unspeakable, unthinkable.
"Hey. Laurie!"
Rarely had she been so relieved to be pulled out of a fantasy. The caller was Tommy Doyle, the boy she was sitting for tonight. The eight-year-old with tousled brown hair and bright eyes trotted up to her, swinging two or three books strapped together with a belt. Laurie, whose own load of books qualified her to join the Stevedore's Union, sighed at this symbol of vanishing youth. "Hi, Tommy."
He caught up with her and they walked side by side for several paces. "Are you coming over tonight?"
"Same time, same place."
"Can we make jack-o'-lanterns?"
"Sure."
"Can we watch monster movies?"
"Sure."
"Will you read to me? Can we make popcorn?"
"Sure. Sure."
Her answers came absently and automatically. They were the same questions every time, but this time she was thinking about poor Judith Myers as they turned the corner and walked the hundred paces into Peecher Street where the Myers house was. She couldn't purge her mind of that awful picture of a knife, a long, silvery knife, flashing through the air and plunging into her body. A knife wielded by a . . .
"How old are you?"
They had stopped abruptly, and Laurie was staring at the boy. "You know how old I am. I'm eight. Why?"
She hesitated, not wanting to put murderous thoughts into the head of the kid she was sitting for tonight. Yet there was something she had to know. "Have you ever felt like—like killing somebody?"
The boy shrugged. "Sure."
"You have? "
"Sure. Hasn't everybody?"
"They have? " Her eyes bulged.
"Sure. When somebody takes something away from you, or your parents tell you you can't have something, or the teacher gives you too much homework, you feel like killing them. Is that what you mean?"
"Uh, well . . ."
"Oh, that's what you mean!" Tommy said, eyes rounding and the color draining from his face. They had arrived at the Myers house.
It was a ghost of its former self, weather-beaten and dilapidated. Set back from the street twenty or twenty-five paces, it stood glowering in the cool autumn morning like some mangy, brooding beast. Its former spanking coat of white paint, the symbol of pride of every fine midwestern home, had turned to dingy gray, and much of it had peeled or flaked off, revealing a pitted and rotting facade of shingles. Several windows had been broken by kids or vandals, a few of whom had been bold enough to scrawl graffiti on the front door. A huge elm beat against an upstairs window as the breeze stiffened.
"You're not supposed to go up there," the kid said, freezing to the spot.
Laurie flourished the key. "Yes, I am."
"Uh-uh. That's a spook house."
"Just watch," she said, walking coolly up to the porch. She lifted the welcome mat as her father had instructed and placed the key under it. She had wanted Tommy to know how unafraid she was, but if she was so unafraid, why was her hand damp with perspiration as she pulled it back from the mat?
For a moment she stood transfixed, contemplating that night fifteen years ago—"My God, fifteen years ago to the very night!" she realized—when the tragic event had taken place. She vaguely heard Tommy on the sidewalk pleading with her to get away from there, but the horror of it attracted her in some perverse way. Was it the fascination of the innocent with wickedness, or just some sort of sick curiosity? Or was she herself capable of the same gruesome deed?
She shut her eyes and imagined herself picklng up a butcher knife and plunging it into the breast of . . . of whom? Whom did she loathe so much she would want to do that to? To someone in your own family, for God's sake! She couldn't think of a soul.
"Laurie, please, I'm getting scared," the boy was whining.
"So am I," she laughed with a shudder, trotting down the porch steps and joining her young companion.
And, as she turned her back on the house, a figure inside it, dark, shadowy, sidled up to the front door and pushed the tattered curtain aside with a knuckle. He watched the
"Hey. Laurie!"
Rarely had she been so relieved to be pulled out of a fantasy. The caller was Tommy Doyle, the boy she was sitting for tonight. The eight-year-old with tousled brown hair and bright eyes trotted up to her, swinging two or three books strapped together with a belt. Laurie, whose own load of books qualified her to join the Stevedore's Union, sighed at this symbol of vanishing youth. "Hi, Tommy."
He caught up with her and they walked side by side for several paces. "Are you coming over tonight?"
"Same time, same place."
"Can we make jack-o'-lanterns?"
"Sure."
"Can we watch monster movies?"
"Sure."
"Will you read to me? Can we make popcorn?"
"Sure. Sure."
Her answers came absently and automatically. They were the same questions every time, but this time she was thinking about poor Judith Myers as they turned the corner and walked the hundred paces into Peecher Street where the Myers house was. She couldn't purge her mind of that awful picture of a knife, a long, silvery knife, flashing through the air and plunging into her body. A knife wielded by a . . .
"How old are you?"
They had stopped abruptly, and Laurie was staring at the boy. "You know how old I am. I'm eight. Why?"
She hesitated, not wanting to put murderous thoughts into the head of the kid she was sitting for tonight. Yet there was something she had to know. "Have you ever felt like—like killing somebody?"
The boy shrugged. "Sure."
"You have? "
"Sure. Hasn't everybody?"
"They have? " Her eyes bulged.
"Sure. When somebody takes something away from you, or your parents tell you you can't have something, or the teacher gives you too much homework, you feel like killing them. Is that what you mean?"
"Uh, well . . ."
"Oh, that's what you mean!" Tommy said, eyes rounding and the color draining from his face. They had arrived at the Myers house.
It was a ghost of its former self, weather-beaten and dilapidated. Set back from the street twenty or twenty-five paces, it stood glowering in the cool autumn morning like some mangy, brooding beast. Its former spanking coat of white paint, the symbol of pride of every fine midwestern home, had turned to dingy gray, and much of it had peeled or flaked off, revealing a pitted and rotting facade of shingles. Several windows had been broken by kids or vandals, a few of whom had been bold enough to scrawl graffiti on the front door. A huge elm beat against an upstairs window as the breeze stiffened.
"You're not supposed to go up there," the kid said, freezing to the spot.
Laurie flourished the key. "Yes, I am."
"Uh-uh. That's a spook house."
"Just watch," she said, walking coolly up to the porch. She lifted the welcome mat as her father had instructed and placed the key under it. She had wanted Tommy to know how unafraid she was, but if she was so unafraid, why was her hand damp with perspiration as she pulled it back from the mat?
For a moment she stood transfixed, contemplating that night fifteen years ago—"My God, fifteen years ago to the very night!" she realized—when the tragic event had taken place. She vaguely heard Tommy on the sidewalk pleading with her to get away from there, but the horror of it attracted her in some perverse way. Was it the fascination of the innocent with wickedness, or just some sort of sick curiosity? Or was she herself capable of the same gruesome deed?
She shut her eyes and imagined herself picklng up a butcher knife and plunging it into the breast of . . . of whom? Whom did she loathe so much she would want to do that to? To someone in your own family, for God's sake! She couldn't think of a soul.
"Laurie, please, I'm getting scared," the boy was whining.
"So am I," she laughed with a shudder, trotting down the porch steps and joining her young companion.
And, as she turned her back on the house, a figure inside it, dark, shadowy, sidled up to the front door and pushed the tattered curtain aside with a knuckle. He watched the
Similar Books
