Hellfire

by John Saul

She was about to call out to them, and tell Peggy Russell to go home, when she changed her mind. Maybe it would be more fun to follow them, and find out what they were doing.

  * * *

  Peggy stood staring in awe at the strange marble structure that was the tomb of the Sturgesses. “Wow,” she breathed. “What is it?”

  Beth explained the mausoleum as best she could, then pulled Peggy away. “But this isn’t what I wanted to show you,” she said. “It’s down here. Come on.”

  They started down the overgrown path on the other side of the mausoleum, walking carefully, their feet crunching on the thick bed of fallen leaves and twigs that covered the old trail. Here and there the path seemed to Peggy to disappear completely, and several times they had to scramble over fallen trees. And then, just as Peggy was sure the trail was coming to an end, it suddenly branched off to the left. Peggy looked around. At the place where the two paths converged, she spotted a sign, old and rusty, its paint peeling away, hanging crookedly on a tree.

  PRIVATE PROPERTY

  NO TRESPASSING

  “Maybe we’d better go back,” Peggy said, her voice dropping to a whisper as she glanced around guiltily.

  “It doesn’t mean us,” Beth replied. “It’s just marking the place where Uncle Phillip’s property starts. It’s for people coming up the hill, not going down. Come on.”

  With Peggy following somewhat reluctantly now, Beth started along the track that would lead to the little meadow.

  “Where are you going?” Peggy asked.

  “You’ll see,” Beth replied. “Don’t worry.”

  “But what if we get lost?” Peggy argued. “How do you know which trail to follow?” More and more, she was wishing they hadn’t come down here at all. It seemed to her that the woods were closing in around her. She wished she were back up on the top of the hill, where at least everything was open.

  “I’ve been down here before,” Beth replied. “Mom and I came down here one day, and Uncle Phillip and I came out here on the horses. Stop being chicken.”

  Peggy hesitated, wondering what to do. Maybe she should turn around, and try to find her own way back. But if she did that, she’d have to go by herself.

  Making up her mind, she followed Beth. They had gone only about a hundred yards when Beth stopped. “Look,” she said softly. “Here it is.”

  Peggy stared around the little meadow. Saplings stood here and there in the clearing, and the underbrush came nearly to her waist. But there didn’t seem to her to be any difference between this meadow and any of the others that dotted the woods around Westover.

  “What’s so special about this?” Peggy complained. “It’s just a clearing, isn’t it?”

  Beth shook her head, and led Peggy across the meadow to the place where she’d found the small depression last time she had been there.

  She pointed to it silently, and Peggy frowned in puzzlement. “What is it?”

  “It’s a grave,” Beth said.

  Peggy’s eyes widened. She glanced around nervously, wishing she were somewhere else. “H-how do you know?” she breathed.

  “I just know,” Beth replied. “I found it the other day.”

  “Whose is it?” Peggy whispered, her wide eyes fixed on the odd depression. “Who’s buried here? Is it one of the Sturgesses?”

  Beth shook her head. “They’re all buried up in the mausoleum. I think—” She hesitated, then took a deep breath. “I think this is where Amy’s buried.”

  “Amy?” Peggy repeated blankly. “Who’s Amy? What’s her last name?”

  “I … I don’t know,” Beth admitted.

  The two girls stood silently for a moment, their eyes fixed on the odd sunken spot.

  “Maybe it isn’t a grave at all,” Peggy suggested. “If it was a grave, wouldn’t there be a headstone or something?”

  Beth’s eyes flicked up the hill, toward the spot where the mausoleum lay hidden in the woods. “There isn’t any headstone because they didn’t want anyone to know,” she said in a whisper. “They didn’t want anyone to know who she was, or that she’s even here.”

  “But who is she?” Peggy pressed.

  Beth turned to look at Peggy, and there was something in her eyes that made Peggy feel suddenly nervous.

  “She’s my friend,” Beth said.

  “Y-your friend?” Peggy repeated. “But … but I thought she was dead.”

  “She is,” Beth agreed. “But she’s still alive, too. She lives in the mill.”

  “The mill?” Peggy echoed. Suddenly she felt a small knot of fear forming in her stomach.

  Beth nodded, her mind racing now. “I think she must have worked there,” she said, her voice quiet. “I think something terrible happened to her, and they buried her up here. But she’s not up here. Not really. She’s still in the mill.”

  Peggy watched Beth warily. Something seemed to have come over her now. Though Beth was looking at her, Peggy wasn’t sure her friend was seeing her. And what she was saying didn’t make any sense at all.

  In fact, it sounded crazy.

  “B-but what’s she doing in the mill?” Peggy finally stammered. “What does she want?”

  Beth’s eyes darkened. “She wants to kill them,” she said at last. “Just like she killed Jeff Bailey.”

  As the words sank into Peggy’s mind, the knot of fear grew, reaching out into her arms and legs, making her knees tremble.

  “Why?” she whispered. “Why would she kill Jeff?”

  Beth heard the words, and as her eyes remained fixed on what she was now certain was Amy’s grave, she began to understand. She remembered the party, and the way Tracy and her friends had treated her.

  She remembered the humiliation, and the pain.

  “Because he was mean to me,” she said softly. “He was mean to me, so she killed him.” The words became the truth in her own mind even as she spoke them. For her, Amy was real now. “She’s my friend, Peggy. Don’t you understand? She’s my best friend.”

  Peggy felt her heart beating faster. “But she’s dead, Beth,” she protested. “She’s not even alive, and you don’t even know who she is. How can she be your friend?”

  But Beth wasn’t listening to her. In fact, Peggy wasn’t even sure Beth could hear her anymore. Slowly, one step at a time, Peggy began backing away. If Beth noticed, she gave no sign, for her eyes were still fixed on the depression in the ground that she had decided was a grave.

  But it wasn’t anything, Peggy told herself. It was just a little dip in the ground where the grass seemed dried up, not bright green like the rest of the meadow, and there wasn’t anything there. Nothing at all.

  She backed up another three steps, then turned and fled from the meadow back into the woods, hurtling back along the path toward the “No Trespassing” sign. But when she got there, she didn’t turn right, up the hill toward the mausoleum.

  Instead, she turned left, and began thrashing her way down the hillside toward the river below.

  Beth stood rooted to the spot, staring at the grave. Unaware that Peggy was gone now, she began telling Peggy about the dream she’d had—the dream that was like a memory.

  “I saw it,” she said. “I was in the mill, under the stairs. And I heard something, and waited. And then Jeff came down the stairs, and he … he died. But it wasn’t me that killed him. It was Amy. There’s a little room under the stairs, and that’s where Amy lives. But she came out of the room, and she killed Jeff. And I wasn’t scared,” she finished. “I watched Amy kill Jeff, and I wasn’t scared at all.”

  And then, as she tore her eyes away from the grave and looked around for Peggy, the silence of the forest was shattered by the sound of laughter.

  Tracy Sturgess stepped into the little clearing, her mocking eyes fixed on Beth.

  Beth, her own eyes suddenly clearing, felt herself flushing red with humiliation. Had Tracy just gotten there, or had she been following them all along, listening to them and watching them? “How long have you been there?” s
he asked, her voice quavering now.

  Tracy laughed cruelly. “Just long enough to find out you’re crazy!” she said.

  “I’m not crazy,” Beth flared. “There’s a grave here, and Peggy saw it too! Didn’t you, Peggy?” She turned around, and discovered that Peggy was no longer there.

  Tracy snickered. “She left. And you better get out of here, too. If you don’t, the ghost might get you!”

  Beth looked frantically around, searching for Peggy, but there was no sign of her. “Where is she?” she demanded. “Where’s my friend?”

  “She isn’t your friend.” Tracy sneered. “When she found out how crazy you are, she ran like a scared rabbit.” Then, her mocking laughter echoing strangely in the bright morning sunlight, she disappeared back into the woods.

  Beth stood still, her eyes flooding with tears of anger and humiliation. Then she sank down into the coolness of the grass, drawing her knees up to her chest.

  They didn’t believe her. Peggy didn’t believe her, and Tracy thought she was crazy.

  But it was true.

  She knew it was true!

  Her sobs slowly subsided, and finally she sat up. Her eyes fixed on the small depression in the earth, and she tried to figure out how she could prove that she was right.

  But there wasn’t any way. Even if she dug up the grave and found Amy’s bones, they still wouldn’t believe her.

  Almost unconsciously, her fingers began probing at the soft earth, as if looking for something. And then, a moment later, her right hand touched something hard and flat, buried only an inch below the surface.

  She began scraping the dirt away, exposing a weathered slab of stone. It was deeply pitted, its cracks and crevices packed with the rich brown soil, and Beth at first had no idea what it might be. But then, as she scraped more of the earth away, the slab began to take shape.

  One edge was rough and jagged, but from that edge, the stone had been worked into a smooth, clean semicircular curve, its edges trimmed in a simple bevel. After a few minutes, Beth had cleared the last of the dirt off its surface, and managed to force her fingers under the stone’s edge. When she tried to lift it, though, it held fast, and all she succeeded in doing was to break a fingernail, and bare the knuckles of her left hand. Wincing with pain, she wiped her injured hand as clean as she could, then held the smarting knuckles to her mouth. While she waited for the pain to ease, she searched the clearing for a stick, and finally found one that looked thick enough lying a few feet from the mouth of the trail.

  She picked it up, and returned to the stone slab. Forcing one end of the stick under its edge, she pressed down on the other end. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the stone came loose. Dropping the stick, Beth crouched down and turned the slab over.

  The other face had been polished smooth, and Beth knew immediately that her first feeling about it had been right—it was the top of what had once been a headstone.

  With growing excitement, she rubbed the dirt away from the shallow engraving just below the upper curve. The letters were fuzzy, almost worn away by the ravages of time. But even so, she was able to read them:

  AMELIA

  There was nothing else, nor could she find the rest of the broken gravestone.

  But it was enough.

  Amy was real.

  Beth thought about Tracy, and her mocking laughter.

  And Peggy, who hadn’t believed her, and had run away from her.

  But she had found the proof. Now, no matter what they said, they wouldn’t be able to take Amy away from her.

  If they tried, she knew what would happen to them. Amy would do to them what she had done to Jeff Bailey.

  For Beth and Amy were friends now—best friends—and nothing would ever be allowed to come between them again.

  14

  Tracy let herself in through the French doors leading to the foyer, and started up the stairs to the second floor. All the way back from the clearing in the woods, she’d been trying to figure out the best way to use what she’d overheard Beth saying, but she still hadn’t made up her mind.

  Of course, she’d tell all her friends, starting with Alison Babcock.

  But who else? What if she told her father? If he believed her, maybe he’d send Beth away somewhere.

  But what if he didn’t believe her? What if he thought she was just making up a story? Then he’d get mad at her.

  Her grandmother.

  That’s who she’d tell. Her grandmother always believed her, no matter what she said. And if she had to, she’d make her grandmother walk all the way out there, and show her where Beth had been, standing over that stupid sinkhole, talking about a ghost like it was something real.

  She hurried on to the top of the stairs, and started down the hall toward the far end. Just as she got to her grandmother’s closed door, she heard Carolyn’s voice calling her name. But instead of turning around, or even acknowledging that she’d heard, she simply ignored her stepmother, turned the knob of her grandmother’s door, and let herself in.

  Abigail sat in a chair by the window. Her eyes were closed, and one hand rested in her lap. The other one hung limply at her side, and a few inches below her hand, a book lay open, facedown, on the floor.

  Tracy stared at her grandmother. Was it possible she’d died, just sitting there in her chair?

  Tracy’s heart skipped a beat.

  She edged slowly across the room. How could you tell if someone was dead?

  You had to feel for a pulse.

  Tracy didn’t want to do that. It had been horrible enough having to look at her grandfather when he was dead. But to actually have to touch a dead body … she shuddered at the thought.

  She paused. Maybe she should go and get her father, or even Carolyn.

  But then, as she was about to back away, her grandmother’s eyes flickered slightly, and her hand moved.

  “Grandmother?” Tracy asked.

  Abigail’s eyes opened, and Tracy felt a surge of relief.

  Relief, and a twinge of disappointment. Telling Alison Babcock about finding her grandmother’s body would have been even better than telling her about how crazy Beth Rogers was.

  “Tracy?” Abigail said, coming fully awake, and straightening up in her chair. “Come give me a kiss, darling. I must have dozed off for a moment.”

  Tracy obediently stepped forward and gave her grandmother a reluctant peck on the cheek.

  “What are you doing here, child?” Abigail asked. “Why aren’t you outside? It’s a beautiful morning.”

  “I was,” Tracy said. She searched her mind, trying to figure out how to tell her grandmother what she’d heard without admitting that she’d followed Beth. “I … I went for a walk in the woods,” she went on, deliberately making her voice shake a little. As shed hoped, her grandmother looked at her sharply.

  “Did something happen?” she asked. “You look as though something frightened you.”

  Tracy did her best to appear reluctant, and, once again, the ruse worked.

  “Tell me what happened, child,” Abigail urged her.

  “It … it was Beth,” Tracy began, then fell silent once more as if she didn’t really want to tell on her stepsister.

  Abigail’s eyes darkened. “I see. And what did Beth do to you?”

  “N-nothing, really,” Tracy said.

  Abigail’s sharp eyes scanned her granddaughter carefully. “Well, she must have done something,” Abigail pressed. “If she didn’t, why do you look so worried?”

  Still Tracy made a show of hesitating, then decided it would be better to let her grandmother pull the whole story out of her. “Grandmother,” she said, “do you think maybe Beth could be crazy?”

  “Crazy?” Abigail repeated, her brows arching slightly. “Tracy, what on earth happened? What would make you say such a thing?”

  “Well, I was out in the woods, just hiking around, and all of a sudden I heard something,” Tracy explained. “It sounded like Beth—like she was talking to someone, s
o I went to find her. But when I got there—” She paused, wondering if she should mention Peggy Russell at all. She decided not to. “Well, she was talking to herself. She was out there in the woods, and she was talking to herself!”

  Abigail’s forehead wrinkled into a frown. “And what was she saying?” she asked.

  Slowly, as if struggling to remember every fragment of what she’d heard, Tracy repeated the words she’d heard Beth speak. “It was weird, Grandmother,” she finished. “I mean, she was talking like there was really a ghost. She had a name for her, and everything. She called her Amy, and she said the ghost killed Jeff! She said it killed Jeff, and she watched it happen! Doesn’t that sound like she’s crazy?”

  Abigail sat silently for several long minutes, feeling the erratic pounding of her heart.

  Amy.

  “Amy” was a corruption of “Amelia.”

  And Amelia was a name she’d heard before.

  Her husband had used it sometimes, when he was muttering to himself about the mill, and about Conrad Junior.

  “Where?” Abigail finally asked, her blue eyes fixing intently on Tracy. “Where did all this happen, child?”

  “In a little clearing,” Tracy replied. “Down the hill from the mausoleum. There’s a trail to it.” She hesitated, then went on. “Do you want to go down there, Grandmother? I can show it to you. I can even show you the thing Beth thinks is a grave. Only it’s not a grave. It’s just a little sunken spot.” She fell silent for a moment, but when her grandmother didn’t say anything, she spoke again. “Well? What do you think? Is she crazy?”

  Abigail glanced up at her, and Tracy suddenly realized that her grandmother was no longer listening to her.

  “What?” Abigail asked.

  Tracy’s expression tightened into an angry pout. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.” Then she turned and stamped out of her grandmother’s little parlor, slamming the door behind her.

  Abigail, sitting thoughtfully in her chair, ignored the slam of the door. Indeed, she didn’t even hear it.

  Her mind was occupied with other things.

  Eileen Russell parked her five-year-old Chevy in front of Hilltop, and wished once more that she hadn’t agreed to come up here. She’d considered calling Carolyn and asking her to come down to the village instead, pleading a heavy workload and suggesting they just get together for a quick drink in the bar. She’d quickly rejected that idea; what she had to talk to Carolyn about couldn’t be discussed in a public place.