The Second Horror (7 page)

I made Jinny bleed. Abbie is next. Brandt, you cannot save Abbie.

“No!” Brandt cried out loud. He slammed the diary shut and squeezed the book in his hand, squeezed it until his hand ached. “Cally Frasier—can you hear me?” he called. Silence. “Are you writing these threats in your diary, Cally?” Brandt demanded in a quivering voice. Silence. “I’m taking your diary away!” he shouted. “I’m taking it and hiding it, Cally! So you can’t make any more threats!”

He moved quickly to the stairs, the diary still clasped tightly in his hand. Have I gone totally crazy? he asked himself. Am I really up here shouting at a ghost? He clamored heavily down the stairs. Into his room. If there is no diary, will the evil still happen? he wondered. Can I save Abbie by hiding the diary? He glanced around the room, desperately searching for a hiding place. The closet? No. He remembered that green glow, the flash of white that had sprung out at him from the closet. The diary wouldn’t be safe there. He pulled open his bottom dresser drawer and tossed the diary under a stack of Tshirts. It would have to do. As he pushed the drawer closed, Brandt heard a voice. “Mom? Dad?” he called. “Are you home?” No answer. He hurried to the window and checked the driveway. No. No sign of his parents. He heard the voice again. Tiny. Far away. “Cally? Is that you? Did you come to find your diary?” he demanded, his eyes searching the room. A muffled voice. Out in the hall. He stepped out into the hallway and listened. Crying? Was someone crying? “Hello?” he called. “Is someone here?” The muffled cry grew louder. A whimpering dog? A child? But where? Where was it coming from? Gripped with fear, Brandt forced his legs to carry him down the dimly lit hall. The tiny cries seemed to come from an empty bedroom. He stopped outside the door to the room and listened. “Is anybody in there? Can you hear me?” As he stepped into the empty room, he heard the little boy’s frightened voice. “Mommy, it’s me! Are you there, Mommy?” “Wh-who is it?” Brandt stammered. “Where are you?” “Help me, Mommy! Help me! Come get me, Mommy. It’s so dark here. Come get me! It’s me—James!”

The little boy’s tiny, terrified voice sent a cold shudder down Brandt’s spine. “Mommy! Mommy! Where are you?” the voice cried. “Come get me, Mommy! Please!” Brandt switched on the light. A single bare bulb shone in a ceiling fixture. His eyes darted frantically around the room. No one there. “Mommy!” the voice pleaded. “Help me! Come get me! It’s so dark here!” No, Brandt thought. It’s impossible. The voice seemed to be coming from inside the wall. Brandt froze, unable to decide what to do. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to the wall and pressed his hands against it.

Was there some kind of trapdoor in the wall? Some kind of secret compartment? He ran his hands all along the wall, pressing hard. But it was solid—plaster. “Take me home, Mommy! It’s James! Mommy, where are you?” James. James. Why does that name sound familiar? Brandt asked himself. The diary, he remembered. Cally wrote about her brother, a little boy named James. She told a horrifying story. About how James and his dog disappeared—and were never found. But Cally’s family heard James calling to them. Calling from inside the walls. Could that little boy still be alive? Brandt wondered, staring at the white plaster wall. No. It was impossible. The house had been empty for more than a year. “Mommy, I’m scared! It’s so dark in here! I’m so lonely! Get me out, Mommy!’ “I’ll help you, James!” Brandt shouted. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll help you!” But how? Somehow he had to open up the wall. “Please don’t leave me, Mommy! Don’t leave me behind!” “Don’t worry, James,” Brandt called. “I’ll be right back.” He hurried downstairs and frantically rummaged through the cartons stacked in the dining room. He knew his father had packed his tools somewhere. A few minutes later he returned to the room, carrying a large wooden mallet. “James?” Brandt called. “Are you still here?” “Mommy! Get me out!” the boy screeched. “All right,” Brandt called in a soothing voice. “Wherever you are, James, step away from this side of the wall.” Brandt waited a few seconds. Then he heaved the mallet and swung it at the wall. It cracked a hole in the plaster. Brandt peered inside the hole. Nothing but darkness. No sign of the boy. “James?” Brandt called. Silence. Then, “Mommy! I want to come back! Please, Mommy?” “Hold on, James!” Brandt called breathlessly. He raised the heavy mallet- -and swung again. Again. Again. The plaster crumbled. The hole widened. Brandt struggled to catch his breath. A sour odor invaded his nostrils. He recognized it at once—the same stench he’d smelled in his room a few days before. The stench of decay, of rotting flesh. One more swing of the mallet, and the wall fell away. “Ohhhhh.” Brandt uttered a sickened cry. The mallet dropped from his hands and landed at his feet with a thud. He was staring at the most gruesome sight he had ever seen in his life.

As Brandt gaped in horror, the skeleton of a child toppled out of the wall. The child’s bony hands clutched a dog’s skeleton in its arms.

Holding his breath against the foul odor, Brandt forced himself to look. The small body was decomposed. A ragged little pair of jeans and a shirt clung to the boy’s bones. The bones tumbled in a heap to the floor. Brandt turned away, fighting down his nausea. The room lay in silence now. The pitiful cries had stopped. Brandt stared at the hideous little skull with its patch of red hair. This boy was calling to me, Brandt knew. That was the tiny voice that I heard. But how? Abbie’s words echoed in his mind. The house is evil. The house is evil. Maybe, Brandt thought. Or maybe the house was haunted—by the ghost of James.

Brandt’s parents returned home about an hour after Brandt discovered the skeleton. Mrs. McCloy gasped in horror at the sight. But Brandt’s father stared at the two skeletons, fascinated. “This could explain a lot of strange things about the house,” he told Brandt. “The noises you’ve been hearing, your sense that someone’s in the room with you—” He paused. “It’s not a classic case,” he mused. “But I think we’ve had a poltergeist.” “What are we going to do with these bones?” Mrs. McCloy moaned. “How can you be talking about poltergeists when we have the skeleton of a child on our floor?” “Poltergeists are often the ghosts of children,” Mr. McCloy continued, staring at the pile of bones. “They’re mischievous, but they rarely hurt anyone. No one has been hurt in this house, have they?” “What about Jinny?” Brandt demanded. “And what about poor Ezra?” “Hmmmm.” Mr. McCloy rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Mischievous doesn’t describe what I’ve felt in this house,” Brandt said heatedly. “It’s more like—evil.” “That’s just because it scares you,” Mr. McCloy insisted. “Because you don’t know what causes it, it seems mysterious.” A heavy silence fell over the room as the three of them stared at the skeleton of James and the dog. Poor kid, Brandt thought. He sounded so frightened, so alone. How did he get trapped in the wall? And how could he be calling out to us more than a year after he died? Brandt’s head spun with questions. So many questions. Mr. McCloy broke the silence. “We’d better call the police. They will deal with the remains. And get in touch with the family.” As they made their way downstairs, Mr. McCloy put an arm around Brandt’s shoulder. “Maybe the house will settle down now,” he said. “Once this poor boy is buried and can rest in peace.” Brandt sighed. “I hope so, Dad. I really do.”

Poor James, the ghost of Cally thought as she watched the grim-faced police officers carry away her brother’s bones. My poor brother James. You were such a cute little guy. So sweet. So beautiful. And look at you now.

“Oh!” An officer uttered a cry as his hand slipped and the dog’s skull clattered to the floor. It rolled to a stop at Cally’s feet. She floated back. Goodbye, James, she thought. Goodbye. I hope you rest better than me. She realized she felt no sadness. Her anger was much too strong to allow any soft feelings in. Too late, James, she thought, feeling her bitterness surge. Too late for you. Too late for me. She floated close to Brandt, who stood watching the police officers go about their unpleasant job. Don’t get too cozy, Brandt, Cally told him silently. Because your problems aren’t over yet. It’s too late for James. Too late for me. And—it’s too late for you.

On Saturday morning Brandt stepped outside to get the newspaper. He opened the front door to find Abbie standing on the porch, ready to ring the bell. “Hi,” she said brightly. “Hey—Abbie!” Brandt cried in surprise. “You’re looking good!” She was cute in a pair of faded jeans, a white shirt, and a pale blue vest. Abbie smiled. “What’s up?” Brandt leaned down and picked up the folded newspaper. “Not much. Why don’t you come in?” He suddenly pictured the warning in the diary: Abbie is next. Should he warn her about it? No, he decided. The threat is all gone. The little boy’s bones had been removed nearly a week before. And nothing strange or frightening had happened in the house since then. No need to scare Abbie, Brandt decided. No need to make her think I’m some kind of paranoid nutcase. She followed him inside. Brandt stepped into the kitchen to give the newspaper to his mother. She was washing the breakfast dishes. He found Abbie in the living room, staring at his father’s wall of old weapons. “What’s all this stuff?” she asked. “It’s so strange and primitive looking.” “This is my dad’s collection of arms and armor,” Brandt explained. “He’s really into old tribal weapons and stuff.” “How did he get it all?” Abbie asked. She stared at the thin, feathered darts in fascination. “Did he buy them?” “No. We lived on a remote island in the Pacific for a couple of years,” Brandt told her. “The people there were into weird stuff. They had all kinds of bizarre customs and ceremonies.” “Like what?” Abbie asked. Brandt paused, remembering. “Well, they used a lot of weird herbs to mix love potions and things like that. They believed in spirits and ghosts.” “Wow,” Abbie said. “It must have been cool to live there.”

“It was interesting,” Brandt admitted. “But it was difficult too. They thought differently from us. Like, they believed every animal and person has two spirits, not just one.” “You mean like split personalities?” “No,” Brandt explained. “One spirit is your personality. It’s what makes you different from other people. And the other spirit is a sort of life force that keeps you alive. That’s why they sacrifice animals and drink the blood.” “I don’t get it,” Abbie said. “They think the blood contains the animal’s life force—and if they drink it, their own life force will get stronger.” “And what happens to the other spirit—the personality spirit?” Abbie asked. “That becomes your ghost. Your personality spirit can haunt people if it wants to.” Abbie stared at the wall thoughtfully. “Did you ever see a ghost while you were there?” she asked. “No,” Brandt replied. “No, I never did.” Abbie stepped closer to the wall, examining a spear. Brandt heard the telephone ring in the kitchen. A moment later his mother called, “Brandt! Phone!” “I’ll be right back,” he told Abbie. He hurried into the kitchen. His mother handed him the phone and stepped away, wiping down a counter. “Hello?” “Hi, Brandt. It’s Jinny.” Brandt couldn’t hide his surprise. “Jinny—hi!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t talked to you all week. I thought maybe—” Brandt didn’t get to finish his sentence. A loud, clattering crash from the living room interrupted him. He dropped the phone receiver when he heard the chilling scream. Abbie’s scream.

Abbie’s screams rose shrilly. Brandt cried out in surprise and raced out of the kitchen. “Abbie?” He found her on the floor, pinned under the heavy suit of armor. “Help me!” Abbie cried. “I can’t move!” “Oh, my goodness!” Mrs. McCloy cried, right behind Brandt. “How did this happen?” Brandt struggled to lift the metal suit off Abbie. “It—it won’t budge!” he stammered. Abbie moaned and tried to move one of her arms. “Hurry,” she pleaded. “I can’t breathe. It’s so heavy.” Brandt struggled to lift the armor. His mother stepped to the other side and bent to help. They managed to move it just enough for Abbie to wriggle out from under it. “Are you all right?” Brandt asked. “Does anything feel broken?” Abbie remained seated on the floor, her expression dazed. She rubbed her arm. “It—it just flew off the wall,” she murmured. “I was looking at it- -and it flew off the wall. It didn’t just fall, Brandt. It flew!” “It was hanging very securely,” Mrs. McCloy said, puzzled. “I know we checked the hooks three times. Nothing like this has happened before.”

Brandt helped Abbie to her feet. He led her to the couch. Mrs. McCloy hurried to the kitchen to get her a glass of water. Brandt sat down beside Abbie. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” he began. “But someone knew that you would have an accident. Someone predicted it.” “Huh?” Abbie sat up straight. “Who? Who predicted it?” “I don’t know,” Brandt replied uneasily. “One of the twins who used to live here—her name was Cally—kept a diary. I found it in the attic. But sometimes when I look at it—” He hesitated. “What?” Abbie asked. “Go on, Brandt.” “There are new entries,” Brandt told her. “I know it sounds crazy. But someone is still writing in it. And the last entry predicted that you would get hurt.” “I told you this house was evil!” Abbie exclaimed, close to tears. Brandt put his arms around her, trying to calm her. “It could have been an accident,” he said in a soothing voice, though he didn’t believe it himself. “Or just a coincidence.” “It wasn’t,” Abbie declared. “I know it wasn’t.” “Anyway, you’re okay,” Brandt said. “You weren’t really hurt, right?” Abbie sniffed. “I guess not. But someone will get hurt here, Brandt. The stories about this house must be true.” Brandt held his arms around her but said nothing. It could have been an accident, he told himself again. James is buried. The ghost is gone. The house is no longer haunted. Right?

Brandt sat up as the bell rang, ending school. He rubbed his eyes. Then slowly followed the other kids out of the classroom. Well, I made it through another day, he thought. But if I don’t get some sleep soon, I’ll start dozing off in class. He had spent another sleepless night. The footsteps in the attic had returned. He lay staring up at the ceiling, gripping the blankets tightly, listening. Listening all night. With a weary sigh, he stood at his locker, daydreaming. He heard a basketball being bounced on the hard floor. “McCloy. I want to talk to you.” Brandt raised his eyes to discover Jon Burks beside him. “Listen, Jon,” Brandt said, “I don’t have much time—” Jon tucked the basketball under one arm and placed his other hand on Brandt’s shoulder. “What’s up, man?” he asked, grinning at Brandt. “Not much,” Brandt replied, edging away. “I’ve got to get going, Jon.” Glancing down the hall, Brandt noticed that all the other kids had left. “How’s the bad shoulder?” Jon asked, ignoring Brandt’s impatience. He slapped the shoulder. “How’s that feel? Not too bad?” His grin remained frozen on his face. “See you later,” Brandt uttered. He turned and headed away. But Jon kept up with him. “Hey, what’s up with you and Jinny?” Brandt stopped short. “Why don’t you ask her?” he snapped. Jon’s face turned bright red. He leaned menacingly toward Brandt. “Don’t mess with me,” he muttered. He bumped Brandt’s shoulder hard. Brandt knew he should back away. But he never could take the easy way out. “Watch out for those fouls, Jon,” he said sharply.