Nightshade

  She saw nothing of the grotesque gargoyle that stared back at her, its eyes painted a hideous purple, its cheeks clumsily smudged with bright red, its lips an open wound the color of blood.

  Instead she saw a face that was radiant with youth, and even more beautiful than Cynthia’s had ever been. She looked as if she were ready for a formal dance, complete with perfect white gloves that came to her wrists.

  Only one thing was missing — she hadn’t yet put on her perfume. A moment later her fingers closed on the bottle of Nightshade. She shook it, then lifted the stopper from the vial’s neck. As the room filled with the heavy, musky scent — the sensuous aroma that had always been Cynthia’s favorite — Joan dabbed fluid on her neck. The heavy fragrance hanging around her like a cloud, she rose from the vanity and left the room, feeling a tingling sense of eagerness, as if some beau — someone who truly loved her — might be waiting for her downstairs.

  When she came out on the landing, she looked down for the man who should be waiting for her, smiling at her, extending his hand toward her.

  But there was no man.

  There was no one.

  There was only Cynthia.

  Cynthia, and her terrible, mocking, taunting, cruel laughter.

  As it pealed in Joan’s ears, slashing at her spirit, tearing at her soul, she flinched. Then, with decades of suppressed rage boiling inside her, she started down the stairs.

  * * *

  WHAT LITTLE HOPE Kelly Conroe had been able to cling to was quickly fading. Though she could barely feel her hands or feet, it felt as if someone were slowly twisting off her arms and legs, ripping her limbs from her shoulders and hips. Though she’d managed to scrape the tape from her mouth, it had done nothing more than allow her to breathe more easily, for her throat and mouth were so parched with thirst that she could barely manage to speak, let alone scream. Not that she believed anyone would hear her. Not even Mrs. Moore, who had stopped muttering and hadn’t answered at all when she had finally rid herself of the gag and spoken to the old woman. Kelly had given up imagining what might lie beyond the blackness, given up wondering how she might escape. She was going to die, and even that didn’t really frighten her anymore, for at least it would be an escape from the pain that gripped her body.

  Suddenly, a shaft of light appeared from above, and Kelly instinctively reacted like a creature of the dark, trying to scuttle out of the light, to escape from it back into the safety of the darkness. But then her eyes began to adjust to the glare.

  The chamber in which she’d been imprisoned was no more than a dozen feet square and eight feet high, and looked exactly as she’d imagined it would — the floor packed earth, the walls rough-hewn wood. Then Kelly caught sight of Emily Moore and her stomach contracted into a convulsive retching. Mrs. Moore lay curled against one of the walls, her back toward Kelly. The old woman’s wrists were bound just as hers had been, but instead of hands, there were hideous stumps of putrefying flesh where the hands should have been. A pool of muck lay around Emily Moore’s lifeless body, and as Kelly realized that it could only be the old woman’s congealed blood, her belly heaved again, and her throat and mouth burned with the acid her stomach ejected.

  A sound jerked her attention away from the corpse of Matt’s grandmother, and she saw that a ladder had been lowered through the hole in the ceiling through which the light still glowed.

  Rescued!

  She was being rescued!

  But a moment later, seeing a figure come down the ladder, her brief moment of hope was extinguished. Then the figure was looming above her, and even though the face was shrouded in shadow, she could see that it was covered with grotesque makeup, and contorted with fury.

  The figure spoke, and Kelly knew who it was.

  “How do you like it?” Joan hissed. She drew her foot back and kicked Kelly. “How do you like being locked up in the dark?” She kicked again, and as the shoe struck Kelly’s ribs, the girl screamed with agony and attempted to scramble away. But Joan followed her, hissing down at her. “Now you know how it felt! Now you know how I felt when Mother locked me in the cedar chest! And now you’re going to know how it felt when she hit me! See how you like it, Cynthia! See how you like it!” As Kelly cowered in abject terror, Joan raised her hand, and as it hovered in the glow of the light spilling in through the hole in the ceiling, Kelly saw that Joan Hapgood was wearing some kind of glove.

  A pale glove that almost looked like —

  The hand descended, smashing against Kelly’s face. She screamed and again tried to writhe away, but the hand rose again, and this time, as the light illuminated it, she saw that it wasn’t a glove at all.

  It was the skin of Emily Moore’s hand, stretched tight over Joan’s own, the old woman’s cracked and yellowed nails looking like claws.

  A second later Kelly felt the nails dig into her cheek, and she screamed from the burning pain of the scratches.

  “See how you like it,” Joan hissed again and again as she lashed out at Kelly. “See how you like what Mother did to me. What you let her do to me! See how much of it you can stand!” Joan’s kick sank deep into Kelly’s gut, and more blows rained down, pounding at her until her face was bleeding and she could feel the bruises swelling.

  Barely conscious, she only dimly realized that tape was again being pressed across her mouth. I’m going to die, Kelly thought. I’m going to die, and nobody’s ever going to find me. . . .

  CHAPTER 24

  ON ANY OTHER day, Becky Adams would have gone directly from her final period geometry class to the room in the basement where Mr. Addington taught photography and the darkroom was located. There, she would have either checked out a camera to take pictures for either the school newspaper or the yearbook, or spent an hour or two in the darkroom.

  “I don’t understand it,” her father had said when she decided to sign up for Mr. Addington’s advanced class this year after taking a summer school course from him. “Why would a pretty girl like you want to hide behind a camera or in a darkroom?” Though she hadn’t even tried to answer his question, Becky knew exactly why she liked photography: Until now, she’d never felt like she was a genuine part of the school. Everybody else — everybody she’d grown up with — had lots of friends and were involved in all kinds of things: sports teams, the cheerleading squad, the band or the choir. Everyone else seemed to have found a place to fit in. But it wasn’t until she discovered photography that Becky had found her own place: even though she still wasn’t a part of any of the groups in the school, she could at least photograph them. But the best hours were the ones she spent in the darkroom, where she didn’t have to try to fit in with anyone else.

  Today she was supposed to have photographed the football team for the yearbook, but that had been cancelled, and Becky knew why: it was because of the bruises on Pete Arneson’s face. That, and the fact that no one wanted to be in the picture with Matt Moore.

  All day long she had overheard the gossip. It seemed as if everywhere she went — in the classrooms, in the halls, in the cafeteria, even in the library during her fifth period study hall — everyone was whispering about what Matt had done. By the time the final bell rang, all Becky wanted to do was get away from it. But while she was getting her books out of her locker she couldn’t help overhearing Jessica Amberson talking to Tammy Brewster.

  “I’m not going to go anywhere by myself. Nowhere at all!” Jessica was saying. “I can’t believe I used to want to go out with him.” Her eyes widened as she thought of the possibilities. “My God, Tammy, it could be me Matt murdered instead of Kelly!”

  Becky slammed her locker shut so hard that Jessica and Tammy jumped as if she’d stuck a pin in them. “Nobody knows Matt did anything!” she told them. “And I don’t care what anyone says, I don’t believe he hurt Kelly, or his grandmother, or anyone else.”

  Tammy fixed Becky with her most patronizing look. “Well, if you’re so sure he didn’t do anything, why don’t you just go with him right now?” Tammy t
ipped her head toward the front doors, and Becky turned around just in time to see Matt push them open and hurry down the steps, his head down.

  “Maybe I will!” she shot back. Turning away from Jessica and Tammy, she hurried down the corridor, through the door, and outside. Matt was already across the street, and she called out as she started down the steps. “Matt, wait up!” He didn’t turn around — didn’t seem to hear her at all — and Becky broke into a jog, crossed the street, and caught up with him before he reached the corner. Finally he turned to look at her.

  His face was pale and his eyes were clouded with suspicion — and anger.

  “What do you want, Becky?” he asked, his voice as guarded as his expression.

  “I thought maybe we could walk together. I mean, at least as far as my house.” When Matt made no reply, she nervously went on. “I mean, if you’re going that way.”

  Matt’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do, take a dare from Jess and Tammy?”

  Becky gasped. “No! I — ” But then she hesitated. In a way, wasn’t that exactly what she’d done? If she hadn’t heard them talking about Matt, would she be here right now? She was about to turn away when she remembered all the times people had turned away from her, and how bad it had always made her feel. But Matt had never turned away from her. Maybe they weren’t as close as when they lived across the street from each other, but unlike everyone else, he’d never been mean to her. And right now she knew he must be feeling as she had most of her life. In fact, he must be feeling a lot worse: at least no one had ever accused her of killing anyone. “I don’t think you did anything,” she said.

  A frown creased Matt’s brow. “How come you’re so sure?”

  Becky shrugged. “I just am. You wouldn’t do anything like they’re saying you did.”

  Matt started walking again, and when Becky fell in beside him, he made no objection. It wasn’t until they’d come to the corner of Burlington Avenue that he spoke again, his voice so low that Becky could hardly hear him. “Do you think it’s possible to do something and not remember it?”

  “You mean like — ” She hesitated, then finished her question. “You mean like kill someone?”

  Matt didn’t answer for a moment, then shrugged noncommittally.

  Becky remembered reading a book once, about hypnotism, and how even when someone was hypnotized, they wouldn’t do something they really didn’t want to do. But if Matt had been angry at Kelly — really angry —

  No! she thought. He wouldn’t! Not Matt!

  “I don’t think so,” she finally replied. “I think if you did something that bad, you’d remember it.”

  Matt stopped walking and turned to face her. The anger she’d seen before was gone, replaced by pain and confusion. “But what about all those people you hear about? The ones who suddenly remember the awful things that happened to them when they were little kids?”

  They were across the street from Becky’s house now, and she glanced uneasily toward the curtained window of the small living room, wondering if her mother was looking out, watching her. “I don’t believe it. I think if something terrible happens, you remember it. Especially if you did it yourself.” She thought she saw a glimmer of hope flicker in Matt’s eyes. “You didn’t do anything, Matt,” she said again. “You couldn’t have. I’ve known you my whole life, and I just know you couldn’t have done anything like what everybody’s saying.” Impulsively, she put her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. “Maybe nobody else believes you,” she said. “But I do.”

  As Becky’s arms tightened around Matt, he hugged her close. “Thanks,” he said. “And I don’t care what anyone else thinks. You’re better than all the rest of them put together.”

  Her eyes suddenly filling with tears she didn’t want Matt to see, Becky pulled away from him. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”

  Before Matt could reply, she was gone, running across the street and disappearing into her house. He was still looking at her front door when a movement at one of the windows caught his eye. He thought for an instant that it might be Becky, but then knew it wasn’t.

  It was her mother, and even through the glass and across the distance that separated them, Matt could read her thoughts as clearly as if she’d shouted them at him.

  Killer . . . murderer . . .

  The words echoed in his mind, and suddenly he was running, fleeing down Burlington Avenue, trying to escape the awful accusations that were ringing in his head.

  But there was no escape.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  * * *

  JOAN’S EYES FIXED on the blinking red light on the answering machine as if it were an alien creature — vaguely familiar, but at the same time utterly incomprehensible. Why should it be flashing? Didn’t it only go on if someone had called her? And no one had — she’d been home all day — never left the house at all — and the phone hadn’t rung.

  Why would it? No one wanted to talk to her anymore.

  “No one ever wanted to talk to you, Joanie-baby,” Cynthia whispered. “They wanted to talk to me. Don’t you remember? The phone was always ringing, but it was never for you. It was always for me.”

  “Shut up,” Joan whimpered, pressing her hands over her ears as if to shut out the relentless voice of her sister. But it was useless — Cynthia’s voice held her in its thrall.

  “Everything was for me, Joanie-baby. Everything.”

  The red light kept blinking, and as Joan stared at it, it took on an ominous look. Ominous, but at the same time mocking. As mocking as her sister’s laughter.

  “You’re afraid,” something whispered. “You’re afraid to listen. Afraid to hear what might be there.”

  Her sister’s voice?

  Her mother’s?

  No! It was only a machine! It had no voice, couldn’t possibly be speaking to her. But the whole house seemed filled with voices now. They seemed to be coming from everywhere. “No!” she blurted, though there was no one there to hear her. “I’m not afraid! I’m not!”

  As Cynthia’s throaty laugh boiled up out of nowhere, Joan stabbed at the flashing button with a shaking finger, and a moment later heard Trip Wainwright’s familiar voice.

  “It’s Trip, Joan . . . Look, Gerry Conroe might come out there, and I don’t think you ought to talk to him. He’s got some nutty idea that you’re not Matt’s mother. It’s nonsense, of course, but there’s no reason for you to have to listen to it. So if he shows up — and if you’re there — just don’t even answer the door. And call me when you get this, okay?” An uncertain silence followed, as if he were wondering what to say next, and then nothing.

  For a moment Joan stood frozen, her eyes wide, staring at the machine as if it were a cobra that had just struck her. Then she heard her sister’s voice again.

  “He knows, Joan. He knows everything!”

  “No!” Joan shrieked, again clamping her hands over her ears. “He doesn’t know anything! He doesn’t!”

  “Stupid!” Now it was her mother’s voice jabbing at her. “Cynthia was always the smart one! Why did she have to die? Why couldn’t it have been you? Then everything would be the way it should be!”

  “No,” Joan wailed again. “No! It’s not true! I won’t hear it!”

  Then she heard another voice: Matt’s voice.

  “Mom?”

  She spun around, half expecting him not to be there at all. But there he was — her perfect son. She started toward him, her arms outstretched, needing to feel him, to touch him, if only to prove to herself that he wasn’t just another phantom like the voices that were torturing her. But he drew back, his eyes clouding, his face paling.

  “Mom?”

  Joan caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass front of a display case. The image was hazy, but for an instant it seemed as though she was looking not at herself, but at Cynthia. She felt an awful sense of vertigo then, as if she were dropping away into a bottomless pit from which she might ne
ver emerge.

  She reached out to Matt again, struggling to speak, searching for her voice, but he seemed to be pulling farther and farther away from her.

  She was going to lose him — lose it all — lose everything she’d ever wanted —

  Then a sound broke through the confusion in her mind, and the illusion that a moment ago had held her in its grip fell away.

  The doorbell!

  Don’t even answer the door.

  But she had to answer the door. If she didn’t, Matt would. And then — “Go upstairs,” she said, “and let me take care of this!”

  Matt stared at his mother. Her face was streaked with makeup — garish makeup — the kind street whores on television wore. And what was she talking about? What was she going to take care of? What was happening?

  “It’s Kelly’s father!” she told him as she started toward the front door. “You don’t want to talk to him, do you?” She was close to Matt now, and his nostrils filled with the powerful scent of the perfume she wore.

  The perfume he’d smelled so many times before.

  His aunt’s perfume.

  “Do it!” his mother commanded him. “Go upstairs!”

  As if acting under the volition of some force outside himself, Matt started up the stairs. But as he heard the front door open and Kelly’s father begin to shout, he froze.

  “Who is he, Joan?” Gerry Conroe demanded. “Who is Matt?”

  “He’s my son!” Joan replied.

  Conroe’s expression, already contorted with a mixture of exhaustion, frustration, and fear, hardened. “Don’t tell me that!” His voice trembled as he hurled the words at her: “I know he’s not your son, Joan! I don’t know who he is, but I know who he’s not. So you tell me — what the hell is going on here?” Joan covered her ears to shut out his furious accusations. “What is it, Joan? Did Bill find out Matt’s not your son? Did he find out where he really came from? That’s why he left, isn’t it? He was through with you, and he was through with Matt! So Matt shot him!”