Creepers

by Joanne Dahme

  “Thank you, Courtney.” Mr. Geyer placed a napkin beneath his glass before he replied. “It’s like being an historian or a detective.” He took a long sip before he continued. “My compliments to your father. This tea is delicious.”

  “We’ve done a lot of research, Courtney,” Margaret continued for him. Now she was running her finger up and down the outside of the sweating glass. “Dad and I spent hours at Murmur’s town hall and library, searching for old property deeds, town records, and newspaper clippings. When pieced together, they’re our best clues.”

  Mr. Geyer was nodding in agreement. “We found information on the gentleman who acquired a portion of the cemetery in the 1880s. The section that is now the cornfield across the street from your house.”

  “You mean that other people were once buried there, too?” Mom and Dad sure knew how to pick a house, I thought, trying to hide my displeasure.

  “Yes.” Mr. Geyer smiled, like I was a quick study. “The farmer,Tom Pritchard, owned a few hundred acres adjacent to that part of the cemetery. He had three daughters and, when they married, he wanted to subdivide his farm so that there was enough land for all his relations to make a living. He must have loved those girls, wanting to keep them so close.” He smiled at Margaret as if he perfectly understood the sentiment.

  Margaret ignored him, though. She was staring out the kitchen bay window, watching the vines of ivy swaying in the light breeze. They draped across the windowpanes like a curtain.

  “Can we go into the basement?” Margaret asked. Her eyes were wide and bright, like she could see or smell something that excited her.

  “Sure.” I was more than happy to show them the ivy carvings. I wanted an expert opinion on what the carvings symbolized, and I didn’t quite trust Mom or Dad to supply it.

  We quickly drained our glasses. Even Mr. Geyer seemed excited about the prospect of seeing the carvings again. I led the way down the basement stairs after switching on the lights, describing again how I had found the carvings behind the rows of boxes.

  The musty smell of earth and stone was more pronounced today. I checked the walls by the basement windows to see if any water had leaked in from the rain, but the walls were dry.

  “Smells like a crypt,” Margaret said without the trace of a smile in her voice. I looked at her nervously. How does she know what a crypt smells like?

  “It’s behind the boxes.” I pointed to the top row as Mr. Geyer approached them. “We can pull them away from the wall, if you’d like.”

  Mr. Geyer gave me that concerned-adult look. His eyebrows arched skeptically above his glasses. “Are you sure your parents won’t mind, Courtney? I’m not sure that I would feel comfortable with strangers rummaging through my basement.”

  “You’re not strangers,” I protested.We had known Mr. Geyer and Margaret for at least a few days, I thought. It felt like weeks, though. “Mom plans to empty all the boxes before school starts anyway. And besides, we’re conducting research. Mom loves research.”

  Mr. Geyer smiled, remembering Mom’s enthusiasm about the cemetery tours. “All right, but we must be careful and put everything back as we found it.”

  “Here, Margaret.” Mr. Geyer lifted a box from the top row. “Put this along the front wall, away from the window. The heavy boxes should be on the bottom.”

  “Here. I can help, too,” I offered anxiously. Suddenly I felt frantic to reveal the entire wall.

  It only took a few minutes to expose the carvings.The natural light from the adjacent basement window threw a gentle spotlight across the face of the wall. I watched as Mr. Geyer and Margaret approached the carvings reverently. They looked like a pair of archaeologists who had just uncovered an Egyptian tomb, but instead of scarabs, the wall swarmed with sculptured ivy.

  Mr. Geyer traced one vine with his finger before speaking. His face was only inches away from the wall.

  “I don’t remember the carvings being this detailed and furious,” he said. “Look at this, Margaret.What do you think?”

  At first, Margaret stayed unmoved. I noticed that she was trembling ever so slightly when she finally raised a hand to touch a particularly prominent leaf. It seemed three-dimensional, as if Margaret could grasp it. Even its veins were contoured in relation to the wall.

  I stepped back.The bits of carving I saw last night were impressions, faint images of what occupied the wall now.

  “It looks as if someone carved these again,” Margaret whispered as she turned to face Mr. Geyer. Her face was paler than usual. “Who could have done this?”

  They both then looked at me.

  “I don’t know,” I blurted out, feeling suddenly defensive. “When I found the ivy last night, I had to get really close to see it.” I pictured myself staring at the vines, squinting to see where they led. “But I didn’t move the boxes like we did,” I added.

  Mr. Geyer cocked his head for a moment, as if he were noticing something about me for the first time. His eyes brightened, and then just as quickly went blank as if someone had blown out a candle. “You’re probably right. And it’s been a while since Margaret and I have seen the carvings. Maybe our memories are playing tricks on us.”

  Margaret’s hands were on her hips, and her chin was raised. “Perhaps the ivy thinks it has found something,” she stated.

  I looked back to Mr. Geyer to gauge his reaction. He said nothing as he walked back to the wall to stare at it again.

  “In the basement?” I yelped. “It’s not like we’re talking about the real ivy. It’s just a carving,” I insisted.

  Margaret shrugged. “Dad, I think we should show Courtney our work, since she wants to help us find Prudence.”

  Mr. Geyer turned away from the carvings. He wrinkled his forehead when he looked at me. “Do you want to see our work, Courtney?”

  A shiver ran down my spine.“Sure,” I said softly. I didn’t want the ivy to hear.

  I left Dad a message at work and Mom a message on her cell phone. Mr. Geyer insisted that I let them know where I was going, just in case one of them came home before I returned. Of course, all I said was that Margaret invited me over and that she lived off a little dirt road that hooked into the woods just about a quarter mile south of our house. I was surprised that they lived that close to me. Why had they not told me this before?

  The afternoon heat slowed our pace as we walked along the grass swale on our side of the road. Today, under the pounding sun, the stalks of corn looked weary, not threatening as they did yesterday. Instead, it was the heat that pricked at our skin instead of slapping wind or stinging rain. After only a few minutes, our shirts were darkened with sweat.

  “You’ll be surprised at how much cooler it is at our house, Courtney. The woods keep our house in the shade all the time,” Mr. Geyer said cheerfully.

  I glanced at a white Ford as it slowed cautiously to pass us. An old couple stared at us with big eyes as they crawled by.

  “How long have you lived there?” I directed the question to Margaret.

  “Ummm, about a year, I think, right, Dad? We’re just renting.” She bent to pull a tall blade of grass from the ground.

  “Oh,” I replied.“I guess I thought you always lived here, maybe because of your cemetery tours,” I added lamely.

  “Well, that’s understandable.” Mr. Geyer nodded pleasantly. “I’m a historian of sorts, and my job requires me to travel quite a bit. It’s hard on Margaret, I fear,” he amended gently.

  Margaret tossed her head at the suggestion, her two braids whipping at her right shoulder. “It’s not hard at all, Dad. I like our work.”

  “But it must be hard going to lots of different schools, though, isn’t it? I’m always a wreck when I have to meet a whole new set of people, even though I look forward to new adventures,” I said sympathetically. I searched Margaret’s face for the slightest sign of vulnerability. Her serene features did not crack as her big green eyes locked onto my face.

  “You met us just fine, Courtney. You never seemed
a bit nervous,” said Margaret as she surprised me by slipping her arm around my shoulder.

  “Here’s the road.” Mr. Geyer pointed to what looked to me like a hiking path that turned into the woods. He sounded relieved.

  “Me first!” Margaret yelled. She waved for me to follow her as she suddenly sprinted up the path. I did just that, running along the serpentine trail as it zigged and zagged among massive pine trees. In less than a minute, we stood in a clearing in front of an old stone house.The yard was composed of tree stumps and ragged grass.

  “This is like Little House on the Prairie.” I sputtered. We both were breathing hard and I smiled at Margaret to let her know that I was kidding. If you ignored the row of open cat food cans that were lined along the front wall of the house—tuna, chicken, meat, and cheese, each with various proportions still remaining—all the house needed was some smoke curling out of the little chimney.

  Wild Cats in the Woods? Margaret just laughed. “Come on in. Dad will catch up in a minute.” She pulled a key from her back pocket and pushed open the door. I caught a lingering smell of burned logs from the fireplace.

  The house was a bit dark. I guessed the sunlight had a tough time penetrating the woods’ thick canopy in the summer. Margaret turned on a table lamp by the couch. The first floor, from what I could see, included the living room with the fireplace, a small dining room with a table covered with papers, and a kitchen with just the appliances in the back.The powder room, as my mom would say, was next to the kitchen.

  All the walls were paneled with cedar, and the living room was separated from the loft by thick rafters, where I guessed their bedrooms must be. The coffee table, armchairs, and couch—all the furniture, really—reminded me of mountain houses we had rented on summer vacations.

  “It’s a rental cabin,” Margaret affirmed, as if she could read my mind. “Come sit with me at the table,” she instructed, pulling out a chair. “I want to show you what we have found about Prudence so far.”

  I nodded enthusiastically and plopped myself in the chair beside Margaret. I was eager to see what they had discovered.

  “Girls!” Mr. Geyer called from the door. “Such energy! Let’s just be thankful that it’s always cool in here.” He paused at the table to survey the materials spread on its surface.

  “Do you mind if I show Courtney now, Dad?” Her eyes suddenly softened as if she were pleading with him. Her smile remained.

  “No, of course not, honey. You go ahead and I’ll get some refreshments.” We both watched as he retreated into the kitchen.

  “Look at this, Courtney.” Her hands were trembling as she held up a yellowed newspaper clipping, which was all that was needed to release a torrent of stories. The article was about the sale of the section of the cemetery where the cornfield is now.There was a picture of the farmer and his three daughters. They each held a basket with flowers and were smiling shyly. The farmer wore overalls and a straw hat and was leaning toward the camera as if he did not trust its eyesight.

  There was no stopping Margaret as she dove into the pile of papers. There were more tattered clippings, photocopies of clippings, and photographs of people all more than one hundred years old. Margaret showed me old maps that divided Murmur into parcels of land with people’s names on each parcel. One map had the cemetery as it appeared before it was divided and sold. It must have been thousands of acres wide and it ran all the way to the creek that still runs through downtown Murmur. Our house was even on the map, titled “Cemetery House”. I frowned uncomfortably at it.

  “How about this, Courtney?” Margaret thrust some black-and-white photos that showed men in long coats carrying coffins to a horse-drawn wagon. Someone had written 1897 in their corners. “See, we do have some proof that they were moved, but we haven’t been able to find the document that says where each was moved to.”

  “Those are from reproductions of glass negatives, Courtney,” Mr. Geyer called from the kitchen. Obviously he was standing in there and listening to us.

  “Dad, quit interrupting,” Margaret ordered. “I must read you this, Courtney. Dad copied it from a page of Christian’s journal.”

  I was suddenly so anxious to know its contents. I wanted to reach out and snatch the paper from Margaret’s hand, but instead I sat and politely listened.

  Margaret’s voice dropped to signify Christian. I felt the goose bumps spring up all over my arms.

  The witch stood before my Prudence’s grave. She wore a black shawl against the bitter wind. Her hair was black as a crow’s wing and was blowing freely about her. Her skin was pale and flawless. Her eyes green as ivy. I told her as much.

  “Ivy?” she repeated, grabbing my hands in her own . Her grip was fierce. She bent to trace the ivy I had carved on Prudence’s stone.

  “This is beautiful,” she whispered . “Touch it as I am.”

  She gently forced me to kneel in the wet grass.

  When I placed my hand on the carvings, she sprinkled it with a clear, cool liquid. And then she began the incantation .

  I couldn’t make out many of the words but I did recognize a few—DEATH and GOD and SATAN. She said something about the roots of life, fertility, and salvation . Her final word was PRUDENCE.

  She had tears in her eyes as she pulled her shawl tightly about her.

  “God bless your love,” she said, before turning away from me to walk to the horse she had tied at the gate. I stayed by the grave all that day and night.

  For a moment, I did not say a word. Incredibly, I felt as if I might cry.

  Margaret nodded at me. “I know. It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it?”

  “Was she really a witch?” I finally asked.

  “What is a witch?” Mr. Geyer asked from the kitchen doorway. “Someone with particular talents and perhaps an affinity for nature?” His voice sounded sad. “I don’t know. Margaret and I tried to find out who she was, but Christian never called her by name.”

  “But Margaret thinks she was a witch, don’t you, Margaret?” I trusted Margaret’s instincts about the ivy. Margaret was the one who believed that it was searching for something. She seemed to believe that the ivy was something more than just another plant.

  Margaret looked at me with an appraising smile. “Yes, Courtney, I do. I sense something about the ivy. Something that’s not natural.”

  I felt the same cold thrill I had felt in the basement when Mr. Geyer revealed the ivy carvings behind the boxes. The ivy that looked like it had been fed plant food compared with the carvings I had spied the night before. I sensed something, too, and having Margaret affirm my feelings made my blood course cold.

  Mr. Geyer frowned. “Just because we don’t understand something, Margaret, does not make it strange,” he said. His voice was suddenly stern, as if Margaret had broken a rule.

  “Yes, Dad,” Margaret replied, unrepentant. She flashed me a look as if to say as much.

  I felt a weird tension between them for the first time, which bothered me because they got along so well. They were always together, I realized.

  I looked at my watch. “I had better get home to finish the weeding,” I announced quietly. “Please let me know how I can help you both with the search.” I needed to be a part of this. I felt like I had no choice. I was bound to Prudence—by the house that she had once lived in, by the witch who used potions to try to bring her back to life, by the cemetery that seemed to have a living presence of its own, and by the ivy that I felt was somehow stalking me, too.

  “We will.” Mr. Geyer’s voice had softened. “In the meantime, show the carvings in your basement to your parents and share with them the history of your house.”

  “I will,” I promised as I threw Margaret one last nervous smile before I opened the door.

  I WAS HOLDING THE GARDEN HOSE OVER MY HEAD AS Mom screeched into the driveway. My face was pounding with the heat, and my back was sore from bending down over and over again to pull the remaining weeds that had been given a reprieve by my break. The ivy must be
training them, I thought. Their roots seemed to extend toward the center of the earth.

  “Courtney! Look at you!” Mom yelled as she slammed the car door. Dad hates when she does that. I almost told her so since she was looking at me with such a huge smirk.

  My clothes were wet, and the water running refreshingly down my arms and legs left streaks of mud like vertical stripes. I was sure dirt was smudged all over my face, too. I have a hard time remaining dirt free when working in a garden.

  “And my gloves, Courtney! They’re soaked!” She crossed her arms as she leaned against the hood of the car. I could tell she was feeling a little cocky today. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she was wearing her bright red lipstick.

  “They were soaked when I found them behind that azalea bush!” I protested, taking one glove off and tossing it at her. It landed with a wet thud on the roof of the Jeep.

  “Hey!” She laughed, walking toward me and gingerly giving me a kiss on the forehead. “I know. I was just testing you.” Her startling blue eyes stared into my own. “You did a nice job here, Courtney. Did Dad see it yet?”

  “Nope.You beat him home.” I peeled off the other wet glove as I surveyed my work. The tiger lilies, mums, and other odd assortments of flowers had breathing room now. At least only the ivy clung to the stone of the house and didn’t seem interested in trespassing in the flower bed.

  “Hmm. Dad sure knows how to pick flower combinations.” She smiled, shaking her head. Suddenly she switched gears.

  “Courtney, come into the kitchen and clean up. I’ll pour you a glass of iced tea. I need to talk to you about the article I’m working on.”

  Uh-oh. My mother is also known as a writer-activist. She grabbed my hand and propelled me through the front door. The comparable coolness of the house gave me a sudden chill.

  She tossed me a dish towel after I washed my hands.

  “Courtney, you won’t believe what I found out today,” she insisted while pouring me a glass. “Dry your hair so you won’t catch pneumonia,” she added.