Comes The Blind Fury Part 7

Sally avoided the tangle of vines and weeds as she moved through the graveyard. "Wait'll you see what's over here."

Mich.e.l.le was about to follow her when her eyes suddenly fell on one of the headstones. It stood at an odd angle, as if it were about to fall under its own weight. It was the inscription that had caught Mich.e.l.le's eye. She read it again: LOUISE CARSON-Born 1850 DIED IN SIN-1880.

"Sally?"

Ahead of her, Sally Carstairs paused, and turned back to see what had happened.

"Have you ever seen this?" Mich.e.l.le was pointing to one of the headstones. Even before she went back to look, Sally knew which one it was. Seconds later she was standing next to Mich.e.l.le, staring at the strange inscription.

"What does it mean?" Mich.e.l.le asked.

"How should I know?"

"Does anybody know?"

"Search me," Sally said. "I asked my mother once, but she didn't know either. Whatever it was, it happened a hundred years ago."

"But it's creepy," Mich.e.l.le said. "'Died in Sin'! It sounds so-so Puritan!"

"Well, what do you expect? This is New England!"

"But who was she?"

"One of Uncle Joe's ancestors, I guess. All the Carsons were." She took Mich.e.l.le's arm and pulled at her. "Come on-the one I wanted to show you is over there in the corner."

Reluctantly, Mich.e.l.le allowed herself to be drawn away from the strange grave, but as she picked her way across the cemetery, her mind stayed on the odd inscription. What could it mean? Did it mean anything? Then Sally stopped and pointed.

"There," she whispered to Mich.e.l.le. "Look at that."

Mich.e.l.le's eyes searched out the ground where Sally was pointing. At first she didn't see anything. Then, nearly lost under the brambles, she saw a small slab of stone. She knelt down, and pulled the th.o.r.n.y branches to one side, brus.h.i.+ng the dirt off the stone with her free hand.

It was a simple rectangle of granite, unadorned and pitted with age. On it was a single word: AMANDA.

Mich.e.l.le sucked in her breath, then examined the stone more closely, sure that there must be more to the inscription than just the name. There wasn't.

"I don't understand," she whispered. It doesn't say when she was born, or when she died, or her last name, or anything. Who was she?" Her eyes wide, Mich.e.l.le stared up at Sally, who quickly knelt down beside her.

"She was a blind girl," Sally said, keeping her voice low. "She must have been one of the Carsons, and she must have lived here a long time ago. My mother says they think she fell off the cliff one day."

"But why isn't her last name on the stone, or when she was born, and when she died?" Mich.e.l.le's eyes, reflecting her fascination, were fixed on the pitted granite slab.

"Because she isn't buried here," Sally whispered. "They never found her body. It must have been swept out to sea or something. Anyway, Mom told me they only put this marker here as a temporary thing. But they never found her body, so they never put up a real headstone."

Mich.e.l.le felt a chill pa.s.s through her. "They'll never find the body now," she said.

"I know. That's why they say the ghost will always be around here. The kids say Amanda won't leave until her body's found, and since the body won't ever be found..."

Sally's voice trailed off, and Mich.e.l.le tried to absorb what she had just heard. Almost involuntarily she put her hand out and rested it on the stone for a moment, then pulled it quickly away and stood up.

"There's no such thing as ghosts," she said. "Come on, let's go home."

She started purposefully out of the cemetery, but when she realized Sally wasn't following her she paused and looked back. Sally was still kneeling by the strange memorial, but when Mich.e.l.le called out to her, she stood up and hurried toward Mich.e.l.le.

Neither of the girls spoke until they were out of the cemetery and on their way back to the Pendletons'.

"You have to admit, it's weird," Sally said.

"What is?" Mich.e.l.le said evasively.

"You choosing that name for your doll. I mean, that could have been her her doll, lying on that shelf all these years, just waiting for you to find it." doll, lying on that shelf all these years, just waiting for you to find it."

"That's dumb," Mich.e.l.le said flatly, not willing to admit that what Sally had just said was exactly what had been going through her own mind. "I could have named the doll anything."

"But you didn't," Sally insisted. "You named it Amanda. There must have been a reason."

"It was just a coincidence. Besides, Jeff's lived here all his life, and if there were a ghost, he'd have seen it."

"Maybe he has," Sally said thoughtfully. "Maybe that's why he won't go over to your house."

"He doesn't come over because he's busy," Mich.e.l.le said quickly. "He has to help his mother." Her voice was becoming strident, and she felt herself getting angry. Why was Sally talking like this? "Can't we talk about something else?" she asked.

Sally looked at her curiously, then grinned. "Okay. I'm starting to scare myself, anyway."

Grateful for her friend's understanding, Mich.e.l.le reached out and gave Sally's arm a friendly squeeze.

"Ouch!" Sally yelped, flinching and pulling away from Mich.e.l.le.

Her arm, Mich.e.l.le thought. Her arm's hurting again, just like it did last week. But nothing happened to her, not today Her arm's hurting again, just like it did last week. But nothing happened to her, not today. A s.h.i.+ver pa.s.sed through Mich.e.l.le, but she was careful not to let her sudden feeling of unease show.

"I'm sorry," she said, touching Sally's arm lightly. "I thought it was all better."

"I thought it was, too," Sally replied, glancing back at the cemetery. "But I guess it isn't." Suddenly she wanted to get away from there. "Let's go back to your house," she said. "This place is giving me the creeps."

The two girls hurried toward the old house on the bluff. As they reached the back door, Mich.e.l.le s.h.i.+vered a little, and watched the afternoon fog gather in the air above the sea. Then she pulled open the door and followed Sally inside.

"Dad?"

The Pendletons were gathered in the front parlor, a room they had quickly adopted as a family den, since the living room was too cavernous to suit them comfortably. Cal was sitting in his big chair, his feet resting on an ottoman, and Mich.e.l.le was stretched out on the floor near him, a book open in front of her. She was lying on her elbows, her chin propped up in the palms of her hands, and Cal couldn't understand why her neck wasn't hurting her. Flexibility of youth, he decided. In a frightfully hard-looking antique chair next to the fireplace, June was industriously knitting a sweater for the baby, alternating the stripes-blue and pink-just to be on the safe side.

"Um?" Cal replied, his concentration still on the medical journal in his lap.

"Do you believe in ghosts?"

Cal's eyes left the page he had been reading. He glanced at his wife and saw that June had abandoned her knitting. He turned to his daughter, a tentative smile on his face.

"Do I what?" he asked.

"Do you believe in ghosts?"

Cal's smile faded as be realized Mich.e.l.le was serious. He closed the magazine, wondering what had brought on such a strange question.

"Didn't we talk about this five years ago?" he asked mildly. "About the same time we talked about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny?"

"Well, maybe not ghosts," Mich.e.l.le said haltingly. "Not like that, anyway. Spirits, I guess."

"What on earth are you talking about?" June asked.

Mich.e.l.le began to feel foolish. Now, in the warmth and comfort of the den, the thoughts that had been worrying her all afternoon seemed silly. Maybe she shouldn't have mentioned it at all. She considered for a moment, then decided to tell them what had happened.

"You know that old graveyard between here and the Bensons'?" she began. "Sally showed it to me today."

"Don't tell me you saw a ghost in a graveyard," Cal exclaimed.

"No, I didn't," Mich.e.l.le said scornfully. "But there's a strange marker there. It-it has the name of my doll on it."

"Amanda?" June said. "That is is strange." strange."

Mich.e.l.le nodded. "And Sally says there's no body in the grave. She says Amanda was a blind girl who fell off the bluff a long time ago." She hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to continue. Sensing her indecision, Cal urged her on.

"What else did she say?"

"She said some of the kids think Amanda's ghost is still around here," Mich.e.l.le said quietly.

"You didn't believe her, did you?" Cal asked.

"No..." Mich.e.l.le said, but her voice made it clear that she wasn't sure.

"Well, you can believe me, princess," Cal declared. "There's no such thing as ghosts, spirits, boogeymen, haunts, poltergeists, or any other such nonsense, and you shouldn't let anyone tell you there is."

"But it's weird, me naming the doll Amanda," Mich.e.l.le protested. "Sally thinks the doll might even have belonged to her..."

"It's just a coincidence, dear." June picked up her knitting, quickly counted her st.i.tches, and resumed her work. "Those things happen all the time. That's how ghost stories start. Something odd happens, purely by coincidence, but people don't want to believe it was just chance. They want to believe there's something else-luck, ghosts, fate, whatever." When Mich.e.l.le still looked unconvinced, June set her work down once more.

"All right," she said. "How did you happen to choose the name for your doll?"

"Well, I wanted an old-fas.h.i.+oned sounding name-" Mich.e.l.le began.

"Okay. That lets out a lot of names right there. Yours, and mine, and lots of others that don't sound old-fas.h.i.+oned. The old-fas.h.i.+oned ones, like Agatha, and Sophie, and Prudence-"

"They're all ugly," Mich.e.l.le protested.

"So that narrows the list down still more," June reasoned. "Now you wanted a name that's 'old-fas.h.i.+oned' but not 'ugly,' and if you start with the A's, as most of us do, about the first one you come to is-"

"-Amanda." Mich.e.l.le finished, grinning, "And I thought it had just come to me," she muttered.

"Well, in a way, it did," June said. "The mind works so fast, you didn't even realize you'd gone through all that reasoning. And that, my love, is how ghost stories are born-coincidence! Now off to bed, or you'll fall asleep at school tomorrow."

Mich.e.l.le pulled herself to her feet, and went to her father. Her arms slid around his neck, and she hugged him.

"I'm really dumb sometimes, aren't I?" she said.

"No more than the rest of us, princess." He kissed her gently, then smacked her bottom. "Off to bed with you."

He listened as Mich.e.l.le went upstairs, then looked fondly at his wife.

"How do you do it?" he asked admiringly.

"Do what?" June replied absently.

"Think up logical explanations for things that don't seem logical."

"Talent," June replied. "Just talent. Besides, if I'd let you think up an explanation, we'd have been up all night, and wound up all believing in ghosts." let you think up an explanation, we'd have been up all night, and wound up all believing in ghosts."

She got to her feet, and poked at the fire, settling it low on the grate, while Cal turned off the lights. Then, hand in hand, they, too, climbed the stairs.

Mich.e.l.le lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the night-the surf pounding on the beach below, the last crickets of summer chirping happily in the darkness, the light breeze soughing in the trees around the house. She thought about what her mother had said. It made sense. And yet-and yet it seemed as though there was something wrong with tibie explanation. There should be something else. That's silly, she told herself. There isn't anything else. But even as the nightsounds lulled her to sleep, Mich.e.l.le had the feeling that there was was something else. something else.

Something ominous.

Maybe she shouldn't have named the doll Amanda at all....

The nightsounds had stopped when Mich.e.l.le awoke. She lay still in bed, listening. Around her, the silence was almost palpable.

And then she felt it.

Something was watching her.

Something in her room.

She wanted to pull the covers up over her face and hide from whatever had come to her, but she knew she couldn't.

Whatever it was, she had to look at it.

Slowly, Mich.e.l.le sat up in bed, her eyes, wide and frightened, searching out the dark corners of the bedroom.

By the window.

It was in the corner by the window-a black shape, something standing there, standing still, watching her.

And then, as she watched, it began coming toward her.

It moved out into the room, into the moonlight that was s.h.i.+ning silver through the window.

It was a little girl, no older than herself.

Inexplicably, the fear began to drain from Mich.e.l.le, and was replaced by curiosity. Who was she? What did she want?

The child moved closer to her, and Mich.e.l.le could see that she was dressed strangely-her dress was black, and fell close to the floor, with large puffed sleeves that ended in tight cuffs at her wrists. On her head, nearly hiding her face, she wore a black bonnet.