Bad Dreams (8 page)

Maggie went to the principal's office. The news didn't cheer her up. Dawn had a broken arm. And possibly a concussion.

After school, Maggie ran into Tiffany in the hallway. “Do you
believe
what happened to Dawn?” Tiffany asked quietly. “She could've been killed!”

“Tiffany—you've
got
to believe me! I didn't do it!” Maggie blurted out.

Surprised, Tiffany studied her with her large eyes. “I never thought you did.”

Maggie gratefully squeezed Tiffany's hand. Tiffany lowered her eyes. “Listen. Dawn had a concussion. She wasn't thinking clearly. That's why she accused you. She'll be better—don't worry.”

“I hope so,” Maggie replied, shaking her head, trying not to cry again. “It was so awful, Tiffany. Everyone was shoving. You know how it is on the stairs between classes. I'm sure it was just an accident.”

“Of course,” Tiffany replied. “But you can understand where Dawn's coming from. I mean, you have a pretty good reason to want her out of the way.”

“Tiffany,” Maggie said, trying to keep the sound of pleading out of her voice, “you know me better than that. Do you really think I'd hurt Dawn just to make sure I swim the two-hundred IM?”

Tiffany tugged at a strand of hair. “Of course not. Besides, you'll be in. Unless you totally blow the next three races. Anyway, there are
two
slots.”

“So I had no reason to push Dawn,” Maggie insisted. “Why did she accuse me? How
could
she? I'm so hurt, Tiffany. So hurt.”

Tiffany moved forward to give Maggie an awkward hug, “Just give Dawn a little time,” she whispered. “She'll come to her senses. Just give her a little time.”

Maggie forced a smile. The two girls backed away from each other.

Maggie wiped a tear off her cheek.

Tiffany was right, she knew. Maggie would have to wait to talk to Dawn.

Maggie couldn't face swim practice. She told the coach she was sick and went straight home.

As soon as she got there, she threw herself facedown onto the living room couch. She didn't want to think anymore. She was just tired, worn out. She needed to rest.

That was the last thought she remembered. When she opened her eyes again, the room had grown darker.

Maggie groaned and sat up. She felt as if her brain were glued to her skull. The nap had made her disoriented and groggy. At least she hadn't had the nightmare.

Then she smelled tomato sauce, heard it bubbling softly in the kitchen. Her mother came into view, in the kitchen archway, holding a wooden spoon. She waved the spoon and smiled. “You were sleeping
when I got home from work. Dinner's almost ready. Your favorite. Spaghetti with nonmeat meatballs.”

It wasn't
exactly
Maggie's favorite. She liked
real
meatballs. But Mrs. Travers was mainly a vegetarian.

“You were sleeping so peacefully, I didn't want to disturb you,” her mother called. “The phone rang twice and you stayed dead to the world. I think you really needed the sleep, Maggie.”

Sleeping peacefully—for once! It was the first time that Maggie had slept well in the new house. What made this time different?

She knew the answer right away. She had slept on the couch—not in the canopy bed.

That night, she stood in her bedroom, staring at the beautiful old bed. She still had not been able to figure out why the owners had left it behind.

Could it be because the bed was haunted?

How her feelings about this bed had changed since they first moved in! That first day, it had been the one good thing about having to move. She had loved it.

Now she feared it.

The backyard of 23 Fear Street was tiny, hemmed in by the lawns of three different houses. The previous owner had started a flagstone walk from the back door but had abandoned the project after laying only a few stones.

There was a rusty old swing set with two swings.
Maggie sat on one. It was designed for a young kid, and she had to stretch her long legs straight out in front of her to swing at all. The rusty chains creaked overhead as she rocked back and forth.

It was Saturday morning. A hot, sunny day with small puffs of white cloud high in a blue sky.

Usually Maggie woke up feeling refreshed, ready to go. But now she felt as tired as when she'd gone to bed.

She'd been up all night—thinking about Dawn, thinking about the dream, and wondering if there was any connection.

Inside the house, she saw her mother moving in her bedroom. Maggie waved and tried to smile.

She got off the swing and started making her way along the row of scrawny shrubs that bordered the yard. She pulled off a few early red berries and squished them in her fingers, making a bloody pulp.

Come on, she scolded herself. You've
got
to shake this. Think about something else.

But that was hopeless. She couldn't switch her mind off. What was the old game? You told someone not to think about an elephant. And then she couldn't think of anything else!

She sat down and leaned back against the smooth trunk of a white birch tree. Gazing up, she could see the sky through the budding branches. A gentle wind blew the clouds slowly by.

So peaceful. So quiet.

Before long, Maggie fell asleep.

A restful sleep with no disturbing dreams. No knives. No girl in pink.

And then a hand on her shoulder. She opened her eyes with a startled gasp.

And saw a frightening-looking man reaching for her throat. “This won't take long,” he rasped.

M
aggie pulled away with a terrified cry.

The man jerked back, his gray eyes wide with surprise.

“Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you,” he said. “I—I asked if you've been baking long?” He pointed up at the sky. The late morning sun was climbing higher, heating up the backyard.

“You could get a bad burn today, even though it's spring,” the man said. “I thought I'd better wake you.”

“Uh—thanks,” Maggie choked out. As she stared up at him, he came into sharper focus.

He was old, with a heavy white stubble on his leathery, creased face. He wore a battered orange cap and had a toothpick wedged in his mouth. His smile revealed uneven yellow teeth.

He held a hand out. It took Maggie a while to
realize he was offering to help her up. Reluctantly, she took his hand and climbed to her feet.

I am so jumpy and stressed out, she thought, scolding herself. I think everyone in the world is out to get me!

“Milton Avery,” the old man said in his harsh voice. He nodded and raised two fingers to his cap. “I'm your neighbor.”

He held out his right hand to Maggie. Maggie shook it. The old man held on to her hand a moment longer than Maggie would have liked. His skin felt like old paper.

“You haven't told me
your
name,” Mr. Avery said.

“Oh, sorry. Maggie. Maggie Travers.”

“Maggie Travers,” the man repeated. He nodded thoughtfully. “Nice name.”

Maggie smiled. “Thanks.”

The man smiled back warmly. He removed his cap, revealing a head that was bald except for a fringe of scraggly white hair. He scratched the top of his head, then put the cap back on. He looked up at the house. “It sure is nice to have this house occupied again,”

Maggie stared at the house too, as if she hadn't seen her own house before.

“It was on the market a long time,” Mr. Avery said.

Maggie felt her spine tingle. “Was it?”

“A
long
time” The way he said it, Maggie wanted to ask just how long he meant. Years? Decades? He obviously could remember back a long way.

Mr. Avery went on. “I didn't like having an empty
house next door. Kind of gave me a dead feeling every time I saw it. Know what I mean?”

Maggie knew exactly what he meant.

Mr. Avery took his cap off again and used it to point at his house. “I even took to keeping the shades down on this side of the house. So I wouldn't have to see yours.”

Maggie glanced at the still-drawn shades as another thought rolled through her mind. “Did you know the people who used to live in my house?” she asked.

Mr. Avery didn't answer right away. “Not really. They didn't live here very long. Terrible story. Terrible.”

Her heart pounded hard. “Why—what?”

The old man searched her face. “The real estate salesman didn't tell you the story?”

“No, what story?”

Mr. Avery frowned. “Well, I guess I can't blame him for keeping it from you. I mean, Bob Jamison is a pretty honest guy, for a salesman, anyway. But he hadn't been able to sell this house for months. I guess he figured that if you didn't ask, he didn't have to tell.”

He cleared his throat. His eyes focused on hers, boring into her. They were old eyes, pale gray, but clear and hard.

“Listen,” he said hoarsely. “My wife, Claire, would sure love to meet you. A pretty young girl like you would brighten up her morning. She could use that. Why don't you come on over for a cup of tea, and I'll tell you the whole story.”

Maggie glanced up at her house again to see if her
mom was watching. But her bedroom window was dark. “That sounds great,” she said.

Mr. Avery pointed to a break in the hedge. “This way,” he told her. He took off his cap, bowed, and gestured. “After you.”

Mr. Avery's house was warm and cozy. There were family photos on the walls—children, grandchildren.

Mrs. Avery was sitting at the kitchen table, the newspaper folded beside her plate as she worked the daily crossword. She had a round moon face, accentuated by a halo of thin white hair. “I thought you were going to do some gardening, Milton,” she said without looking up.

“I am, Claire,” he said. “But as you can see—”

Mrs. Avery raised her eyes and smiled warmly.

“This is our new neighbor,” Mr. Avery explained, placing a hand on Maggie's shoulder. “Claire, this is Martha—”

“Maggie,” she corrected him.

“Maggie. Sorry. Maggie Travers.”

Mrs. Avery stood up and smiled broadly. She shuffled over to shake Maggie's hand. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” she said. “Oh, I'm so glad to meet you. Such a pretty girl. Are those green eyes?”

“Yes,” Maggie replied uncomfortably.

“Gorgeous,” Mrs. Avery said, nodding her head in admiration. “Oh, it must be nice to be young.”

It hadn't been nice this week, that was for sure. “Mr. Avery said he was going to tell me—” Maggie started.

“Would you like some tea?” Mr. Avery interrupted.
“And a gingersnap. Do we have any left, Claire?”

Claire moved to the stove, hefted the kettle to make sure there was water inside, then turned on the burner full blast. “I don't know,” she said. “Check the cookie jar.”

Maggie couldn't wait any longer. “What happened in my house?” she asked bluntly.

Mrs. Avery gave her a sharp look. “You don't know?”

Back to square one again. “No,” she said. “I—”

“Milton,” Mrs. Avery said sharply, narrowing her eyes at her husband. “Are you trying to scare this nice young girl?”

Maggie felt a trickle of sweat run down between her shoulder blades. So she was right all along. Something awful had happened in that house. She knew it! She wasn't crazy after all!

Maggie sat down at the table, trying to stay calm.

Mr. Avery set his cap down. “Such a sad story,” he muttered.

“Please, Milton, we didn't even know the poor people—the Heifers,” Mrs. Avery chimed in. She shuffled back to the stove to lift the whistling kettle. “So many horrible stories on this street …”

Mr. Avery continued. “There was a girl about your age—named Miranda. Pretty girl with blond hair.”

Miranda!

Maggie knew instantly that Miranda had to be the blond girl in her dream!

“Did Miranda live in my house?” Maggie asked eagerly.

“She and her family lived in your house, yes,” answered Mr. Avery.

“Milton, that's enough,” Mrs. Avery spoke up.

“No, please tell me,” Maggie pleaded.

“She was killed,” the old woman blurted out. “Murdered.”

“She was stabbed,” Mr. Avery said in a hushed whisper. “Stabbed right in her own bed.”