Trick or Treat
Page 15
The space was so tight they could barely fit side by side. Somehow Conor squeezed ahead of her, and as she heard him slip and throw out his arms, she realized they were on a narrow stairwell. Conor’s fingers found hers, closed and tightened, pulled her down … down…. Terrified, Martha slid her way behind him, gasping as spiderwebs clung to her face.
Without warning Conor stopped, and Martha crashed into him with her cast. She could hear his hands scrabbling against wood.
“Where are we, Conor? Where are we?”
“I don’t know —” The answer came out in a gasp, and Martha was suddenly aware of his shirt, soaked and stuck to his side. At first she thought it was his fever, but as she rubbed her fingers together, the wetness was too thick for sweat.
“Oh God, Conor, you’re bleeding —”
“Am I?” he said weakly.
She could feel him now, shivering uncontrollably. She slipped off her shawl and knotted it around him. Sliding her arms about his waist, she pressed her head against his back and prayed.
Without warning the wall opened up, and they fell through.
For several seconds Martha was too stunned to move. She lay there in a tangled heap with Conor, her heart hammering against stone, and she realized they were on the floor. It was damp and freezing cold, and as she opened her eyes, there was only blackness.
“I … think … we’re somewhere in the cellar,” Conor gasped. He was seized by another fit of coughing, and Martha tried to pull him into a sitting position.
“But where in the cellar? Oh, Conor, you’re really hurt — what are we gonna do?”
“Listen.” His hand came down on her arm, trying to steady himself.
“What? I don’t hear anything.”
“That’s what I mean. We’re not being followed anymore.”
Martha’s heart skipped a beat. “Then … where is he? Where are we?” Her whisper echoed ghostly in the icy air. From somewhere in the distance came a steady drip of water, and dampness lay thick around them, heavy and stale.
“Wait! Oh, Conor, wait a minute!” With a flash of hope, Martha fumbled in her pocket and pulled out the packet of matches Greg had given her. “I think there’s a few left. Conor, Wynn said she saw Dennis at the party! You were right — he never died in that accident — he’s been waiting all this time —”
Conor was having trouble getting the matches open. He was gasping so hard for air that Martha reached out in alarm.
“Let me — I can light them.” She struck one and Conor took it between trembling fingers, moving it through the air in a flickering arc.
They seemed to be in some sort of storage closet. Most of three walls were covered with rotted shelving, old bottles, jars, and crumbling boxes; the fourth wall was taken up by a huge door. Conor let the match drop and Martha quickly lit another, taking in the mildew, broken glass, seeping puddles across the stone floor….
“Help me with the door,” Conor said breathlessly.
“No, don’t do it, Conor, let me. You keep lighting matches.”
“Save the matches — we may need them —”
In the darkness once more, Martha heard Conor trying the handle, but it wouldn’t open. Together they braced their shoulders against it and shoved, but the door wouldn’t budge.
“I’ll scream for help,” Martha said. “Greg and Blake and Wynn are in the house somewhere — they’ll be looking for us — they’ll hear us and —”
The laugh came without warning … filling the cellar … echoing from each black corner … rising … then fading on the other side of the locked door.
Martha’s blood chilled within her. Frozen where she stood, she heard the slow, deliberate footsteps … the slow, demonic chuckle from the unseen face….
“No one will ever hear you again,” the voice said. “No one will hear you … and no one will find you.”
Martha’s mind went into a frenzy. That voice — that voice on the phone —
“I’m the one who really loved you … don’t you see? I would have loved you best of all…. But no — you always wanted to be together.” The voice sounded sad. “And now you will be. Forever.”
In the dark the next sound was deadly.
In the dark it was an explosion, but in some part of Martha’s mind it was only a small spurt of flame….
“Trick or treat,” the voice said.
And in the hissing, crackling quiet, a tendril of smoke curled beneath the door … curled into Martha’s face.
“It’s a fire,” Martha said, and she reached for Conor in the dark. “He’s going to burn us alive.”
Chapter 18
The blackness surged in, thick and suffocating, and the blackness was her mind, her world, all her hope, and she was falling, falling, and something was trying to pull her back —
“Martha, come on,” Conor choked, his hands like icicles through her clothes “you can’t give up now — there has to be a way out of here —”
“He thinks I’m Elizabeth,” she said numbly, “and he thinks you’re Blake, and all this time he’s been plotting — waiting for just the right time — and we fell right into his hands —”
“Martha, snap out of it!” Conor’s hand slapped at her cheek, but there was no strength in it, and he was so cold … so cold…. She heard him crawling back to the secret passageway … scraping at the wall … fighting for breath…. “It won’t open … we can’t get out this way….”
“Here.” Martha felt like a robot, her body moving through no will of her own. “You light the matches and I’ll look. You need to save your strength.”
“I’m … okay….” He bent double in another siege of coughing, and Martha knew it was more than just the cold now. In the glow of the match she could see dark red drops around his feet, the long dark stream down the side of his jeans, the rip through his shirt. And now the shadows were thickening with pale, gray smoke. She could see a glow under the door, and as Conor lit another match, she began to pound for all she was worth.
“Help!” she screamed. “Somebody! Let us out of here! Oh, Conor — why aren’t they coming? He must have done something to them —” She looked down in dismay, felt the raw sting of her hands, heard the flames licking at the door. Her throat was already beginning to burn.
“Get down on the floor,” Conor said softly. “It’s … easier to breathe.”
We’re going to die. The realization came calmly and quietly, and she looked at Conor’s face in the dying glow of the match flame. We’re going to die and he knows it and he doesn’t want me to be afraid….
“I’m sorry, Conor,” she whispered.
“Sorry? For what?”
“For everything … for causing you so much trouble … for getting you into this.”
He tried to laugh, but it ended in a moan. “You sound … like you don’t think we’ll get out of here.”
“I don’t think we will. You don’t, either, do you?”
“You never did … know me very well….”
She felt his hand on her head … the brief touch of his cheek against her hair….
Blinking back tears she threw her arms around him and was shocked at how frail he suddenly felt.
“The shelves, Martha,” he whispered, “something to break down the door —”
And she did it, not because she believed it would work, but because he was so determined and she wanted him to believe. She crawled to one wall of shelves and began ripping the sagging boards, and suddenly — suddenly — she jumped up with a shriek.
“Are you all right?” There was real fear in Conor’s voice this time, and Martha stared at him, too shocked for a moment to answer.
“Conor, there’s something behind here!” she gasped. “I think it’s a … a tunnel or something —”
Conor struck the last match, straining to peer through the smoky darkness.
“It isn’t even boarded up — it’s just got junk piled in front of it like someone wanted to hide it!”
The mat
ch sputtered … went out.
“Let’s go,” Conor said.
It was scarcely more than a crawl space. As Conor pulled himself along on his uninjured side, Martha struggled with her cast and crept behind him in a daze of terror. The tunnel echoed with Conor’s labored breathing and the soft scurrying of rats — and she had the most horrible feeling that they were crawling deeper and deeper into the earth, farther and farther from help, the darkness going on and on forever.
When Conor suddenly stopped moving, Martha threw herself on him in a panic. “Conor! Are you —?”
“A door … there’s … a door at the end,” Conor said, and Martha heard his fists scraping wood, each sound weaker and weaker….
“Conor!” She shook him violently, a shiver of danger rippling through her from head to toe. “It’s opening —”
The groan of old, old hinges echoed through the dark.
And as the opening widened, it filled the tunnel slowly with hazy light.
Martha felt Conor’s hand tighten on her own … pull her forward as he staggered to his feet into the light….
“Martha …” he whispered, and she felt him stumble, felt his ice-cold hands go even colder — “we’re in the mausoleum.”
For one split instant her mind went totally blank — and no, this isn’t real, I’m only in a dream, I’ll wake myself up, I’ll make myself wake up now — right now — and she floated ahead, still in a dream, still led by Conor through a harmless, wondrous dream….
The light hurt her eyes.
Hazy and bright all at once, pulsing through the shadows … clawing up the walls where the dead lay in their quiet places … dancing in the fiery ring around an altar wreathed with candles….
An altar wreathed with candles….
And the stale, faded sweetness of dead flowers….
Of death….
And she felt Conor’s arm go around her, turning her away, away from the lights, away from the hundreds of flickering candle flames —
“Don’t look, Martha —”
“Conor, what is it? What’s there?”
“No,” Conor said, and he sounded so strange — and no, I don’t want to hear this, I won’t listen, it’s not real —
“Martha,” Conor said, “I think we just found Dennis.”
And Martha, staring back at him in horrified disbelief, saw something else suddenly gliding up behind him, the tall black figure floating from the shadows, its Death face reflecting the hundreds of tiny, tiny lights —
“Conor, watch out!” she screamed.
The knife flashed down … slicing the darkness … ripping into Conor’s shoulder….
She saw him jerk forward … slide to the ground at her feet….
And Death bending over him, the knife oozing blood onto the floor….
“Dennis,” the voice scolded, “how did you get out?”
And then Death looked straight into Martha’s eyes.
“Elizabeth … why are you making me do this again?”
Martha staggered backwards, eyes fixed in terror as Death stood there quietly, watching. Beneath Conor a dark pool was widening over the floor.
“Why?!” Martha screamed. “Why are you doing this?” Her hands were out, reaching for Conor, but Death stepped between them. “Can’t you see? I’m not Elizabeth! I’m Marthal Elizabeth’s dead! You killed her!” And Martha was crying now, moving back as Death came closer. “Why did you do it, Blake?” she sobbed. “You couldn’t have hated Dennis that much — you couldn’t have been that afraid of losing Elizabeth — you could have had anything you wanted —”
Vey slowly the black sleeve raised. The twelve-inch blade glittered and sparkled in the light.
“I want you, Elizabeth,” he hissed. “Trick or treat!”
Martha never had time to scream.
She saw the blade plunging down —
And the tiny flames scattering like sparks as doors burst wide and wind and rain roared through the tomb and two bodies hurled themselves forward, flinging Death away —
And then she heard the screaming —
The wild, insane screaming as Death thrashed and twisted in Blake’s arms —
“Blake …” Martha murmured.
“Greg, call an ambulance!” Blake shouted, and he was wrestling the mask away, tearing the knife from clenched hands, throwing the heaving body to the floor as the long brown hair spilled out around the contorted face — “They’re dead — do you hear me, Wynn? Both of them … dead.”
Chapter 19
“Conor!” Martha knelt beside his prone figure, touched his side, his shoulder, drew back a bloody hand. “Oh, Blake, I think he’s —”
“He’s not dead. Here — hold this against him. Hold it tight.” Keeping one eye on Wynn, Blake stripped out of his black cape and lay it over Conor, then took off his shirt and pressed it to Conor’s shoulder. Conor’s face was ashen, but his eyes fluttered open, trying to focus on the two faces bending over him.
“Hey, you’re gonna be okay — you hear that?” Blake squeezed Conor’s hand. “Just hang on, man — hang on.”
Conor’s eyes clouded, pain and confusion glazing them over. His head moved, searching for Martha. “You … okay?”
His lips barely moved, and Martha leaned close to him, forcing a reassuring smile.
“Thanks to you … be quiet now, the ambulance is on its way —” Her eyes widened in alarm as his hand slid from her arm. “Blake!”
Blake searched for a pulse and nodded grimly. “He just passed out. Keep that against him.”
“Why didn’t you let me keep him, Elizabeth?” the voice from the corner said. It wasn’t Wynn’s voice, but it was coming from Wynn’s mouth, and a stranger stared out at them from Wynn’s dull eyes. She drew her knees up, curling herself into a ball, and began to rock, very slowly, watching them.
“You thought you loved Dennis, didn’t you, Wynn?” Blake said softly. “Why didn’t you tell us how you felt?”
The eyes grew dark with a dangerous hate. Martha pressed against Conor, as if she could shield him from it.
“You hated him,” Wynn said. “You would have fixed it so we couldn’t be together.”
“He didn’t love you, Wynn,” Blake said. “He loved Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth … Elizabeth … Elizabeth …” she chanted softly. “Elizabeth didn’t want him. Elizabeth was through with him. I couldn’t let him go back to her … he’d never have known how much I loved him. I was the one, you know….” The eyes were coldly smug. “I was the one who loved him best.”
Blake looked down at the floor. On the other side of the room a few candles still flickered around the makeshift altar, throwing grisly shadows over the stone walls and faded markers … shadows of something that might once have been human….
“You followed them that night, didn’t you?” Blake said quietly.
“I followed them. I had to follow them. The calls didn’t work, and the threats didn’t work, and they were going to talk that night, he was going to convince her to come back to him….” The eyes closed, only for an instant, then popped open, glittering. “I had him all to myself for a while … I had someone who loved me —”
“He didn’t love you. He was using you.”
“Don’t you say that! Don’t you ever say that!”
Martha cowered back from the hate-filled eyes, but Blake met them straight on.
“He was using you to keep tabs on Elizabeth —”
“He loved me!” Wynn cried. “He wanted to stay with me!”
“So what did you do that night, Wynn? After you followed them home, how did you manage to get Elizabeth alone in her room?”
Wynn pondered a moment, a frown at the corners of her mouth. “I just went in. I just walked in, that’s all. They didn’t even hear me.” Her features twisted at the memory. “They were in her room, and they were laughing … and I could hear them talking … and I could hear the bed … and they didn’t even know I was there —”
“They thought I was a prowler,” Wynn smiled. “I made them think that. I made just enough noise downstairs and I went to the cellar. And then Dennis came down, just like I knew he would….”
Martha wanted to cover her ears, but she couldn’t. The cast on her arm felt like dead weight…. The fingers on her other hand had gone numb from trying to staunch Conor’s blood….
“You hit him,” Blake said softly. “Didn’t you?”
Wynn nodded, her expression gone blank. “I had to. I had to do that.” She traced a circle on the floor with her finger. “I took a knife from the kitchen. I went up the secret stairs to her closet. She was still on the bed waiting for him. She was smiling.” Wynn shrugged, almost indifferently. “I didn’t have a choice, really. I had to.”
Blake turned away then, his face grave. He put up one hand as if to hold back the horrible images, but Wynn went on.
“She didn’t really fight me,” Wynn said, as if that still amazed her. “She was just so surprised…. It was really just so easy….”
“What … did you do with Dennis?” Blake mumbled.
“I went back down to tell him the news — that we were finally free — but — but” — the eyes widened, the face crumpling in slow motion — “he wouldn’t answer me, he wasn’t moving, he wouldn’t talk —” She took a deep breath, her voice going hard. “It was Elizabeth’s fault — it was her fault Dennis got hurt — if she’d stayed away from him, he never would have … have….”
Martha’s heart clutched as Wynn began to uncoil and stand up. Blake positioned himself casually between them, but Martha could see his every muscle tensed. From the wildly flickering darkness near the front of the tomb came the cautious approach of footsteps.
“Greg?” Wynn called softly. “Greg, is that you?”