The Dead End

by Mimi McCoy

Erik shook his head. “You are definitely not psychic.”

  “I never said I was,” Casey retorted. What a strange guy Erik is turning out to be, she thought. Strange, but interesting. “How do you know all this stuff about ghosts and psychics, anyway?”

  “TV.” Erik shrugged as if it were obvious. “Don’t you watch cable?”

  “Not those kinds of shows,” said Casey. “Too scary.”

  “Cable TV. Wild animals. Crossing streams. Boys named Erik.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Is there anything that doesn’t scare you?”

  “No,” said Casey. Then she added, “Well, maybe not boys named Erik.”

  Erik grinned. Then he leaned back against the rock, with one hand behind his head. “Anyway, it’s too bad you don’t know what kind of ghost it is,” he said. “At least then you’d know what you were dealing with.”

  They sat there awhile longer. When the sun moved directly overhead, Erik stood up. “I’d better get going. I told my mom I’d be home for lunch.”

  Casey reluctantly got up, too. She wasn’t looking forward to going back to the house.

  “You first this time,” Erik said as they began to make their way back across.

  Gingerly, Casey stepped out onto the rocks. She was halfway across when Erik suddenly gave her a push from behind. She lost her balance and splashed into the stream, falling in up to her knees.

  “What did you do that for?!” Casey shrieked.

  “Not so bad, right?” Erik said.

  Cold water rushed around Casey’s legs. After she’d recovered from the shock of falling, she realized it felt surprisingly good.

  Erik grinned. “Now you have one less thing to be afraid of.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Casey squelched home in wet sneakers. As she walked through the front door, she was hit with the smell of paint.

  “Hello! Anyone home?” Casey poked her head into the living room. It looked bright with fresh white paint, except for one wall that had been painted brickred. The paint still looked wet, and there were brushes and rollers strewn around, but the room was empty. Somewhere in another part of the house, she could hear someone hammering.

  Casey sighed and climbed the stairs. In her bedroom she took off her wet shoes and socks, laying them on the windowsill to dry, then changed out of her sweaty T-shirt.

  As Casey was pulling a clean tank top over her head, she suddenly became aware of a different sound. It was softer than the hammering, but just as steady.

  Tap-tap-tap-tap.

  Casey paused and listened. There was a long pause; then it came again. Beneath it, Casey thought she heard the faint sound of someone crying.

  She went out into the hallway. “Mom?” she called. “Dad?”

  There was no answer. The hammering had stopped. Casey listened again. The muffled noise was louder now. It definitely sounds like crying, she thought.

  She followed the sound to the end of the hall. At the door to the attic, she stopped. The crying seemed to be coming from somewhere overhead.

  Casey hesitated with her hand on the knob. She’d avoided the attic ever since the day she’d gone up there with her mother.

  But what if Mom or Dad is up there? she thought. Maybe they went up to the attic and something fell on them. They could be hurt!

  Taking a deep breath, she turned the knob. In the narrow stairwell, the sound of crying was clear. Casey was sure she heard someone call, “Help me!”

  “I’m coming!” Casey yelled, her feet pounding the steps. She had a terrible vision of one of her parents lying injured above her.

  The tapping was back, and louder now. The sound swelled into thumps, then bangs. Someone was pounding violently against something, as if trying to get out.

  “I’m coming!” Casey shrieked again.

  She emerged into the attic, practically stumbling into the room. Casey looked around frantically. The room was empty.

  But she could still hear the desperate pounding. It was coming from the corner of the attic.

  Casey started toward the sound, but halfway there she froze. Her blood turned to ice. The thumps were coming from inside the steamer trunk.

  Casey didn’t remember turning and leaving the room. The next thing she knew, she was scrambling down the staircase, screaming for her parents.

  She heard footsteps, and suddenly her parents were in the hallway, their eyes wide with surprise and concern. Casey threw herself into her mother’s arms.

  “There’s something up there!” she cried. “There’s something in the attic!”

  “Casey, what is it?” her mother exclaimed. “What happened?”

  “Someone was knocking and crying!” Casey was crying herself now. “They were calling for help!”

  “A person?” Her father looked alarmed. He brushed past her, headed for the stairs.

  “Don’t go up there!” Casey screamed. But her dad was already taking the steps two at a time.

  “Joe, be careful!” her mother called worriedly.

  “It’s the ghost, Mom! It’s the ghost. I know it is!” Casey clung to her mother like a baby. Her mother held her and didn’t say anything.

  A moment later, Casey’s father came back down the stairs.

  “There’s nothing up there,” he said. He and Casey’s mother exchanged a look.

  “But I heard something!” Casey said.

  “It could have been an animal,” her father told her. “The window was open. A raccoon or some other critter could have crawled in. Whatever it was, it’s gone now.”

  “It wasn’t an animal! I heard a voice. A human voice. It was saying, ‘Help me!’ It was coming from the steamer trunk!”

  “The steamer trunk was wide open,” her father reported. “And it was empty.”

  This news went through Casey like an electric shock. “It was closed before. I know it was.”

  “It was locked the other day,” Casey’s mother said, her brow furrowing. “I couldn’t find the key.”

  “Well, someone must have found it.” Casey’s father looked at Casey meaningfully.

  “It wasn’t me.” She took a step back.

  He thinks I’m playing some kind of joke, she realized suddenly. He thinks I’m making it all up. “It wasn’t me,” she repeated. “Don’t you understand? This house is haunted! We have to get out of here!”

  “Calm down, Casey….” her father began.

  “I won’t calm down!” she screeched, her voice rising to a hysterical pitch. Tears began streaming down her cheeks again. “Why won’t you believe me? There is something terrible in this house!”

  “Casey, that’s enough!” her father shouted.

  Casey was so surprised she stopped crying. Her father had never yelled at her like that before.

  He took a deep breath, running his hands through his hair. “Now, I understand you don’t like it here.” His voice was low with barely controlled anger. “But this behavior has got to stop. Your mother and I have put a lot into this house. This is our dream, and you are just going to have to make it work. All this sulking and stomping around. The nighttime antics, and this ridiculous talk about ghosts — I’m sick of it. Do you hear me, Casey? It has got to stop.”

  Casey stared at him, stunned. She looked over at her mother. Mrs. Slater was silent, but Casey could tell from the look on her face that she agreed with Casey’s dad.

  Without another word, Casey spun on her heel and ran to her room.

  She flung herself down on her bed, weeping. The house was haunted; she was sure of that now. Casey was more frightened than she’d ever been. She felt certain that they were in danger, but for the first time in her life, she couldn’t count on her parents to protect her. And if they didn’t believe her, there was nothing she could do.

  “I’m trapped,” Casey sobbed into her pillow. “Trapped.”

  Over the next few days, things got worse. Casey mostly avoided her parents during the day, preferring to go for walks or stay in her room reading. Dinner was a mostly silen
t affair, punctuated by scrupulous politeness. (“Could you please pass the salt? Thank you.” “Would you like some more peas?” “No thank you.” “How is your steak?” “Fine, thank you.”) The tension that had simmered in the house all summer had risen to a boil.

  As if in response to the uneasy atmosphere, the ghostly activity increased. Dishes rattled, windows slammed shut, books tumbled from shelves. Once, Casey tripped over a toolbox that had suddenly moved from one place to another and bruised her toe badly. She never mentioned any of these incidents to her parents. What would be the point? But a cold knot of fear lodged in her chest, like an ice cube that had gotten stuck going halfway down.

  Twice Casey went back to the stream, hoping to run into Erik, but he was never there. Once, she started up his driveway, thinking she might find him at home. But halfway to the house, she saw a face gazing at her from a window. Casey gave a tentative wave. But the figure in the window just stared at her blankly, and Casey got intimidated and ran away.

  “What could Erik do, anyway?” Casey told herself gruffly, trying to brush away her disappointment. “He’s just a kid like me.”

  In the end, Casey spent most of her time with Millie. She had started reading the diary again. In it, she found a friend whose experiences almost mirrored her own.

  June 29,

  Dearest friend,

  Today Mama and Papa were out, and I was reading in my room, when I heard the front door slam. I thought that they were back, so I went down to say hello. But nobody was there. I ran back up to my room and hid there until they got home.

  July 5

  Dearest friend,

  Canning day today. Mama had two bushels of berries, and she was bound and determined to can every single one. Of course, she gave me the task of boiling all the jars.

  It was horribly hot in the kitchen, and the longer we were in there, the worse I started to feel. Not just because of the heat, but because I could tell something bad was going to happen.

  And then it did. When Mama’s back was turned, three of the jars burst right in a row — POP, POP, POP! It sounded like guns going off, and there was juice splatter and glass splinters everywhere. Mama thought I had broken them somehow, but I hadn’t! Why do these things keep happening? I have heard that there are devils and spirits who choose one person to torment. Is it a devil following me?

  As she read, Casey searched the pages for clues for who or what the ghost might be. But Millie didn’t seem to know either. As the diary went on, she wrote less and less about her experiences, and more about her dreams.

  August 2

  Dearest friend,

  Every night I live through another fire. Smoke and ashes fill my dreams. It’s gotten so I hardly want to close my eyes. The sight of a candle flame starts me trembling….

  August 8

  Dear friend,

  Today when I was in my room, I happened to glance in the mirror over the dressing table. I saw my face — and yet, it wasn’t my face. I saw my round cheeks and my dark eyes, but my face was smudged with soot and ash. My hair was a tangled black cloud, and smoke billowed all around me. I saw myself caught in the fire!

  I screamed for Mama, but when I told her about it, she said it was just my imagination running wild. She said I have been reading too many silly books. She took all my adventure novels then and put them away somewhere. But I don’t think this was from too much reading. I have never read a story like this….

  August 12

  Friend,

  Mama and Papa are worried. They think I am growing too thin. “You need to eat,” they say when I pick at my food. But I have no appetite. How can I eat when I have a feeling that something terrible is going to happen?

  August 14

  F,

  I have started to have a new dream. There is no smoke or flames, but somehow it is even more terrible than my fire dreams. In this dream, it is very dark and I am all alone. I think Mama and Papa must be looking for me. I call their names again and again. But they never hear me and they never come….

  At night, Casey dreamed, too. But her dreams were never about fire. Over and over, she dreamed she was playing hide-and-seek in the house. Sometimes she was hiding; other times she was the one searching. These dreams had a sense of urgency, and always, just before she awoke, Casey heard a singsong voice cry out, “Ready or not, here I come….”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  One week after the steamer trunk incident, Casey came to the end of Millie’s journal. It was dated August 22, and as usual, it began, Dearest friend.

  I am going to have a party today! Mama and Papa are throwing it, and they won’t even tell me why. It isn’t my birthday or anything. Papa said, “Who needs a reason for a party?” They have planned all kinds of games and things. “Now, if that doesn’t put a smile back on your face, I don’t know what will,” Papa told me.

  We have invited children from all over Stillness — sixteen altogether. Edie Finney is coming from way out on North Road. Also, Grace Evanston, Pearl Miller, the Avery girls and baby Jackie, Nathan and Rose Hopkins, George Archer, Gretchen Forsyth, and of course the Henrikssons — Johan, Peter, the twins, Alf and Charles, and little Anna. I have even invited Gunner Anderson, although he does not really deserve it.

  Mama has been working on the cake all morning. It has yellow icing and sugar roses. I am going to wear my best dress, and as soon as Mama is done with the cake she is going to braid ribbons into my hair.

  The only bad thing is that there were clouds when I woke up this morning. I hope they go away. I don’t want a single drop of rain to spoil my perfect party.

  I am so excited. I think I may burst waiting for it to begin!

  Yours truly,

  Millie

  Casey turned to the next page, but it was blank. So was the next. She flipped to the end of the journal, then went back again and checked each page carefully. There wasn’t so much as a single word.

  Casey closed the diary, feeling troubled. She couldn’t imagine why Millie would stop writing.

  Maybe she made a new friend at the party, Casey told herself, so she had someone to talk to and didn’t need her diary anymore.

  But that didn’t seem right. After all, Millie wrote about everything in her diary. Wouldn’t she write about making a new friend, too?

  “It doesn’t really matter,” Casey told herself. “It all happened a long time ago.”

  She set the journal aside and went downstairs. Her parents had finished painting the living room and were now working on the second room, running rollers of white paint up and down the walls. Casey skirted the paint-splattered drop cloths and went out to the porch. On the swing, she put on her headphones and tried to listen to No Tomorrow. But for once the moody music didn’t soothe her. She couldn’t shake the thought of Millie from her mind.

  Finally, she took off her headphones and got her bike.

  “I’m going for a ride,” she called through the dining room window to her mother.

  “Be back before dinner!” her mother called back.

  Casey pedaled to the gas station and called Jillian. To her relief, her friend picked up on the second ring.

  “Casey!” Jillian shrieked. “You called at totally the best time! I’m about to meet up with David to go to this concert in Central Park. Do you think I should wear my zebra-striped mini or that orange sundress I got at the Salvation Army?”

  “I don’t know,” said Casey. “Jillian, listen, I need to talk to you. I’m really worried about something.”

  “Case, what’s wrong?” Jillian asked, her voice suddenly filled with concern.

  “It’s complicated,” Casey said. She launched into the story of finding Millie’s diary in the attic, Millie’s eerie predictions and her disturbing dreams, and the abrupt way the diary ended.

  “She was going to a party and she was really excited,” Casey explained. “I can’t understand why she’d suddenly just stop writing. I’m worried, Jillian. I have this feeling something bad happened —
”

  “Hold on,” Jillian interrupted. “You’re not making sense. You said you found this diary in the attic and it’s really old, right?”

  “Uh-huh. It was written in 1939.”

  “So … I don’t get it. What are you so worried about? I mean, for all you know, she could be dead.”

  Casey gulped. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she whispered.

  There was silence on the other end of the line. Then Jillian cleared her throat. “Look, Casey, I don’t know how to say this, but you’re acting really weird. Why are you freaking out about someone who lived, like, forever ago?”

  Casey paused, searching for the words. How could she explain to Jillian that Millie felt as real to her as Jillian — as real as Casey herself? That what happened to Millie did matter. It mattered a lot.

  On the other end of the line, Casey heard the buzzer to Jillian’s apartment.

  “Oh, sugar,” Jillian said. “That’s David, and I haven’t even finished getting dressed. I have to go. Are you going to be okay?”

  “Sure,” Casey said, trying to make her voice light.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Call me later. Promise?” said Jillian.

  “Okay.”

  Casey hung up the phone, feeling rattled and confused. Jillian was right, of course. If Millie wasn’t dead by now, she was at least very, very old. But it was hard for Casey to imagine her that way. To her, Millie would always be the girl she was in her diary.

  Jillian was too busy to listen, and Casey knew that her parents wouldn’t understand. But there was still one person who might.

  Casey wheeled her bike up the driveway to Erik’s house. She could see toys scattered around the yard. Two little kids were playing in front of the house. They both had short curly blond hair like Erik’s.

  “Hi there,” Casey said as she drew up close. “I’m looking for Erik. Is he around?”