by R. L. Stine
Brandon peered over my shoulder at her. “No,” he said in a tiny, high voice. “That’s not Mommy. That’s Abby. That’s my nanny.”
51
I still held Brandon in my arms when Chip arrived. He came trotting up the dune, wearing city clothes, jacket and tie, his face twisted in confusion as he saw the grim activity.
Two EMS workers were sliding Clay into a long, black body bag. Another white-uniformed crew had somehow managed to saw away most of the harpoon handle, leaving only the tip embedded in Abby’s shoulder. They had piled her onto a wheeled stretcher, attached a blood drip, and were starting to roll her down the dune.
At the guest house door, two police officers were standing over Will. He had managed to sit up, but kept groaning, “Hunnnh . . . hunnnh . . .” over and over, his mouth hanging open, blinking and shaking his head.
“What the hell?” Chip shouted, running toward us. “What the hell happened here?” When he realized it was Abby on the stretcher, he began running faster. “Abby? Are you okay? Tell me. Are you okay?”
“Tip-top,” she muttered, eyes closed.
“Are you Chip Harper?” A young, blond-haired police officer moved to block Chip’s path. “I’m Lieutenant Harris. We need to talk to you, sir. There’s been a lot of trouble here, including a fatality.”
Chip grabbed Abby’s hand. But when he saw the stub of the harpoon through her shoulder, he jerked back. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit. What is that?”
He turned to the EMS workers. “Is she going to be okay? How did this happen? Who did this?”
“I’m sorry, Chip,” Abby whispered. “You’re a nice guy. You didn’t deserve—” Her head slumped to one side.
The EMS worker signaled to his partner. “Let’s roll.” They started to push the stretcher cart down the hill. “She’s lost a lot of blood,” he called back to Chip. “We’ve got to get her to the hospital fast.”
Chip uttered a cry of frustration. “But what the hell is going on?” He glanced up at Will at the guest house door, still on the ground, still shaking his head. “Who is he? Who the hell are these people?”
And then Chip noticed me for the first time, saw that I was holding Brandon. He hurried over and reached for Brandon. But the boy pulled away and clung tighter to me.
“Ellie, can you tell me what’s happening here?” Chip demanded.
Before I could answer, Brandon chimed in. “She’s not mommy, Daddy. Tell them. She’s Abby, right? She’s not mommy.”
Chip raised a finger to his lips. “Brandon, not now,” he said softly. And then he realized: “Oh, my God—you’re talking! Brandon, you’re talking again. That’s so wonderful! But let’s not talk about Mommy, okay?”
He reached for his son again, but Brandon slid to the ground and started to run clumsily toward the guest house. “Mommy!” he cried. “Mommy!”
“Brandon, where are you going?” Chip cried. He took off after the boy. “Brandon, what’s wrong, baby? Why are you running away from me?”
Brandon darted around to the back of the guest house. He dropped down on the ground where he had dug earlier. The two officers abandoned Will and followed Chip to the spot where Brandon had started to dig again, digging furiously with both hands.
“Brandon? Why are you doing this?” Chip asked. “I know you’re upset. Let me pick you up. Let me hold you.” Chip turned to me. “We have to do something. The poor kid must be in shock.”
“Mommy!” Brandon cried, leaning over the hole, tossing up the sand. “Mommy.”
I knelt beside him. “No, Brandon. Stop,” I said. “It’s only a dog skeleton, remember? It’s just a dog.”
“Brandon, please. Come to me,” Chip said softly. “You’ll be okay. I promise, sweetie.” He moved to grab Brandon, but an officer held him back.
“Remember? It’s just a dog?” I repeated.
Brandon looked up from the hole in the sand. “Over . . . under,” he said. “Over . . . under . . . Over . . . under.”
“Brandon? That’s from Sesame Street on TV,” I said. “Why are you saying that now?”
“Under,” he said, and continued pawing up the sand. “Under . . . under . . .”
Chip grabbed Brandon and hoisted him up and away. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” he whispered. “There’s nothing there. It’s okay.”
“Under . . . under . . .”
“Mr. Harper,” Lieutenant Harris said firmly. “Put the boy down. And please step away from the hole. I want to see what’s beneath these dog bones.”
Chip stepped back. But he held on to Brandon, pressing him against his chest.
Flashlights swept over the hole. Two of the officers found shovels in the garage. As the fog thickened around us, they began to dig.
Now there was silence, except for the wash of waves on the ocean shore over the dune and the steady scrape of the two shovels.
Shovels clinked when they found the dog skeleton we had unearthed earlier. Groaning, the two men lifted it out and set it aside. Then they returned to their digging.
“Under . . . under . . . ,” Brandon repeated softly, still in Chip’s arms.
And a few minutes later, I gasped as the shovels clinked again. Another skeleton poked up from the hole. No. Not a skeleton. A woman. A decomposing woman.
The head came into view first in the white circles of light from the flashlights. A woman’s head, chunks of skin clinging to her skull, eyes sunk deep into their sockets, fat worms crawling through her dirt-caked hair.
“Oh, my God. It’s Jenny,” Chip said, beside me, his voice breaking. “My wife. Jenny. Jenny. How—how is this possible?”
Lieutenant Harris had been watching from the other side of the sand hole. Now he moved quickly beside Chip and grabbed his arm. “We need to talk, sir.”
Chip didn’t respond. He lowered Brandon to the ground, turned, and stared wide-eyed as more of the flesh-eaten body came into view. “Abby told me . . . Abby said Jenny packed her bags and left.”
“When was this, Mr. Harper?” the lieutenant asked.
Chip’s eyes were glazed, rolling in his head. His voice came out in a harsh whisper. “When was it? When was it? Last March. Just before I hired Mrs. Bricker.”
“Mr. Harper, I think we need to get you away from here,” Harris said, tugging gently at Chip’s arm.
But Chip pulled free. He took a few stumbling steps toward the corpse. He went down on his knees in the sand. “Jenny caught me. She caught Abby and me together,” he said, talking to himself now. “She was too angry and hurt to face me. So Jenny packed up and left. That’s what Abby told me. That’s what Abby said, and I believed her. I believed her. Why? Why—?” Sobbing, he choked on his words.
He reached out an arm and smoothed his hand over the corpse’s worm-infested hair. Tears ran down his cheeks. “I never saw Jenny again. I thought she went home to her family. But Brandon must have seen. Is that why he went silent? Yes. He must have seen Abby bury her here. Poor guy. Poor little guy.”
Still on his knees, he turned and motioned for Brandon to come to him. Brandon ran into his open arms. Chip hugged his son and wept, pressing his face into Brandon’s chest.
Is that really why Brandon had been silent? Is that why he had done all those violent things?
Or had he been possessed by the ghost of Jeremiah Halley?
I knew I’d never know the answer.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Harris said, putting a hand on Chip’s shoulder. “I need to talk to you about this further. But perhaps you should take the boy away from here.”
He helped Chip to his feet. Then he started to guide Chip down the dune toward the house. They passed another stretcher cart on its way up the hill, coming for Will.
Jackson slid his arm around my shoulders. “You’re shaking,” he said.
I shut my eyes and pressed my face against his chest. So solid. So warm and solid.
“Jeremiah had his revenge,” I murmured. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. “He hit the nanny, after all. Abby wa
s the nanny, hiding with her lover in the guest house. Jeremiah had his revenge. It’s over now. For everyone.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jackson said softly. “But, let’s just get far away from here. Far away from all of this. Just you and me.”
“Yes,” I said. I forced a smile. “I’m already packed.”
My cell phone rang. It startled me. I’d forgotten I’d tucked it into my jeans pocket.
I picked it up and raised it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hi, Ellie, it’s Mom. Just wondering what’s up with you. How’s the nanny job going? Any better?”
© Beth Gwinn
About the Author
R. L. Stine, the top bestselling children’s author in history, has now turned his attention to writing for adults as well. He began writing stories, joke books, and comics at the age of nine, and he’s been writing ever since. R.L. grew up in Columbus, Ohio. He graduated from Ohio State University and immediately moved to New York City to become a writer. He has written over two hundred thrillers and horror novels for children and teenagers. His book series, Goosebumps, is recognized by the Guinness World Records as the bestselling book series of all time. His books have been translated into twenty-eight languages. In all, his scary books have sold over 300 million copies in this country alone. R.L. lives in New York City with his wife, Jane, his son, Matthew, a recent college graduate, and his dog, Nadine.
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Random House Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 2003 by R. L. Stine
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Random House Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
Library of Congress Catalog Control Number: 2003091026
eISBN: 978-0-345-46441-5
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