“You broke Sissy’s doll,” Emma screamed. “She’ll be mad!”
Dulcie turned to face Emma. “I told you not to play with that girl!”
“And I told you Sissy’s my friend and I’ll play with her if I want to!” Emma’s face flushed with anger.
“You’ll do what I tell you!” With one quick move, Dulcie grabbed Edith. Pivoting, she threw the doll off the cliff. “Filthy, horrible thing!”
“I hate you!” Emma screamed.
“That’s enough!” Dulcie picked up Emma and headed for the cottage. I ran along behind them, barely able to keep up with Dulcie’s long-legged stride.
Ahead of me, Emma yelled and protested and struggled to escape. Dulcie said nothing. Nor did she look back to see where I was.
Letting them get even farther ahead, I stopped and tried to pull myself together. I was shaking, not just from the rain and the wind but from the scene I’d just witnessed. Why had the doll upset Dulcie so much? She’d acted like a crazy woman, throwing the doll off the cliff as though it were a threat, something evil, dangerous. The scene replayed itself in my mind, over and over—Dulcie grabbing the doll from Emma, screaming, her hair flying around her face, hurling it into space. Strange as it seemed, my aunt had clearly been terrified of that filthy, water-stained doll.
At that moment, standing alone in the rain and the wind, I wanted my mother more than I’d ever wanted anyone in my life. I also wanted my father, my house, my room, my friends. Emma’s behavior scared me—and so did Dulcie’s.
Soaked and shivering, I ran to the cottage. Emma’s bedroom door was closed, but I could hear Dulcie saying, “That doll wasn’t fit to touch, let alone play with.”
“It was Sissy’s,” Emma wailed. “You threw Sissy’s doll away!”
With a sigh, I trudged up to my room. Rain drummed on the roof, and thunder still rumbled in the distance. I thought again about calling Mom and asking to come home. All that stopped me was the thought that she’d say, I told you you’d hate the lake.
I stayed in my room for at least an hour, hoping Dulcie might come up to see if I was all right. Downstairs, all was silent. Not a sob, not a voice. The only sound was the mournful murmur of the wind in the pines outside.
I tried to read, but my room was cold. Shadows gathered in the corners. I began thinking someone was hiding in the dark place by the closet, breathing slowly in and out, in and out. Every time I looked, I was sure I’d just missed seeing who it was.
Unable to stand it anymore, I ran downstairs. Dulcie huddled under a blanket on the couch, reading an art magazine. When she saw me, she put her finger to her mouth and beckoned me to follow her to the kitchen.
The moment the door closed behind me, Dulcie said, “Why did you let Emma go out in the rain? Don’t you have any sense?”
“I didn’t let her go anywhere,” I said. “She went to her room, and the next thing I knew she was running across the field toward the woods. She must have climbed out her window or something. Sissy was waiting—”
“Leave Sissy out of this,” Dulcie broke in. “Emma is your responsibility, Ali.”
Without answering, I turned my back to hide the tears in my eyes. It wasn’t fair to blame me. I was trying hard to take care of my cousin—no easy task with Sissy around. Why couldn’t Dulcie see that?
For a few minutes, the only sound was the endless rain and the ticking clock. The kitchen was shadowy, the yellow paint dull and cheerless. At that moment, I hated Gull Cottage and the lake and the bad weather. It was all I could do not to call my mother to come and get me.
Suddenly, my aunt broke the silence. “I’m sorry, Ali. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just not myself. I can’t do anything right anymore. I can’t sleep, can’t paint, can’t be a good mother—or a good aunt, either.”
She sounded close to tears herself, and when I looked at her, I saw my mother in my aunt’s face. “It’s okay,” I mumbled, even though it wasn’t. Saying something mean and then claiming you’re not yourself doesn’t take the hurt away.
“I don’t understand why that doll upset me so much,” Dulcie said slowly. “I used to buy ugly, dirty old dolls at flea markets and make them into sculptures. Remember? I had dozens of them. Fifty or more.”
I’d forgotten those dolls until now. Dulcie had taken them apart and put them back together, creating monsters like Frankenstein—a leg from one, a head from another, mismatched arms. Some were bald, others eyeless. She often replaced their bodies with boxes filled with strange objects—hard little tinfoil hearts, pebbles, shells, beads, tiny scissors from charm bracelets, sheets of paper with cryptic words written on them, bits of broken china, pennies, knives, nails. Many of them had holes in their heads with springs, feathers, twigs, or dead flowers poking out of them. The scariest had no heads at all. As a finishing touch, she often spray-painted them with a thin coat of green paint, giving them the appearance of things exhumed from graves or the depths of the sea.
“I didn’t like them,” I admitted. “They scared me.”
“They weren’t pretty,” Dulcie said with a small smile. “But, believe it or not, they sold pretty well.”
The smile faded. Dulcie twisted a strand of hair around her finger and pulled it tight. “After Emma was born, I stopped making them,” she said. “I painted and drew more, sculpted less. I thought I’d outgrown my dark stage. But now . . .” She shrugged her thin shoulders. “You’ve seen what I’m doing. Dark. Very dark.”
“The people who bought your dolls might like those paintings,” I said a little doubtfully.
“Maybe.” Dulcie sounded unconvinced. With a sigh, she got up and went to the door. “I’d better check on Emma. Why don’t you open a can of soup for supper? Chicken with rice, maybe. We could use something warm and comforting.”
She got to her feet, and I watched her walk away. The spring in her step was gone, and her shoulders drooped. She looked more like Mom than ever.
While I fixed the soup, I watched the rain fall, veiling the lake, blurring the line between water and sky. Images ran through my head—the cottage, the lake, the canoe, Teresa, the doll, my dream. And Sissy—frowning, angry, full of hatred. They were all connected, I was sure of it.
16
The next morning, Emma woke up complaining of a headache. Her face was flushed, and she was coughing. Dulcie touched Emma’s forehead and hurried to the bathroom for the thermometer.
Emma’s temperature was high enough for Dulcie to call a doctor. “She’ll see us at eleven,” Dulcie told me. “Do you want to come along?”
I peered out at the rain, still pouring down. The cottage was cozy and dry, and I had no desire to go anywhere. I held up To Kill a Mockingbird. “I absolutely have to finish this before school starts.”
After Dulcie and Emma left, I made myself comfortable on the sofa and opened my book. I was relieved to see I’d finished at least two thirds of it.
I hadn’t read more than a dozen pages when I heard a knock at the door. I looked up and saw it was Sissy. Before I had a chance to tell her to go away, she walked into the house as if she owned it.
I closed my book with an angry snap. “Who invited you in?”
“Me, myself, and I.”
“Well, me, myself, and I disinvite you.” I hoped to sound even more sarcastic than she did.
Perching on the old wicker armchair across from me, Sissy made it clear she wasn’t leaving. “Look what I found floating in the lake.” She pulled Edith from under her wet sweatshirt and thrust her at me.
I drew back with distaste. “Get that thing away from me.”
Sissy’s lips curled up in a foxy grin. “I saw Dulcie yank Edith’s arm off and throw her off the cliff. Why do you think she got so riled up?”
“Dulcie didn’t want Emma playing with a dirty, disgusting doll.” I kept my face as blank as I could so Sissy wouldn’t know I’d wondered the same thing.
“You know what? Edith looked like a dead body floating in the water.” Siss
y waved the doll in my face. “And you know what else? I bet Teresa looked just like Edith after Dulcie pushed her into the lake.”
I tightened my grip on my book to keep myself from throwing it at her. “Get out of here!”
Sissy leaned over me, close enough for her damp, stringy hair to brush my cheek, close enough for me to smell its stale, doggy odor. “I know you hate me, but I’m not going anywhere till I feel like it.”
“You ought to wash your hair,” I said. “It stinks.”
“You don’t smell so good yourself.” Clutching Edith, Sissy made a face and dashed out the door into the rain. “Catch me if you can, Ali Ali Alligator!”
As before, she ran into the woods and took the trail along the cliff top. Once again, I followed her. I had to find out where she lived and who she was. If her mother knew how much trouble her daughter caused, she’d keep her at home, make her stay away from Gull Cottage. With no Sissy to spoil things, Emma, Dulcie, and I might actually have fun again.
At first, I had no trouble keeping Sissy in sight. The red sweatshirt flashed around bends in the trail and in and out of rocks and boulders. I ran behind her, keeping a decent distance between us. Just as I was beginning to think I’d be successful, she turned away from the lake and disappeared into that dark grove of pines where I’d lost her before.
Determined to find her, I walked slowly, listening for footsteps and looking for the red sweatshirt. Maybe it was the gloom of the day or the slow, sad murmur of the wind in the trees, but the grove seemed to grow darker and colder. Overhead, a crow cawed, and farther away another answered. I stopped, suddenly afraid.
That’s when I realized where I was. The mossy rocks I’d noticed before were tombstones. Most were so old they blended into the trees and bushes, their inscriptions worn and covered with lichen. Some were newer, their names and dates still legible.
Scared almost witless, I ran toward the road. In my panic, I tripped on small headstones and tumbled to the ground more than once. Brambles caught my hair and scratched my arms, and pine branches whipped my face, but nothing slowed me down. I ran with all my strength.
Then I glimpsed what I’d been looking for—the red sweatshirt.
With a shout, I burst out of a grove of trees. “I see you, Sissy!”
But Sissy wasn’t there. Like an offering, the red sweatshirt dangled from the hand of a stone angel.
Heart pounding, I looked around, sure she was hiding nearby, laughing at me. “Sissy?” I called, my voice unnaturally loud in the silent cemetery.
No one answered.
“Where are you?” I called again.
Still no answer. Not even a giggle.
“Stupid brat!” I yelled. “You can’t scare me with your dumb tricks.”
This time, crows answered, shattering the quiet with raucous cries.
Angry now, I walked right up to the angel. Sissy wasn’t going to frighten me. Or make me look like an idiot. I’d show her.
But as I grabbed the sweatshirt, I noticed the words carved at the angel’s feet.
In Memory of Our Beloved Daughter and Sister
Teresa Abbott
March 11, 1967 to July 19, 1977
May her soul rise from the deep and be at peace
Teresa, Teresa. The name ran round and round in my head like the words of a song you don’t want to hear. Teresa, Teresa, the wind whispered while the raindrops beat out the rhythm.
The angel’s blank eyes gazed at me, its hand reaching out as if to seize mine. I edged away, but the angel continued to stare at me, its marble face expressionless, stained from years of rain and snow.
Unable to bear those eyes, I ran toward the road, dodging headstones and trees. Somewhere behind me, I thought I heard Sissy laugh, but I didn’t dare look back.
It wasn’t until Ms. Trent opened her door that I realized I was still clutching the sweatshirt. I threw it down and flung myself, sobbing, into the woman’s arms.
“Ali!” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“I was in the graveyard up the road,” I stammered. “I saw an angel there, a memorial for Teresa Abbott.”
Ms. Trent nodded, but she was clearly puzzled. “The family erected it years ago.”
“That sweatshirt was hanging from the angel’s hand.” I pointed at the wet, dirty heap on the floor. “Sissy left it there.”
Ms. Trent stooped to pick up the sweatshirt. “I’m not sure what this is all about,” she said, “but you’re soaked, Ali—as usual.” She laughed and shook her head. “You know the drill. Put on the robe and give me your wet clothes. I’ll stick them in the dryer, along with the sweatshirt. When you’re warm and dry, we’ll talk.”
A few minutes later, I was once again wrapped snugly in Ms. Trent’s fluffy bathrobe. Chauncy sprawled on the floor near me, sighing contentedly from time to time. The warmth inside the cottage had steamed up the windows, but deep inside I was cold and shivery.
Ms. Trent handed me a cup of tea and sat down in her rocker. “Promise to visit me on a nice sunny day next time,” she said with a smile.
A log in the stove shifted and fell. I watched Ms. Trent prod it into place with a poker. Firelight danced across her face, showing a fine network of wrinkles.
“What’s wrong, Ali?” She looked at me kindly.
“What did Teresa look like?” I asked in such a low voice that Ms. Trent asked me to repeat the question. “Teresa Abbott—what did she look like?”
She thought a moment, as if trying to remember. “An ordinary kid, kind of plain,” she said at last. “Skinny, small for her age. Sharp featured. Didn’t smile often.”
“Did she have blond hair?”
“Yes. Yes, she did. In the summer, it turned almost white.” She smiled. “That was the only thing about Teresa I envied—her hair. When I was a teenager, I wanted to be a blond.”
I huddled deeper into the soft sofa. “Was Teresa’s sister, Linda, ever Miss Webster’s Cove?”
“Yes, but—”
I interrupted. “Did she wear a tiara and ride in a motorboat parade and throw roses in the lake?”
“Did Dulcie tell you that?” Ms. Trent asked. “I didn’t think she remembered anything.”
“No, not her. Somebody else.” I fidgeted with the bathrobe’s sash, twirling it this way and that. What I was thinking couldn’t be true—at least I hoped not. “Was Linda beautiful, and did she have lots of boyfriends?”
“Linda Abbott was the prettiest girl in high school. All the boys were in love with her.” Ms. Trent took a sip of tea. “Has Jeanine been telling you about Linda?”
I shook my head. There was one more question. And it was the scariest one of all. Hoping she’d say no, I asked, “Did Linda ever call Teresa . . . ‘Sissy’?”
Ms. Trent put her teacup down slowly. “Yes,” she said slowly, as if remembering something long forgotten. “That was Linda’s nickname for Teresa when she was little—Sissy.”
I pulled the bathrobe tighter, but I couldn’t stop shivering. Cold seeped in through every seam. My feet were frozen, and so were my hands. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
Ms. Trent looked at me, hands clasped, face serious, and slowly shook her head. “I know what you’re thinking, Ali, but Sissy’s a common nickname. That girl might be a troublemaker, but she’s not Teresa.”
“She looks like Teresa,” I replied. “She acts like Teresa. She won’t tell me her last name or where she lives. If I try to follow her, she disappears.”
When I began to cry, Ms. Trent moved to the couch and put her arm around me. “I know you’re upset, but you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Sissy is Sissy—a real girl. She’s not Teresa’s ghost. It’s impossible.”
I wanted to snuggle into her side like a little kid, I wanted to believe her, I wanted to be comforted by her soft, reasonable voice. But no matter what excuses Ms. Trent made up, I knew what I knew.
“What about the sweatshirt?” I asked. “Sissy put it in the angel’s hand because she wants me
to know who she is.”
“She left the sweatshirt there to scare you,” Ms. Trent said, still calm, still reasonable. “You know—for a prank, a joke. It’s exactly the sort of thing a girl like Sissy would do.”
“That’s what I thought at first, but . . .” I drew away from her side. “What if Mom and Dulcie were in the canoe with Sissy? What if they did something to her? What if she wants revenge?” My fears tumbled into words as I spoke.
Ms. Trent peered into my eyes. “What happened to Teresa was very sad. But this is the real world, Ali. You exist, I exist, millions of people exist. Ghosts do not exist—there’s no room for them.”
“You’re wrong,” I said, weeping. “You’re wrong.”
Ms. Trent tried to hug me again, but I shrugged her arm away. If she really wanted to comfort me, she’d believe me, she’d help me, she’d tell me what to do.
With a sigh, she got to her feet. “Your clothes must be dry. Why don’t you get dressed, and I’ll drive you home. My old Volvo seems to be working. At least for now.”
Silently, I took my jeans and T-shirt, still warm from the dryer, and headed for the bathroom to change. Just as I closed the door, I heard the phone ring. Ms. Trent picked it up.
“Yes, Ali’s here. I just told her I’d—”
Dulcie. What did she want? I yanked on my clothes and ran to Ms. Trent’s side.
Ms. Trent handed me to the phone. “It’s your aunt.”
“Where is Emma?” Dulcie shouted into my ear.
“Isn’t she with you?” I gripped the receiver, frightened by the panic in her voice.
“No! We came home, you weren’t here, I gave Emma an antibiotic and put her to bed.” Dulcie’s words fell over each other and tangled themselves into a knot. “I just went to check on her. The window’s open, and she’s gone. Where would she go all by herself? It’s raining, she has a fever, she should be in bed.”
“I don’t know where she is. I’ve been here—”
“If you’d been home, where you belong, she wouldn’t be gone,” Dulcie broke in. “Don’t you ever think of anyone but yourself?”
A Haunting Collection Page 11
