MOON FALL

by Tamara Thorne

  Minerva rose from her rocker, for once wishing she owned a cane to lean on. You can lean on nothing but yourself, old woman, you know that. Steadfastly she walked into the kitchen and retrieved a blue five-pound bag of Morton's salt, then crossed to the front door and lifted the old-fashioned wooden bar latch. Her hands trembled, not with pain, which she could control, but with terror born of knowledge. You can control that, too, so stop feeling sorry for yourself.

  Straightening her shoulders, she opened the door, letting in the night, which was thick and still and cool, though not so cold as the interior of the cottage. No crickets sang, no rodents scuttled through the brush; the night was waiting, and so was she.

  Suddenly, from above, a horrible cry rent the silence and something even blacker than the night flapped heavy wings as it crossed over the cottage.

  "Get away," Minerva said softly, forcefully, as she opened the edge of the salt bag. "Get away, stay away, you'll not have me tonight." So saying, she poured a line of salt across the threshold, then stepped carefully over it to walk around the cabin, encircling it completely in salt. As she walked she spoke in the old language, her tongue rolling over r's, her voice lilting and youthful, as it had been the day she'd reported the woman's body in the pond.

  As she spoke the words, the aches disappeared from her hands and the stiffness from her legs, and by the time she poured the last of the salt, connecting it to the beginning at the threshold, she was moving quickly, her energy returning. She stepped over the salt, into the doorway, then turned and looked out at the night. She heard the horrible cry again, but it was distant now, repelled by the salt, as were the other negative forces. As she closed the door, the crickets, the last of the season, began their song at last, and inside the air was toasty warm.

  You've only put a bandage on a broken bone. She threw away the empty salt bag, then retrieved a large leather-bound volume from a bookcase near the dining table. Returning to her rocker, she opened it and began studying her own words from long ago. A bandage on a broken bone, that's all. You have to do it right this time. You have to win this battle, or the war will be lost.

  Twenty-two

  Sara's dreams were filled with gargoyles, all of them with Mother Lucy's menacing features, all of them screeching and coming after her, razor-sharp talons extended and dripping with blood.

  Suddenly, Jenny Blaine's face appeared, pale and bloodless. "Get out of here, Sara. Get out before they kill you, too!"

  Sara awoke, a scream caught behind her teeth. For a moment, she didn't know where she was, only that she was in utter darkness, shivering though the sheets were soaked with sweat.

  I'm at St. Gruesome's. The realization didn't help, but made her more fearful instead. "Jenny." She whispered the word, half expecting to see her, or the ghostly woman Basil-Bob Boullan claimed had frightened her predecessor. Maybe they're one and the same.

  Breathing hard, she frantically felt for the cheap little bedside lamp, found the switch, and turned it. Dim yellow light filled her room. Her heart and respiration began to slow, and shakily she pushed the covers back and climbed from the bed. What a nightmare! It seemed silly, now. Sort of.

  Thirsty, she realized that all she had to drink was Pepsi. Damn! She'd been in such a hurry to go to bed that she hadn't bothered to fill the water pitcher she'd found on a shelf in the closet. So, do I drink soda, go thirsty, or walk down the hall to the lavatory and fill the pitcher?

  Her bladder put its two cents in, making her decision for her. She pulled on her robe and tied it, then grabbed the pitcher, went to the door, and kneeled and removed the rubber wedge.

  She opened the door a crack, cautiously peering left, then right, down the hall, making sure it was empty, then stepped out, closing the door softly behind her.

  The floor was freezing cold; she'd have to buy slippers next time she went to town. She decided not to bother with going back inside for shoes-the chilliness of the air in the hall had redoubled her bladder's demands.

  Only a few of the fly-specked bulbs were on at this hour, and in between were patches of darkness which effectively telescoped the corridor. It was unnerving, but Sara continued on, refusing to look at the gruesome portraits on the wall, refusing to give in to her nervousness, her desire to run instead of walk.

  She breathed a sigh of relief as she pushed open the door to the lavatory. She balanced the pitcher on the edge of a yellowed porcelain sink, then went into one of the dozen toilet stalls. Somewhere behind her, in the shower room, she could hear faucets dripping, slowly and steadily.

  The shattering of glass made her scream. "Hello?" she called. ''Is someone there?"

  There was no reply. The pitcher fell, that's all. She took a deep breath, held it, exhaled, did it again, then stood, her legs rubbery as she flushed, then opened the stall door. "Hello?" she called again.

  The white pitcher lay in shards on the floor. No wonder it fell. It had been stupid of her to leave it in such a precarious position. ''Damn," she muttered, as she took a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and started cleaning up. "Damn it."

  A shower turned on. Sara, brushing the last shards of glass into a towel, raised her head. Who could be in here? Another shower came on, and another. Do nuns shower at two in the morning? That was ridiculous, but someone was in the shower room, and she- or they-hadn't answered when she'd called out. The thrum of water against tiles increased as more showers were turned on.

  Sara dropped the towel full of glass in the trash can, then tiptoed across the floor toward the shower room. A sting on the bottom of her foot made her look down and she realized she'd tracked blood across the floor. She paused to examine her foot, found a small oozing wound below the toes. There was no glass in it. The hell with it. She flattened herself against the white tiled wall and edged along until she came to the open entryway. She peeked around the comer, and at first saw nothing but steam.

  After a moment, she made out the shower heads, two dozen of them. most spewing hot water, judging by the steamy heat on her face and in her lungs. There was no movement, there were no people, just the water, pounding and pounding. She jumped as a shower head near her suddenly came to life. Not believing her eyes, she watched as the hot water handle turned by itself. "No," she whispered.

  "Sara ... Sara ... Sara ... "

  The words echoed in her ears. They came from the middle of the showers, but still she couldn't see anyone. Steamy mist, like fog, pulled apart and then wafted together again, over and over. "Sara ... Sara ... Sara ...

  " Something began slowly to glide toward her, a wavery oblong of steam that took form as it neared. "Sara ... Sara ... "

  She couldn't move but watched raptly as a woman took form within the steam. ''Sara ... "It glided toward her, and now Sara could see the eyes, dark indentations, the suggestion of a nose and mouth. ''Sara ... "Long hair waved around the face.

  "Jenny," she whispered, no longer afraid. "Jenny, is it really you?"

  The foggy specter peered at her with sorrowful eyes, then raised her arms, turning them to show the inner wrists. In the sea of white, the long red gashes, from wrist to elbow, stood out vividly. Sara's stomach clenched, and then she saw the specter's face transform from Jenny Blaine's gentle features into a monstrosity from her nightmares. At the same moment, the showers turned off and the phantom began to laugh, a horrible cackle, a screeching, gleeful, hysterical laughter that grew louder as the specter drifted away with the dissipating steam.

  Suddenly, Sara's paralysis ended and she raced from the lavatory, ghostly laughter following her all the way down the hall to her door. She yanked it open and slammed it shut behind her, the cackle echoing in her ears. Frantically she shoved the rubber wedge under the door, then took one of the straight chairs from the dinette set and wedged it under the knob.

  She couldn't think, couldn't even begin to comprehend what had happened. Emotions drained, feeling completely numb, she lay down on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and waited for dawn.

  Twen
ty-three

  "Hi, Dad!"

  ''Doesn't anyone ever knock anymore?" John smiled to show his son it was nothing personal. "Corey, Pete, how're you doing?" he asked, nodding at Mark's friends, who hovered in his office doorway. "You boys come to turn yourselves in?"

  Corey Addams, a slight, blond thirteen-year-old, looked a little worried, but Pete Parker, of sturdier stock, grinned evilly. "We ain't squealin', copper." The kid's Brooklyn accent stank.

  ''Then why are you here?" John pushed away the stack of manila folders he'd been going through since noon in a fruitless effort to find references to Jennifer Blaine's death, then folded his hands on his desk. "You look like you want something."

  Mark nodded. "Caspar wants to hire us to help set up for the Halloween Haunt. Can I do it, Dad?"

  The Haunt had lost its attraction for John in 1972, but his son loved it as much as he had before the accident, and he wasn't about to deny the boy his fun. Particularly, he thought, if that meant he might spend a little less time hanging around Minerva Payne's bakery. "As long as you get your homework done on time."

  ''No problem, Dad. Thanks." He paused. ''Can I sleep over at Corey's tonight? His mom and dad said it was okay, and Pete already asked and he gets to go."

  John hesitated. Every time Mark wanted to stay at the Addamses', the old memories resurfaced, especially of how he and Corey's father, Winky, and the others had sneaked out of the house after assuring their parents they wouldn't. He'd let Mark stay at the Addamses' occasionally, but as now, he always tried subtly to change the plans, even though he knew it was a ridiculous thing to do. "Why don't you boys spend the night at our place?'' he asked. "You can call out for a couple pizzas and rent some movies. My treat."

  Mark glanced at his friends, who both looked amenable, but when he turned back to John, he said, "Dad, Mrs. Addams is making pot roast. I don't want to miss that!"

  "Pepperoni, Mark," murmured Pete, who, like Corey, was blessed with a career mother and yearned for pizza the way Mark desired home cooking. ''Olives, mozzarella."

  ''All the pepperoni you want, guys."

  "Yeah," said Corey Addams.

  ''No, Dad," Mark said, almost apologetically. ''We always stay over at our house or Pete's. I really want to go. Besides," he added in a sly tone, "Corey's parents are going to think I don't like them if I don't go sometime."

  Win some, lose some. Knowing he was wrong, John made himself smile and nod at his son. "Go ahead. But don't forget your toothbrush," he added, with a trace of satisfaction. "So what are you guys going to do?"

  "Caspar's gonna let us design part of the Haunted Barn," Mark said.

  "We're gonna plan it all out tonight," Pete said, "and tomorrow we're gonna show it to my grandfather for approval."

  Caspar was Pete's great-grandfather, but John supposed that was too much of a mouthful, and who was he to quibble? Both he and Mark called his grandfather by his first name. ''Well, it sounds like you're going to be busy," John said, happier now that he knew they probably wouldn't have time to get into any mischief. "Have fun, you guys. And Corey, say hi to your dad for me, okay?"

  "Sure."

  The boys left the office, Corey Addams pausing to pull the door closed behind him. Corey was a lot like Winky, but he reminded John even more of Paul Pricket, the friend he missed most of all. He would never forget looking up, clinging to Greg's body, and seeing Paul above him, hearing the words, "Take my hand." He felt a pang. You couldn't put a price on a friend like that, and he suddenly wished he could see him again. After his family had moved down to Santo Verde in 1973, he'd heard from him once or twice, and they still exchanged Christmas cards, which of late included no more than one "Hope you're well" line. He knew Paul had gone to seminary in Claremont and was now a Catholic priest in a small parish; or at least, he was as of last Christmas. You're seriously considering contacting him, aren't you?

  John shook his head. Maybe it was all the exposure to the nuns, maybe it was the suicide of Lenore Tynan, or the visit of the pretty young teacher alleging another suicide. Or maybe it was barely a month before Halloween, and like it or not, he always thought about the others, especially Paul, this time of year. And you've never even admitted that to yourself until now, have you?

  He rose and put the files away, then grabbed another batch, these from 1985, and sat back down. He hadn't been able to get Sara Hawthorne off his mind, even though he thought she might be a nut. He at least wanted to find the report on her friend's death, and prove to her it was a suicide. And to myself.

  Doubt was eating away at him, and picking up the phone, he punched in Frank Cutter's number. He should have thought of the doctor hours ago.

  He was on hold ten minutes before Frank came on the line. He spent a few minutes telling him about the visit from Sara Hawthorne and the story of her roommate then waited another ten while the doctor searched his files.

  “Not a trace of anyone named Jennifer Blaine here, John. You say she was a suicide?"

  "Yes, though it's been alleged foul play might have been involved."

  "If it happened in this county, I'd have a record of it, John. So would you."

  "Maybe your file is misplaced?" John tried.

  "Mine and yours both? I don't think so." Cutter cleared his throat. "Unless this was covered up by the nuns, which is unlikely, since they came to us about the Tynan woman, I'd say your schoolteacher is imagining things." There was a pause. ''Of course, you might want to check with Dashwood. Maybe he didn't bother to report it."

  "You mean, he covered it up?"

  "Yes, that's what I mean. I'm not going to tell you your business, John, but don't get a bug up your ass and go out there and accuse the man of anything. Just say you can't find a record of the death and ask to see his copy. Don't put him on the defensive."

  John suppressed a groan. Sometimes he got sick of working around the same people who worked with his father, they tended to treat him like a child. Cutter was even worse, since he was a good friend of his grandfather's too. He suppressed a childish urge to protest Cutter's assumption that he didn't know how to do his job. "I'll keep it in mind, Frank. Thanks."

  He hung up and stared at the folders for a long moment before returning them to the cabinet. Before he could think twice about it, he shrugged on his leather jacket, grabbed his hat, and left for St. Gruesome's.

  Twenty-four

  "You guys are such chickens!" Mark Lawson swung off his bike outside Apple Heaven. "Minerva Payne's pies are a hell of a lot better than the nuns', and she'd let us have a price break, too!"

  Corey Addams twined a chain through his front bicycle tire as Pete Parker counted his money. Neither answered.

  "What d'you think, guys?" Mark chided, "That Minerva's gonna shove apples in your mouths and stick you in her oven?"

  Pete took the bait. "Nah, we're just afraid she's gonna want to give us blowjobs, like she does you."

  Mark talked as rough as his friends, but the remark about Minerva offended him. He tried to hide it, knowing Pete would redouble his insults if he thought he was getting to him. "You're chicken, Parker-admit it."

  "I want a mincemeat pie, and everybody knows the nuns make the best in the world." Pete shoved his money back in his pocket. "I got three bucks." He looked at Corey. "You want mincemeat, too, right?"

  "Yeah, sure. I have two dollars and thirty-one cents."

  "What about you, Lawson?"

  "I'm not gonna chip in for mincemeat. Yuck!"

  "Who's chicken now?" Pete asked. "You never even tried it.”

  "Hell, no, and I'm not gonna," Mark said firmly.

  "Why not?" Corey asked, threading the chain through Pete's and Mark's tires as well.

  '' 'Cause my dad calls it moose turd pie, and he knows what he's talking about."

  "Do you believe everything your daddy says?" Pete asked.

  Corey snickered. "Turds! I love it. It's not made of turds, Mark! I'll bet your father never even tried any, either."

  "Sure he has." Mark
didn't really know whether he had or not; he only knew his dad had been right about anchovies, buttermilk, and especially the true nature of sweetbreads. That was good enough for him. "You guys get yourselves a pie. I'm gonna get a pumpkin tart."

  ''We need two dollars more for a pie, so you have to chip in," Pete said.

  "No way. That's all I have. You guys get mincemeat tarts. They're plenty big."

  ''Are not." Pete protested. You don't hardly get any. They're a waste of money."

  Mark looked at Corey. "Your mom'll have dessert anyway, right?"

  "Yeah, but it's probably apple cobbler or something."

  Pete and Corey looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

  "I like apples," Mark admitted, locking his bike to Corey's.

  "Yeah," Corey said, "but you wouldn't if you lived in an orchard and had 'em every day."

  "Damn straight."

  ''Okay, look." Mark dug his two dollars out and handed them to Corey. ''Buy your moose turd pie, but I get your apple cobblers."

  "Cool," Pete said. "It's a deal."

  They walked up the wide wooden steps to Apple Heaven. The building was low and long, painted barn red with white trim. Mark pushed open the door and the fragrance of apples assaulted his nose.

  The place was empty of tourists, and evidently nuns, this late September afternoon, and Mark took the opportunity to wander up and down the shop. At one end of the bakery was a seating area for tourists who needed a piece of pie on the spot. The rest of the place was lined with boxes of apples, apple cookbooks, fancy potholders, mugs, salt-and-pepper shakers made of fake mason jars, and an array of apple-head dolls. Mark thought they were the ugliest things he'd ever seen, especially the ones dressed like little nuns. Above the displays were reproductions of apple and pear company posters from earlier in the century.

  One area was reserved for the bakery counter, its glass case filled with pies and tarts. Behind the unmanned counter were advertisements for Apple Heaven's wares, including "Our World Famous Heavenly Mincemeat Pies."