“I don’t know,” Corinne replied. Suddenly she felt foolish, but a memory was hanging in her mind, just out of her reach. “There was something,” she said. “It happened just once. I was out there in the graveyard, with a friend—I can’t even remember who—and the fog came in. Well, you know how spooky a graveyard can be in the fog. I don’t know—maybe I let my imagination run away with me, but all of a sudden I felt something. Nothing I can put my finger on, really—just a feeling that something was there, close to me. I stood perfectly still, and the longer I stood, the closer whatever it was seemed to come.” Her voice trailed off, and she shivered slightly as the memory of that foggy afternoon chilled her.
“And you think it was Amanda?” Carson asked.
“Well, it was something,” Corinne replied.
“You’re right,” Carson agreed sourly. “It was something. It was your imagination. A little girl in a graveyard, on a foggy day, and having grown up hearing all those ghost stories. I’m amazed you didn’t have a long talk with Amanda! Or did you?”
“Of course not,” Corinne said, feeling foolish now. “I didn’t even see her.”
Carson watched her. “What about your friend? Did she feel the same thing you did?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, she did!” Corinne felt herself getting angry. Not believing her was one thing—mocking her was quite another. “And, if you want to know, we weren’t the only ones. A lot of us had the same feeling. And we were all girls, and we were all twelve years old. Just like Amanda. And, in case you didn’t know, just like Michelle Pendleton.”
Carson’s eyes hardened. “Corinne,” he said slowly, “do you know what you’re saying?”
And suddenly Corinne did. “Yes. I’m saying that maybe the ghost stories are true, and the reason everyone says they aren’t is because no one ever actually saw Amanda before. The only ones who even felt her were twelve-year-old girls. And who believes what they say? Everyone knows little girls have wild imaginations, right? Uncle Joe, what if it wasn’t my imagination? What if some of us really did feel her presence? And what if Michelle not only felt her, but actually saw her?”
The expression on Josiah Carson’s face as he watched her told her she had struck a nerve.
“You believe in the ghost, don’t you?” she asked.
“Do you?” he countered, and now Corinne was sure he was growing nervous.
“I don’t know,” Corinne lied. She did know! “But it makes sense, doesn’t it? I mean, in a strange kind of way? If you can accept that there really is a ghost, and that it’s Amanda, who would be more likely to see her than a twelve-year-old girl? A girl just like her?”
“Well, she’s had over a hundred years to find someone,” Carson said. “Why now? Why Michelle Pendleton?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “Corinne,” he said quietly, “I know you’re worried about Michelle. I know it seems odd that she’d make up an imaginary friend named Amanda. It seems like quite a coincidence—hell, it is quite a coincidence. But that’s all it is!”
Corinne stood up, truly angry now. “Uncle Joe,” she said, her voice tight, “Michelle is one of my students, and I’m worried about her. For that matter, I’m worried about everybody else in my class, too. Susan Peterson is dead, and Michelle is crippled and acting very strangely. I don’t want anything else to happen.”
Carson stared up at Corinne. She was standing in front of his desk, her back stiff as a ramrod, her expression intense. He began to reach out to her, to comfort her, but before he was halfway out of his chair, she had turned and fled.
Slowly, Josiah sat down. He sat by himself for a long time. It wasn’t going right, none of it. He hadn’t meant for Susan Peterson to die. It should have been Michelle—it should have been Cal Pendleton’s daughter. A life for a life, a child for a child. But not one of his children.
All he could do now was wait. Sooner or later, as it always had, the tragedy would come back to the house, and whoever was living there. And when it did, and the house had avenged Alan Hanley for him, it would be over. Then he could go away and forget Paradise Point forever. He poured himself another shot of bourbon and stared out the window. In the distance he could see the churning waters of Devil’s Passage. It was, he thought, aptly named. How long had it been since the devil had come to live with the Carsons? And now, after all the years, the last Carson was going to use the devil. It was, Josiah Carson thought, somehow poetic.
He only hoped that not too many of his own children—the village children—would have to die in the process.
Late that afternoon, Michelle made her way to the old graveyard. She lowered herself clumsily to the ground near the odd memorial to Amanda and waited, sure that her friend would come to her. But before the now familiar grayness could close in around her, she felt someone watching her. She turned and recognized Lisa Hartwick standing a few yards away from her, staring at her.
“Are you all right?” Lisa asked.
Michelle nodded, and Lisa took a tentative step toward her.
“I—I was looking for you,” Lisa said. She looked almost frightened, and Michelle wondered what was wrong.
“For me? How come?” She started to get up.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
Michelle regarded Lisa suspiciously. No one liked Lisa—everyone said she was a brat. What did she want? Was she going to tease her? But Lisa came closer and sat down next to her. Gratefully, Michelle let herself sink back to the soft earth.
“Is it true you’re adopted?” Lisa suddenly asked.
“So what?”
“I’m not sure,” Lisa replied. Then: “My mother died five years ago.”
Now Michelle was puzzled. Why had she said that? Was she trying to make friends with her? Why?
“I don’t know what happened to my parents,” she ventured. “Maybe they’re dead. Or maybe they just didn’t want me.”
“My father doesn’t want me,” Lisa said quietly.
“How do you know?” Michelle let herself relax: Lisa wasn’t going to tease her.
“He’s in love with your teacher. Ever since he met her, he’s liked her more than he likes me.”
Michelle thought this over. Maybe Lisa was right. Maybe things had happened for her the same way they had happened for Michelle when Jenny had been born. “Sometimes I don’t think anybody likes me,” she said.
“I know. Nobody likes me, either.”
“Maybe we could be friends,” Michelle suggested. Now Lisa’s eyes seemed to cloud over.
“I don’t know. I—I’ve heard things about you.”
Michelle tensed. “What kind of things?”
“Well, that ever since you fell off the bluff, something’s been wrong with you.”
“I’m lame,” Michelle said. “Everybody knows that.”
“That’s not what I mean. I heard—well, they say you think you saw the ghost.”
Michelle relaxed again. “You mean Amanda? She’s not a ghost. She’s my friend.”
“What do you mean?” Lisa asked. “There isn’t anybody around here named Amanda.”
“There is, too,” Michelle insisted. “She’s my friend.” Suddenly Lisa stood up and began backing away from Michelle. “Where are you going?”
“I—I have to go home now,” Lisa said nervously.
Michelle struggled to her feet, her eyes fixed angrily on Lisa. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
Lisa shook her head uncertainly.
Suddenly the fog was starting to close in around Michelle. From far away, she could hear Amanda calling to her.
“I’m not crazy,” she said to Lisa, her voice desperate. “Amanda’s real, and she’s coming now. You can meet her!”
But Lisa still backed away from her. Just before the gray mists surrounded her, Michelle saw her turn and begin running.
As Susan Peterson had run.
CHAPTER 21
They held Susan Peterson’s funeral on Saturday.
Estelle Peterson s
at in the front pew of the Methodist Church, her head bowed, her fingers twisting compulsively at a limp handkerchief. Susan’s coffin was only a few feet away, banked with flowers, its lid propped open. Next to Estelle, Henry stared stoically ahead, his eyes fixed on a spot high above the coffin, his face carefully impassive.
A low murmuring began moving slowly through the congregation. Estelle tried to ignore it, but when she heard Constance Benson’s voice cut through the unintelligible sounds, she finally turned around.
Michelle Pendleton, wearing a black dress and leaning heavily on her cane, was making her way slowly down the aisle. Behind her were her parents, with June carrying the baby. For a split second, Estelle’s eyes met June’s. Estelle quickly looked away. Again, she heard Constance Benson’s voice.
“Of all the places for them to turn up …” she began, but Bertha Carstairs, sitting next to her, jabbed her with an elbow, and Constance subsided. As the Pendletons seated themselves in a pew halfway between the door and the altar, the service for Susan Peterson began.
Michelle could feel the hostility around her.
It was as if every eye in the church was on her, watching her, accusing her. She wanted to leave, but knew that she wouldn’t be able to. If only she weren’t crippled—if only she could get up and slip quietly out. But if she tried, things would only be worse. Her cane, tap-tapping along the hardwood floor, would echo through the church, and the minister would stop his prayers, and then they would all stare at her openly. At least while she sat still they tried to pretend they weren’t watching her, even though she knew they were.
June, too, had to force herself to sit still, to keep her face impassive, to endure the endess service. It had been a mistake, coming to the funeral. If Cal hadn’t insisted, she would never have come. She had argued with him, but it hadn’t done any good. He had stonily insisted that Michelle had had nothing to do with Susan’s death; therefore, there was no reason for them not to go to the funeral. June had tried to reason with him, had tried to make him see that it would be hard for Michelle, miserably hard, for her to sit in the church, surrounded by all the children who had been her friends, and listen to the service. Couldn’t Cal see that? Didn’t he understand that it didn’t matter that Michelle had done nothing to Susan? It was what people thought that counted.
But Cal would not be budged. And so they had come. June had heard Constance Benson, and she was sure that Michelle had heard her, as well. She had seen the look in Estelle Peterson’s eyes—the look of hurt, and accusation, and bewilderment.
Finally, the service came to an end. The congregation stood as the casket was borne slowly down the aisle, followed by Estelle and Henry Peterson. As they passed the Pendletons, Henry glared at Cal, his eyes hard and challenging, and Cal felt a tightening in his stomach. Maybe, he thought, June was right—maybe we shouldn’t have come. But then, as the pews began emptying into the aisle, Bertha Carstairs stopped and took his hand.
“I—I just want you to know,” she stammered. “My family and I—we’re so sorry about all of this. It seems like ever since you came to the Point things have—well.…” Her voice trailed off, but she shrugged eloquently.
“Thank you,” Cal said softly. “But it’s all right. Things are going to be all right now. Accidents happen—”
“Accidents!”
It was Constance Benson, with Jeff’s hand gripped tightly in her own. “What happened to Susan Peterson was no accident!” Then, as Cal’s face turned deathly pale, she swept out of the church.
Suddenly, the Pendletons were alone. June looked helplessly around, searching for a friendly face, but there was none. Even the Carstairses had disappeared, lost in the crowd around the Petersons.
“Let’s go,” she said. “Please? We came. We were here. Now can’t we go home?”
Next to her, Michelle stood quietly, tears streaming down her face.
Corinne Hatcher had slipped out of the church with Tim and Lisa Hartwick just before the service ended. It hadn’t occurred to Corinne Hatcher not to go to the funeral, but it had occurred to her that, if she stayed after the service, she might be put in an untenable position. She would be expected—indeed, forced—to recognize that there were many people in Paradise Point who felt that Michelle had “done” something to Susan. Further, she might have to align herself either with the Petersons or the Pendletons. But at last it was over.
“I wonder if Michelle killed Susan,” Lisa said from the backseat of Tim’s car.
“Don’t be silly,” Corinne began, but Lisa promptly interrupted her.
“Well, I think she did. I think the kids are right-she’s crazy.”
“I’ve told you before, Lisa,” Tim said calmly. “Don’t talk about things you don’t know anything about.”
“But I do know about her.” Lisa’s voice began to take on the familiar whine that so irritated Corinne. She turned to look at Lisa.
“You don’t even know her.”
“I do too! I talked to her the other day, out at that old cemetery next to her house.”
“I thought I told you not to go out there.” Tim’s voice was mild, but Lisa did not ignore the reprimand.
“I didn’t go to her house,” she said. “I only went to the graveyard. Can I help it if she was there?”
“And what makes you think she’s crazy?” Tim asked.
“Just the way she talked. She thinks the ghost that’s supposed to be out there is her friend. She said I could meet her, if I wanted to.”
“Meet her?” Corinne frowned. “You mean Michelle thought she was actually there?”
Lisa shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t see anything. But when I told Michelle that Amanda was a ghost, she got real mad.” Lisa began to giggle. “She’s crazy.” She began repeating the word in an odd sing-song voice: “CRAA-zy, CRAA-zy, CRAA-zy!”
Corinne had heard enough. “That’s enough, Lisa!” she snapped. As if she’d been struck, Lisa fell silent. Tim glanced at Corinne reproachfully but said nothing until they were in his house and Lisa had gone to her room.
“Corinne,” he said when they were alone, “I wish you’d leave the discipline to me.”
“She’s spoiled,” Corinne shot back. “And you know it. If you don’t do something about it soon, she’s going to wind up in trouble.” The sadness in his eyes made her retreat. The subject of Lisa was just too painful to Tim. And right now, there was a subject of more immediate concern. “I want you to talk to Michelle about this imaginary friend of hers,” she said.
Tim was thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “An imaginary friend at her age—wherever it comes from—is certainly abnormal. I don’t want to use Lisa’s words, but Michelle could be very disturbed.”
“Tim,” Corinne said slowly. “Suppose Michelle isn’t—disturbed, as you put it, and suppose she hasn’t really made an imaginary friend? Suppose Amanda really is a ghost?”
Tim stared at her.
“But that’s impossible, isn’t it.” His tone left no room for argument.
Michelle closed her book and set it aside. Try as she would, she couldn’t get her mind off the funeral. The way people had stared at her. It had made her feel like a freak. She was tired of feeling like a freak.
She rose awkwardly from her chair, stretched, then limped over to the window. The fall twilight, fading quickly, colored the sea an iron gray, and the sky, its reddish tinge fading to the dark blue of dusk, seemed low tonight. Below her, its outlines blurred in the gathering darkness, was her mother’s studio. Michelle stared at it, almost as if she expected something to happen. And yet, what could happen? The studio was empty—she could hear her parents downstairs, their voices low, punctuated occasionally by Jennifer’s happy squeals.
Jennifer.
Michelle said the name to herself, and wondered how she could ever have thought it was a pretty name. Then she said it out loud, listening to the syllables. She decided she hated the name. Suddenly, as if her hostility had somehow flowed directly into the bab
y, Jenny began crying.
Michelle listened to the sounds for a moment, then, as they quieted, picked up her book and stretched out on the bed. She opened it to the passage she had left a few minutes ago and began to read.
Again, she heard Jennifer squall.
Leaving the book on her nightstand, Michelle carefully maneuvered herself off the bed, and, taking her cane, left her room and started toward the stairs.
June looked up from her needlework, listened to the sound of Michelle’s cane, then spoke quietly to Cal.
“She’s coming down.” Cal, who had Jennifer on his lap and was playing with her toes, made no response.
As the tapping of Michelle’s cane came steadily closer, June picked up her needlepoint once again. When Michelle appeared at the archway that separated the living room from the entry hall, she feigned surprise.
“Finished with your homework already?” she asked.
Michelle nodded. “I was trying to read, but I couldn’t concentrate. I thought maybe Daddy and I could play a game or something.”
Cal’s face tightened. He remembered the last time they had tried that. “Not now. I’m teaching your sister about her toes.” He ignored the hurt in Michelle’s eyes, but June could not.
“Don’t you think it’s time Jenny went to bed?” she suggested. Cal glanced at the clock on the mantel.
“At seven-thirty? She’ll be up all night, and so will you.”
“She’s up all night anyway,” June argued. “Cal, I really think you ought to take her upstairs.”
She was not going to relent. Cal got to his feet and held the baby high over his head. He looked up into her grinning face and winked at her. “Come on, princess, the queen says it’s bedtime.” He started out of the room, but Michelle stopped him.
“Can we play a game when you come down?”
Still not looking at her, Cal continued toward the stairs. “I don’t know,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m pretty tired tonight Maybe some other night.” Because his back was to her, he didn’t see the tears well in Michelle’s eyes.
June, however, did, and she hastily put her work down. “Come on—why don’t we make a batch of cookies?” But it was too late. Michelle was already on her way out of the room.