
“But you look a lot like her,” he said. His eyes went to the driveway of the lodge, where Dad was helping Marissa unload all her bags and suitcases from the van.
Robby should have been helping them. He promised he would. But Robby has a way of disappearing whenever there’s any heavy lifting.
“Marissa is five years older than me,” I said.
Max grinned. “I’m five.” He held up the fingers on one hand.
“But we’re sisters so we look alike,” I said. “Same black hair, right? Same blue eyes? Same string-bean bodies?”
He shrugged. He was losing interest. Five-year-olds didn’t have great attention spans, I knew, unless they were craving candy or ice cream. I babysit Max a lot, and whenever he thinks sweets are a possibility, he develops a one-track mind.
I shielded my eyes from the sun, which was floating high over the red tile roof of the lodge. A shadow soared low over the long log-cabin-styled building. A bird with a wide wingspread. Maybe a hawk.
“Max, look where we are!” I exclaimed. I took his hands and swung him around to face the mesa. “We’re on top of a mountain in Colorado. Do you believe it?”
He got that thoughtful look on his face again. “Can we go skiing, Harmony?”
My mouth dropped open. “Huh? It’s summer. You can’t ski in the summer, silly.” I squeezed the shoulders of his red T-shirt. “Besides, we’re here for a wedding, remember? Marissa is marrying Doug tomorrow.”
He scrunched up his face. “You have to get married on a mountain?”
The kid is hilarious. But I had to be careful. Sometimes when I laugh at him too much, he gets hurt, and his angry pout is epic.
“Is this the first wedding you’ve ever been to?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Well . . . people like to get married in beautiful places. And our family used to own this place, and we came here every year when Marissa and I were little girls. And Marissa always thought it was the most beautiful place on earth.”
In front of the lodge, Dad had Marissa’s wedding gown in its layers of plastic wrapping draped over his shoulder. He was struggling not to let it touch the driveway. Marissa followed him, carrying her big makeup bag.
Robby suddenly appeared and came jogging over to them. “Can I help? What can I carry?”
Dad rolled his eyes. “It’s all done. You’re too late.”
“Where were you?” Marissa demanded.
Robby shrugged. “I had to do a thing—”
“Oh, shut up,” Marissa snapped. “We know where you were. On the phone with Nikki.”
Our brother, Robby, is obsessed with Nikki Parker, and Mom and Dad can’t stand her. That’s why she wasn’t invited to the wedding, which totally pissed Robby off, of course. He’s been bitter and horrible and about as obnoxious as he can be about it, which is a lot.
He and I are seventeen, but guess who is the grown-up? And it’s not just that gi
rls are smarter than boys, which everyone in the world knows. I mean, it’s proven by science.
Robby has always been shy and gotten nowhere with girls. I mean, we’re both seniors this year, and Nikki is his first real girlfriend . . . ever. Can you imagine?
Now maybe I’m not one to judge. I like boys. Mom and Dad think maybe too much. But I don’t see what’s wrong with enjoying yourself and having fun when you’re a teenager. Especially if you’re careful.
What I’m saying is, Nikki is cute, but she’s just as immature as Robby. And my parents hate the way she’s always nuzzling his neck and tickling him and being very physical in front of everyone.
Robby loves all that, but my parents aren’t physical people. Dad kisses Mom on the cheek sometimes. Of course they love each other, but they just don’t always show it.
Dad says they’re private people, and that’s fine with me. Because they keep their privacy, and I keep mine. I hardly share anything with them. Why would I? They more than likely wouldn’t approve, and there’s no reason to look for trouble.
I try to like Nikki but it’s hard. She’s kind of . . . flaky. You know. Sometimes I overhear Robby helping her with her homework, and I don’t want to say she’s dumb. But she’s not . . . deep.
Again, I shouldn’t talk. I got into Penn by the skin of my teeth. (Nikki’s going to the junior college in Martinsville, the next town, because her parents can’t afford to take out a big student loan.)
And Robby? He says he needs a gap year. You know. To find himself. He says maybe he’ll travel or something. But I know the truth. If he stays in Shadyside, he’ll be able to see Nikki all the time. I told you, he’s obsessed.
Mom and Dad are furious about it. They think Robby should get out of the house and start his life like everyone else. They blame Nikki and say she’s a bad influence on Robby. I’m sure that was one reason Nikki wasn’t invited to Marissa’s wedding. Just meanness on their part.
There’s no reason to sugarcoat it. My parents can be mean when they want to. After all, we are Fears, and the Fear family has a long line of incredibly mean people. There’s even a book about us, about our family history and how messed up we are.
A black SUV pulled up the gravel driveway to the lodge entrance and pulled in next to our van. Doug Falkner, the groom, and his buddy Harry Marx, the best man, piled out and stretched their arms and backs as if they’d driven two thousand miles or something.
I watched them gaze at the lodge and then turn to see the mesa, the tall grass sloping up, away from the building, up to the sharp rock cliff. Harry said something and they both burst out laughing. Harry is the comedian in the group.
I don’t think Doug has much of a sense of humor. I’ve never heard him make a joke or anything. I mean, he’s okay, I guess, but he’s serious a lot of the time. He has a stare that’s kind of intimidating. It reminds me of a bull with his head lowered, staring at the matador, trying to decide whether or not to attack.
I don’t know where that came from. But Doug is kind of a bull. He’s big and wide and bulked up, and he talks in this low growl . . .
Okay. I admit it. I don’t think he’s right for Marissa.
But no one ever asked me. And remember? I keep my mouth shut.
So I called out to Doug and Harry and, waving, went running across the grass to them. They waved back. But I stopped halfway with a thought. “Where’s Max?” I asked it out loud.
I shielded my eyes and made a complete circle, searching for him. I was supposed to be watching him while Uncle Kenny checked in at the front desk. Where did he disappear to?
“Max? Hey—Max?”
Then I spotted him. My heart stopped beating and a scream burst from my throat. “Noooo!”
He stood at the edge of the mesa, looking down at the rock cliffs at his feet. He leaned over the side, as if daring himself, or maybe trying to get a better view.
And I screamed again. “Max—get back! Get away from there! Max—step back!”
That’s when his knees bent, his arms flew up, and he started to tumble over the side.
Fourteen
With a desperate leap, I hurtled behind him and flew into the air. I wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled him from the cliff edge.
My heart was pounding so hard my chest hurt, and I struggled to catch my breath. I held on to Max, my arms tightly around him, until he ducked and squirmed away.
He tossed back his head and uttered an insane giggle. “Harmony, did you really think I was going to fall?”
I stared at him, my mouth open, still unable to breathe. “You mean . . . you did that on purpose?”
He giggled some more, and nodded with a grin plastered on his face.
“You devil!” I cried. I grabbed him with both hands and shook him as hard as I could. It only made him laugh harder.
Then, so pleased with his little joke, Max took off without another word, running on his spindly legs down the path to the lodge. And I saw his dad, my uncle Kenny, standing at the entrance, watching us.
Did Kenny see the close call on the cliff edge? If he did, I’d hear about it. Uncle Kenny looks like a lemon with his round face and his shaved head. And he acts sour as a lemon, too.
Make a list of my least favorite family members, and look—there’s Kenny at number one. He’s bitter about his divorce, even though he got full custody of Max. He’s bitter because he’s an assistant manager at some kind of cardboard box factory, not even an actual manager.
He has a total thing about my dad. Kenny is Dad’s older brother, but Dad has had all the success with his real estate properties all over the state. Dad has made a lot of money. We have a pretty nice house in North Hills, the fancy part of Shadyside, while Kenny and Max live in an apartment in the Old Village.
But so what?
Is that a reason to be a total obnoxious jerk?
And wouldn’t you know it—Kenny gave the first toast at the rehearsal dinner that night.
The whole wedding party was at one long table in the dining room. The lodge is very rustic. The pinewood walls and the low, log rafters across the ceiling give it a real pioneer look.
Pink and white lilacs were everywhere. That’s Marissa’s favorite flower. And everything about the wedding is pink and white.
Marissa sat in the center, across the table from me, and she looked beautiful. She had her hair down, falling past her shoulders, the top held back loosely with sparkly rose-gold bobby pins. She wore a pale pink sweater over faded jeans. It wasn’t a dress-up kind of event.
Doug sat next to her, and she kept squeezing his hand. He should have been smiling, right? I mean, it’s a wedding dinner, you know? But he had his bull face on for some reason and didn’t even look at Marissa that much.
I was on the other side, down at the far end of the table, next to Robby, and then Max, and then Uncle Kenny at the very end.
My parents were a mile down in the other direction. But somehow I managed to hear their whispered conversation. And I’m pretty sure I heard Dad telling Mom, “What was wrong with that nice med student, Aiden? I wish Marissa was marrying him tomorrow.”
Everyone was talking, and there was a lot of clatter of dishes and silverware. But I’m sure I heard Dad correctly. Mom’s face turned red. She’s the easiest blusher on the planet. I didn’t hear her reply.
I knew they both preferred Aiden, with his plans to be an orthopedic surgeon. He was handsome and well dressed. I thought he was too pretty and too full of himself. But I haven’t liked any of Marissa’s boyfriends.
Anyway, it didn’t matter. Aiden was gone.
The dinner was going pretty well. I mean, whenever the Fear family gets together, it isn’t all sweetness and light, or peaches and cream, or whatever the expression is. We all have strong personalities and usually the personalities clash.
We were all here for a wedding, however, and for once, everyone was on their best behavior.
Well . . . except for Max. Maybe he was excited because it was a big
party. But he kept waving his empty glass in the air and shouting, “Wine! I want wine! I want wine!”
Uncle Kenny thought it was hilarious. He didn’t do anything to stop Max. And that encouraged my little cousin to keep his shouts up even longer.
It was a nice meal. A creamy Caesar salad, followed by lobster bisque, then chicken and mashed potatoes, and Brussels sprouts with chestnuts and bacon.
I kept watching Marissa and Doug. I was waiting for Doug to smile just once. But he ate with that same flat expression on his face and didn’t talk much to Marissa or to my aunt Hannah, who sat on his other side.
Hannah spent her time talking to Grandpa Ernie Fear. Everyone calls him Grandpa Bud. I don’t know why. Bud is my dad’s father. He’s got to be eighty-five or more, but he’s as sharp and energetic as anyone. He’s even on Facebook. He’s an old white-haired rascal, and he has to be my favorite of everyone in the family.
When Uncle Kenny began tapping his glass with his fork and stood up to give a toast, my throat clenched up. I had this feeling of dread, mainly because Uncle Kenny always insists on giving the first toast at any party, and he usually embarrasses himself and the people he is toasting.
Well, he didn’t fail me.
Kenny raised his nearly full glass of red wine. Max tugged his shirt. “Dad, what’s for dessert?”
Kenny shoved his hand away. “Max, I’m giving a toast.” Kenny cleared his throat for a long time. “Hello, everybody. Can you hear me?” he boomed. “I seem to be down at the far end of the table. Someone put me down here in Siberia. Guess I’m being punished for something, ha-ha.”
No one reacted to that. We all know how Kenny likes to complain.
The ceiling light shone over Kenny’s lemon head. He really did look like a talking lightbulb.
“I know the wedding is going to be done better than my chicken,” Kenny continued. “It was a little pink inside. Doug and Marissa, I hope salmonella isn’t one of your wedding gifts! Ha-ha-ha.”
Kenny has a horrible, grating laugh. Kind of a choking sound. It sounds more like vomiting than laughing.
