Hellfire

14

Tracy let herself in through the French doors leading to the foyer, and started up the stairs to the second floor. All the way back from the clearing in the woods, she’d been trying to figure out the best way to use what she’d overheard Beth saying, but she still hadn’t made up her mind.

Of course, she’d tell all her friends, starting with Alison Babcock.

But who else? What if she told her father? If he believed her, maybe he’d send Beth away somewhere.

But what if he didn’t believe her? What if he thought she was just making up a story? Then he’d get mad at her.

Her grandmother.

That’s who she’d tell. Her grandmother always believed her, no matter what she said. And if she had to, she’d make her grandmother walk all the way out there, and show her where Beth had been, standing over that stupid sinkhole, talking about a ghost like it was something real.

She hurried on to the top of the stairs, and started down the hall toward the far end. Just as she got to her grandmother’s closed door, she heard Carolyn’s voice calling her name. But instead of turning around, or even acknowledging that she’d heard, she simply ignored her stepmother, turned the knob of her grandmother’s door, and let herself in.

Abigail sat in a chair by the window. Her eyes were closed, and one hand rested in her lap. The other one hung limply at her side, and a few inches below her hand, a book lay open, facedown, on the floor.

Tracy stared at her grandmother. Was it possible she’d died, just sitting there in her chair?

Tracy’s heart skipped a beat.

She edged slowly across the room. How could you tell if someone was dead?

You had to feel for a pulse.

Tracy didn’t want to do that. It had been horrible enough having to look at her grandfather when he was dead. But to actually have to touch a dead body … she shuddered at the thought.

She paused. Maybe she should go and get her father, or even Carolyn.

But then, as she was about to back away, her grandmother’s eyes flickered slightly, and her hand moved.

“Grandmother?” Tracy asked.

Abigail’s eyes opened, and Tracy felt a surge of relief.

Relief, and a twinge of disappointment. Telling Alison Babcock about finding her grandmother’s body would have been even better than telling her about how crazy Beth Rogers was.

“Tracy?” Abigail said, coming fully awake, and straightening up in her chair. “Come give me a kiss, darling. I must have dozed off for a moment.”

Tracy obediently stepped forward and gave her grandmother a reluctant peck on the cheek.

“What are you doing here, child?” Abigail asked. “Why aren’t you outside? It’s a beautiful morning.”

“I was,” Tracy said. She searched her mind, trying to figure out how to tell her grandmother what she’d heard without admitting that she’d followed Beth. “I … I went for a walk in the woods,” she went on, deliberately making her voice shake a little. As shed hoped, her grandmother looked at her sharply.

“Did something happen?” she asked. “You look as though something frightened you.”

Tracy did her best to appear reluctant, and, once again, the ruse worked.

“Tell me what happened, child,” Abigail urged her.

“It … it was Beth,” Tracy began, then fell silent once more as if she didn’t really want to tell on her stepsister.

Abigail’s eyes darkened. “I see. And what did Beth do to you?”

“N-nothing, really,” Tracy said.

Abigail’s sharp eyes scanned her granddaughter carefully. “Well, she must have done something,” Abigail pressed. “If she didn’t, why do you look so worried?”

Still Tracy made a show of hesitating, then decided it would be better to let her grandmother pull the whole story out of her. “Grandmother,” she said, “do you think maybe Beth could be crazy?”

“Crazy?” Abigail repeated, her brows arching slightly. “Tracy, what on earth happened? What would make you say such a thing?”

“Well, I was out in the woods, just hiking around, and all of a sudden I heard something,” Tracy explained. “It sounded like Beth — like she was talking to someone, so I went to find her. But when I got there—” She paused, wondering if she should mention Peggy Russell at all. She decided not to. “Well, she was talking to herself. She was out there in the woods, and she was talking to herself!”

Abigail’s forehead wrinkled into a frown. “And what was she saying?” she asked.

Slowly, as if struggling to remember every fragment of what she’d heard, Tracy repeated the words she’d heard Beth speak. “It was weird, Grandmother,” she finished. “I mean, she was talking like there was really a ghost. She had a name for her, and everything. She called her Amy, and she said the ghost killed Jeff! She said it killed Jeff, and she watched it happen! Doesn’t that sound like she’s crazy?”

Abigail sat silently for several long minutes, feeling the erratic pounding of her heart.

Amy.

“Amy” was a corruption of “Amelia.”

And Amelia was a name she’d heard before.

Her husband had used it sometimes, when he was muttering to himself about the mill, and about Conrad Junior.

“Where?” Abigail finally asked, her blue eyes fixing intently on Tracy. “Where did all this happen, child?”

“In a little clearing,” Tracy replied. “Down the hill from the mausoleum. There’s a trail to it.” She hesitated, then went on. “Do you want to go down there, Grandmother? I can show it to you. I can even show you the thing Beth thinks is a grave. Only it’s not a grave. It’s just a little sunken spot.” She fell silent for a moment, but when her grandmother didn’t say anything, she spoke again. “Well? What do you think? Is she crazy?”

Abigail glanced up at her, and Tracy suddenly realized that her grandmother was no longer listening to her.

“What?” Abigail asked.

Tracy’s expression tightened into an angry pout. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.” Then she turned and stamped out of her grandmother’s little parlor, slamming the door behind her.

Abigail, sitting thoughtfully in her chair, ignored the slam of the door. Indeed, she didn’t even hear it.

Her mind was occupied with other things.

Eileen Russell parked her five-year-old Chevy in front of Hilltop, and wished once more that she hadn’t agreed to come up here. She’d considered calling Carolyn and asking her to come down to the village instead, pleading a heavy workload and suggesting they just get together for a quick drink in the bar. She’d quickly rejected that idea; what she had to talk to Carolyn about couldn’t be discussed in a public place.

Perhaps it couldn’t be discussed at all, given the fact that they hadn’t seen each other for several months, and Carolyn’s life had changed so radically in the interim.

Still, for old times’ sake, she had to try.

She got out of her car, slammed the door shut, and strode up the broad steps to the front door. She pressed the bell, and, when she heard nothing, pressed it again. Then, assuming it must be broken, she raised the huge brass knocker, and let it fall to its anvil with a resounding thump.

After what seemed an eternity, the door opened, and Hannah peered out. She blinked in the sunlight, then nodded a greeting. “Peter’s out in the stable,” she said. “You can just go around the back if you want to.”

“I’m not here for Peter, Hannah,” Eileen replied. “I came to see Carolyn.”

Hannah looked momentarily taken aback, then recovered herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “She didn’t tell me to be expecting anyone. Come on in, and I’ll go find her.” She held the door wide, and Eileen stepped into the huge entry hall. “Just make yourself at home,” Hannah went on, closing the door and starting the long climb to the second floor.

After what seemed an eternity to Eileen, Carolyn appeared at the curve of the stairs. “Eileen! Come on up. If I’d been thinking, I’d have had Hannah send you right up, but I forgot to tell her.” As Eileen climbed the stairs, Carolyn smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid I can’t get used to the idea of having someone to answer the door for me. It seems so decadent. I’d have answered myself, but I never heard the bell. I was resting and I must have fallen asleep.”

Eileen frowned, studying her old friend. “If you’re not feeling well, I can—”

“I’m fine,” Carolyn broke in. “But unfortunately, I can’t convince either Phillip or Dr. Blanchard that there’s no problem having a baby at my age.”

They were halfway down the corridor now, and Eileen came to an abrupt stop, staring at Carolyn. “A baby?” she repeated.

Carolyn nodded happily.

“Well, for heaven’s sake.” Then a thought occurred to her, and she blurted it out before she had considered it. “Does Alan know?”

Carolyn stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Of course he knows! Beth told him right off the bat.” Her smile faded slightly. “I’m afraid Beth was a little upset at first, but she’s used to the idea now. In fact, I think she’s looking forward to having a baby brother. Anyway, I hope she is.”

She opened the door to the master bedroom, then stepped back to let the other woman go in ahead of her. Eileen surveyed the room quickly, taking in the rich antique furnishings, the sheer size of the room, then whistled appreciatively. “If this were my bedroom, I’d never leave it. My God, Carolyn, it’s bigger than my living room.”

“I know,” Carolyn sighed. “And if you want to know the truth, sometimes I hate it.” She saw the skepticism in Eileen’s eyes, and shrugged helplessly. “I think you have to be born to this kind of thing. Sometimes I feel so out of place, all I want is to be back on Cherry Street.”

Eileen said nothing, but crossed to the window and looked out. The view took in the entire estate, the village, and the countryside beyond. Indeed, if she looked carefully, she could pick out the roof of her own little house, looking from here like nothing more than a speck in the landscape. “What about Beth?” she asked without turning around. “How’s she handling living up here?”

Carolyn started to make a casual reply, but there was something in Eileen’s voice that stopped her. “What do you mean?” she asked instead. “Eileen, did something happen this morning? With Peggy?”

Now Eileen turned to face Carolyn, her expression serious. “I almost didn’t come up here,” she confessed. “Peggy showed up at the Red Hen about eleven. First she told me nothing was wrong, but I didn’t believe her. You know Peggy — she can’t hide her feelings at all. And she was pretty upset.”

Carolyn sank into one of the twin love seats that faced each other in front of the window. “What happened?”

“Beth didn’t say anything?” Eileen countered.

Carolyn shook her head. “But I haven’t seen her. In fact, I thought Peggy was still with her, and they were out on the grounds somewhere.”

“They went for a hike,” Eileen explained. “Apparently yesterday Beth told Peggy there was something she wanted to show her, and today she showed it to her.”

“What was it?” Carolyn asked.

“That’s the thing,” Eileen went on, perching nervously on the couch opposite Carolyn. “From what Peggy said, it didn’t sound like anything. Just a sort of a depression in a little clearing somewhere down the hill. But Peggy says that Beth insisted that it was a grave, and that it belonged to some little girl who used to work at the mill.”

Carolyn studied Eileen for a moment, trying to decide if her old friend was pulling her leg. But Eileen’s eyes were serious, and her brow was furrowed with worry. “I … I’m not sure I understand,” Carolyn said at last.

“I’m not sure I do, either,” Eileen replied. “At first, it sounded as though Beth was playing a joke on Peggy — telling her a ghost story. You know Peggy — she believes everything anybody tells her. But when she told me what happened up there, she said it wasn’t as if Beth was even talking to her. She said it sounded crazy, that Beth really seemed to believe there was some kind of ghost living in the mill.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” Carolyn said. “Beth knows there’s no such thing as ghosts—”

“We all know that,” Eileen agreed. “And ordinarily I wouldn’t have thought anything about it. But Peggy was so frightened by the whole thing, that I thought I’d better come up here and tell you about it. And I guess I wanted to find out if it really happened.”

“I don’t know,” Carolyn replied. “But — well, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for whatever happened.” Then, when Eileen said nothing, Carolyn had a sudden feeling that there was something the other woman wasn’t saying. “Eileen? What is it? What’s wrong?”

Eileen looked away, and when she spoke, her eyes were fixed on something outside the window. “Peggy said that the way Beth was talking, it sounded as though Beth was at the mill the night Jeff Bailey died. Peggy got the feeling that maybe Beth had killed him herself.”

“Oh, my God,” Carolyn groaned, suddenly understanding. Quickly she told Eileen about the dream Beth had had that night, and how real it had seemed to her. “That’s all she was doing,” she finished. “She was just telling Peggy about the dream.”

Eileen hesitated, then rose to her feet. “Well,” she said, “I hope you’re right — I hope that’s all it was. But I’m not sure there’ll be any convincing Peggy of that. I’m afraid—” She hesitated, then decided to go ahead. “Well, I’m afraid Peggy doesn’t want to see Beth anymore.”

“Not see her anymore!” Carolyn exclaimed. “But, Eileen, that’s crazy. They’re best friends. They always have been.”

Eileen stood silently for a moment, then shook her head. “They were best friends,” she said quietly. “But not anymore. Everything’s changed now, Carolyn. Things aren’t the way they used to be. I’m sorry.” As she started toward the door, Carolyn rose to her feet, but Eileen waved her back onto the couch. “I’ll let myself out,” she said.

Then she was gone, and Carolyn knew that she would never be back

But it had nothing to do with Beth. Of that, she was absolutely positive.

It had to do with the fact that she herself had married Phillip Sturgess, and Eileen, like all her other old friends, didn’t believe she hadn’t changed, didn’t believe she was the same Carolyn they’d known for years. They were sure that since she had married a Sturgess, she had taken on the airs of a Sturgess, and her daughter had, too.

Peggy’s story was just that — a story.

The real reason Peggy Russell didn’t want to play with Beth anymore, Carolyn insisted to herself, was nothing more than simple resentment of the way Beth lived now.

And there was nothing Carolyn could do about that. It was just a matter of time. In time, Beth would adjust to her new life, and make new friends.

Soon, too, there would be a new baby in the house. That would help. The baby would be a half-brother to both Beth and Tracy, and maybe, at last, the two of them could be friends.

As for the story of the ghost that Peggy was so certain Beth believed in, Carolyn dismissed it from her mind.

Her daughter, she knew, was far too sensible ever to believe in something like a ghost.

Abigail Sturgess stood in the mausoleum, gazing down through the fading afternoon sun at the foreboding silhouette of the mill. Earlier, when she’d first come up to the mausoleum, the newly sandblasted bricks had glowed red in the sunlight, and for a moment it had looked to Abigail as if the building were on fire. But it was, she knew, only an illusion.

Abigail Sturgess didn’t believe in illusions.

Still, somewhere inside the mill there was something that her husband had believed in, and that now she, too, was beginning to believe in.

Coming to a reluctant decision, she turned and began making her laborious way down the steps to the forest path. Abigail moved steadily along until she emerged onto the lawn in front of the house, but instead of going into the house, she crossed to the garage, and entered it through a side door. Turning on the lights, she reached into her purse and found the keys to the old Rolls-Royce that her husband had steadfastly refused to sell, though he hadn’t driven it in years. Instead, he had kept it in the garage, insisting that it be taken out on a monthly basis, to be driven a few miles, gone over by a mechanic, then returned to the garage, where it would be available on the day when he finally decided to take it out himself. That day had never come. When he died, he hadn’t been behind the wheel of the car for nearly a decade. But it was in perfect condition, ready for Abigail now.

She got stiffly behind the wheel, found the slot for the key, and twisted the starter.

Immediately, the engine purred into nearly silent life. Abigail reached up and pressed the button attached to the sun visor, and the garage door opened behind her. Putting the car in gear, she backed carefully out into the driveway, changed gears, and rolled sedately around the lawn and out the gates.

A few seconds later, she had left the estate, and was starting down the hill into Westover.

She parked the car on Prospect Street, across from the mill, and sat for a long time, wondering whether or not she was doing the right thing.

On the day nearly forty-five years before, when they had buried Conrad Junior, Abigail had accompanied her husband to the mill. There, she had watched as he placed the padlock on the door, then turned to her and made her swear never to set foot inside the building again. To humor him she had agreed. And though she had helped Phillip plan the reconstruction, she had not toured the building with him. Now, as she steeled herself to her task, the oath came back to her and she felt herself shiver slightly.

But it was ridiculous. She was going into the mill this time not to violate Conrad’s wishes, but to implement them.

She left the car, and crossed Prospect Street, unaware that the men who were finishing up their day’s work on the scaffolding covering the mill’s facade were staring at her.

She made her way down the path along the northern wall of the mill, ignoring the stream of workmen coming the other way, making them step off the path to make way for her. Finally she stepped through the open door that broke the wall halfway to the end.

She paused. The worklights glittered with a surprising intensity that cut away the gloom she had expected. Almost immediately, she heard a voice behind her. She turned to see Alan Rogers emerging from the construction shack. “Mrs. Sturgess,” he was saying. “Can I do something for you?”

Abigail’s lips tightened slightly, and she regarded him with open contempt. “I have decided that we shall stop work,” she said without preamble. “You may dismiss your crew, Mr. Rogers. I have changed my mind.”

Alan stopped abruptly, and stared at the old woman. What the hell was she talking about? “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Sturgess,” he said aloud. “Did you say you’d changed your mind?”

“I did,” Abigail replied.

“About what?” Alan asked, deciding to buy some time while he decided how to handle her.

“Don’t pretend to be more of a fool than you are, Mr. Rogers,” Abigail said coldly. “I have decided not to go ahead with the reconstruction. I want the mill sealed up again.”

Alan licked his lips uncertainly. The last thing he wanted to do right now was get into a fight with Abigail Sturgess. “Well, I’m afraid it isn’t quite that simple, Mrs. Sturgess,” he began, but Abigail cut him off.

“Of course it’s that simple,” she snapped. “It’s my mill. You will be paid, of course. But the work is to stop immediately.”

Alan said nothing, but shook his head.

Abigail’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Did you hear me, Mr. Rogers?”

Alan sighed, then nodded. “I did, Mrs. Sturgess. But I’m afraid I can’t stop the work on your authority. It was Phillip who signed the contract. If he’s changed his mind, he’ll have to tell me himself. He was here this morning,” he added with elaborate casualness, “and he didn’t say a word about stopping the project. In fact, just the opposite. We were figuring out ways to speed the job up.”

Abigail was silent for a moment, then nodded curtly. “I see.” She turned away, and started back into the cavernous interior of the building. Before she had taken two steps, though, she felt Alan’s hand on her arm.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t go in there.”

She brushed his hand away as if it were an annoying insect. “Of course I can go in,” she snapped. “If I wish to inspect my property, I have the right to do so.” Her eyes met his, as if challenging him to stop her. “The men are gone, Mr. Rogers,” she went on. “I’ll hardly be in the way.”

Alan nodded a reluctant agreement. “All right. But I’ll go with you.’ ”

“That’s not necessary,” Abigail replied.

“I’m afraid it is,” Alan told her. “You may own the mill, Mrs. Sturgess, but right now I’m responsible for it. I don’t leave in the afternoon until I know that it’s empty, and locked. And I’m not about to allow you to wander around by yourself.”

Abigail’s nod of assent was almost imperceptible. “Very well.”

Twenty minutes later they stood at the top of the stairs to the basement. Without looking at Alan, Abigail spoke. “Give me your flashlight, Mr. Rogers. I wish to go downstairs.”

“Mrs. Sturgess—” Alan began, but Abigail cut him off.

“Mr. Rogers, one of my sons died down there many years ago, and my dearest friend’s grandson died in the same place two days ago. I wish to visit the spot where the tragedies occurred, and I wish to visit it alone. You will give me your flashlight, and then you will wait for me at the door.”

Alan hesitated. “Let me at least turn on the lights down there.” He started toward the electrical panel, but Abigail stopped him.

“No,” she said. “I wish to see it the way my son and Jeff Bailey saw it.” When Alan still hesitated, she allowed the faintest note of pleading to enter her voice. “I have my reasons, Mr. Rogers. Please.”

Reluctantly, Alan turned his flashlight over to the old woman, then, as she started slowly down the stairs, headed back to the site shack. He would give her twenty minutes, no more.

Only when she reached the basement, and the darkness of it had closed around her, did Abigail turn on the flashlight and let its beam wander through the dusty expanse of the cellar.

There seemed to be nothing there.

Only piles of crates and stacks of plasterboard.

She stepped onto the floor of the basement, and turned right. She took five more steps, then turned right again, so that she was facing the area below the stairs.

Holding the flashlight firmly, she played its beam into the darkness there.

Abigail’s thoughts were fueled by the memory of her husband’s strange fixations about this place, and her eyes began to play tricks on her.

A face loomed out of the darkness, pale skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, the mouth drawn back in a grimace of terror.

Eyes glared at her, sparkling with hatred.

Another face, twisted in agony.

A mouth, hanging in the blackness — open — screaming silently.

Abigail’s heart began to pound as the faces surrounded her, all of them hanging in the darkness, all of them staring at her, accusing her, judging her.

Laughter began to ring in Abigail’s ears. Then the laughter turned to screams of agony and anguish.

A stabbing pain shot through Abigail’s left arm, up into her shoulder, and through her chest.

The flashlight dropped to the floor, its lens and bulb shattering on the hard concrete.

Her knees buckled beneath her, and she began to sink to the floor.

But still the faces — faces of children — loomed in the darkness, coming closer, closing in on her. Their screams echoed through the old building, and rang in her ears, louder and louder, until the screaming seemed to be inside her head. Then, as she felt herself losing consciousness, she thought she saw a flash of light, a glow, thought she saw flames licking from the edges of the fire door.

It’s true, she thought, as the flames receded and blackness engulfed her, Conrad was right. It’s all true… .