Dark Secrets 2: No Time to Die; The Deep End of Fear by Elizabeth Chandler Page A
Book: Dark Secrets 2: No Time to Die; The Deep End of Fear by Elizabeth Chandler
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Authors: Elizabeth Chandler
Tags: Fiction, Death, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Interpersonal relations, Actors, Murder, Ghosts, Horror Tales; American, Mystery and detective stories, Sisters, Actors and actresses, Problem families, Dysfunctional families, Horror stories, Camps, Family Problems, Teenagers and Death, Tutors and Tutoring, Young Adult Fiction; American
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York. On the first page I discovered the carousel in Central Park, which Liza and I had ridden about a million times. I continued to turn the pages, feeling a twinge of home-sickness—a park bench and street lamp, a greengrocer's striped awning and boxes of fruit, St. Bartholomew's Church. Then I found myself in Wisteria.
All three drawings were of the bridge over Oyster Creek. I studied one, tracing with my finger the dark lines of its pilings. I began to feel light-headed.
The moonlit paper turned a cool silvery blue. The image of the bridge swam before my eyes like a watery reflection.
It was happening again, the same strange experience that I'd had last night and in the theater. Frightened, I tried to pull back, tried to pull out of it. My muscles jumped, my head jerked. I felt wide awake and relieved that I could focus again. But when I looked around, I wasn't in my room.
Oyster Creek Bridge stretched above me. I heard a car drive over it, its wheels whining on the metal grating, the pitch rising, then dropping away.
Silence followed, a long, ominous silence.
"Liza," I whispered, "are you there? Liza, are you making this happen? Help me—I'm scared."
The image of the bridge dissolved. I could see nothing now, nothing but darkness with an aura of blue, but
I could sense things moving around me. The air was teeming with words I couldn't discern—angry words and feelings worming in the blackness.
I felt something being fastened around my wrist. I didn't know who was doing it or why and tried to pull my hand away. My arms and legs wouldn't respond.
"Help me! Help me, please."
The words stayed locked inside me. I tried to move my lips, but I had no voice.
Then a pinpoint of light broke through the darkness. I moved toward the light, and it grew larger and radiant as the sun. But something stirred in the darkness behind me and I quickly turned back. I saw another light, a smaller, dimmer image, like the reflected light of the moon. Suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass. The moon shattered.
I blinked and looked around. I was back in my room at Drama House, and the moon was in one piece high in the sky, shining down on a mere sketch of the bridge.
I clutched the art pad til its spiral bit into my fingers. What was happening to me?
When I had the blue dreams as a child, I was always asleep, but these visions were invading my waking hours. If I was awake, they had to be daydreams, imaginings about the place where Liza had died. And yet they came unsummoned like nightmares—dreams I couldn't control.
Now, more than ever, I needed Liza here to comfort me. And yet, it was the memory of her that gave these visions their terrifying life.
Chapter 8
Fear of slipping into another nightmarish vision made it difficult for me to fall asleep that night, but once I did, I slept solidly and could not remember any dreams when I awoke Wednesday morning. I walked to the meal hall with Shawna and Lynne, who reported that last night's adventure had been pretty dull. The girls had simply stood at a window of one of the frats and talked for a while to the guys.
In the middle of her analysis of this year's selection of guys, Shawna suddenly stopped and pointed to a group of kids clustered around the back door of Stoddard. "They posted the cast. Come on!"
She and Lynne rushed down the path. Tomas, who had been standing at the back of the crowd of campers, hurried toward me, grinning.
"You did it, Jenny. You did it! Congratulations! I knew you would get the part."
"Part—what part?"
"Puck," he said.
"As understudy, you mean." Please let that be what he means, I thought.
"No, no, you're it," he announced happily. "Isn't that great?"
"Yeah, real great… if you like a fairy that looks nauseated, sweats profusely, and speaks in a squeaky voice. I have to talk to Walker."
"Jenny," Lynne called to me, "you're Puck."
"Way to go, Reds!" Shawna hollered.
"I'm Hermia," Lynne called. "Shawna is Peter Quince, the director
All three drawings were of the bridge over Oyster Creek. I studied one, tracing with my finger the dark lines of its pilings. I began to feel light-headed.
The moonlit paper turned a cool silvery blue. The image of the bridge swam before my eyes like a watery reflection.
It was happening again, the same strange experience that I'd had last night and in the theater. Frightened, I tried to pull back, tried to pull out of it. My muscles jumped, my head jerked. I felt wide awake and relieved that I could focus again. But when I looked around, I wasn't in my room.
Oyster Creek Bridge stretched above me. I heard a car drive over it, its wheels whining on the metal grating, the pitch rising, then dropping away.
Silence followed, a long, ominous silence.
"Liza," I whispered, "are you there? Liza, are you making this happen? Help me—I'm scared."
The image of the bridge dissolved. I could see nothing now, nothing but darkness with an aura of blue, but
I could sense things moving around me. The air was teeming with words I couldn't discern—angry words and feelings worming in the blackness.
I felt something being fastened around my wrist. I didn't know who was doing it or why and tried to pull my hand away. My arms and legs wouldn't respond.
"Help me! Help me, please."
The words stayed locked inside me. I tried to move my lips, but I had no voice.
Then a pinpoint of light broke through the darkness. I moved toward the light, and it grew larger and radiant as the sun. But something stirred in the darkness behind me and I quickly turned back. I saw another light, a smaller, dimmer image, like the reflected light of the moon. Suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass. The moon shattered.
I blinked and looked around. I was back in my room at Drama House, and the moon was in one piece high in the sky, shining down on a mere sketch of the bridge.
I clutched the art pad til its spiral bit into my fingers. What was happening to me?
When I had the blue dreams as a child, I was always asleep, but these visions were invading my waking hours. If I was awake, they had to be daydreams, imaginings about the place where Liza had died. And yet they came unsummoned like nightmares—dreams I couldn't control.
Now, more than ever, I needed Liza here to comfort me. And yet, it was the memory of her that gave these visions their terrifying life.
Chapter 8
Fear of slipping into another nightmarish vision made it difficult for me to fall asleep that night, but once I did, I slept solidly and could not remember any dreams when I awoke Wednesday morning. I walked to the meal hall with Shawna and Lynne, who reported that last night's adventure had been pretty dull. The girls had simply stood at a window of one of the frats and talked for a while to the guys.
In the middle of her analysis of this year's selection of guys, Shawna suddenly stopped and pointed to a group of kids clustered around the back door of Stoddard. "They posted the cast. Come on!"
She and Lynne rushed down the path. Tomas, who had been standing at the back of the crowd of campers, hurried toward me, grinning.
"You did it, Jenny. You did it! Congratulations! I knew you would get the part."
"Part—what part?"
"Puck," he said.
"As understudy, you mean." Please let that be what he means, I thought.
"No, no, you're it," he announced happily. "Isn't that great?"
"Yeah, real great… if you like a fairy that looks nauseated, sweats profusely, and speaks in a squeaky voice. I have to talk to Walker."
"Jenny," Lynne called to me, "you're Puck."
"Way to go, Reds!" Shawna hollered.
"I'm Hermia," Lynne called. "Shawna is Peter Quince, the director
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