Oddest of All Page 7

  Stop it, she told herself as she went through the back door of the house. You’re being cruel.

  In fact, pausing to think about it made Margaret remember how much she had loved Auntie Alma when she, Margaret, was younger—how when she was frightened she would throw her arms around the old woman’s waist and whisper, “I’m always safe with you.”

  That memory made it all the more painful when Margaret entered the kitchen and saw the slight look of disappointment that flickered across Auntie Alma’s face. Though the expression vanished almost instantly, it stabbed Margaret to the heart. I guess she doesn’t want me around, either. Probably she was hoping I’d drown while I was out at the pond.

  Margaret shuddered at the thought. She had been afraid of Auntie Alma’s pond for as long as she could remember—which wouldn’t have been quite so bad if everyone else in the family hadn’t seemed to think it was the most wonderful place in the world.

  How they had teased her for not wanting to enter its cool, dark waters. “For heaven’s sake, Margaret, come in and cool off,” her mother would exclaim on those hot summer afternoons when they came here to escape the city. “You like the pool in town. What’s wrong with this?”

  But Margaret could never explain her fear of the pond, the sense of nameless dread that seized her whenever she stood on its grassy bank and imagined stepping down into the black water.

  The feeling that something was waiting for her there.

  That was why she had always preferred the boat. It held her safely above the pond, its wooden floor a comforting barrier between herself and the terrifying water.

  Still, those fears had been only a small part of her life back in what she now thought of as the good old days—the time when Mom and Dad had been happy together, not acting as if being married was some miserable job they had been forced into against their will. She sighed. Why did grown-ups have to make such a big deal out of everything, anyway?

  She wished her friend Annie could have come here with her. Or better yet, that she could have stayed at Annie’s house, where she always felt welcome and wanted.

  Auntie Alma made supper and set it on the table. “A summer supper,” she said cheerfully, as she always did when she put out this kind of meal. It consisted of nothing but fresh things from her garden: thick sliced tomatoes, red as blood, each bite packed with more flavor than a dozen of the pale, hard things Margaret’s mother bought at the grocery store in the winter; yellow squash, glistening with melted butter, seeds nearly clear from the steaming; and baby carrots, torn early from the ground.

  The only thing not from the garden was dessert—Auntie Alma’s special molasses cookies. Though Margaret had loved these when she was little, tonight she couldn’t bring herself to touch them.

  “Goodness, pumpkin,” clucked the old woman. “You haven’t eaten a thing.”

  Margaret stared at the soft face, which quivered with concern. Unable to contain herself anymore, she shouted, “I want to go home!”

  The look of sorrow that welled up in Auntie Alma’s eyes was too much to bear. Margaret bolted from the table and fled to her room.

  For the next hour she lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She was being horrible, and she knew it. Auntie Alma hadn’t done anything wrong, had only been worried about her. But Margaret couldn’t help herself. Nothing seemed right, and the knot of fear that had tied itself inside her gut left no room for food—not even Auntie Alma’s cooking, which was, she had to admit, delicious.

  But not now.

  Not now.

  At last Margaret slept—slept, but did not really rest, for in her dreams a familiar voice was calling to her, urging her to come into the darkness.

  She woke with a gasp.

  To her horror, the voice was still calling—not out loud, but inside her somehow, whispering in soft, oddly familiar tones, Margaret, please come to me! Please, I need you to come to me!

  She clung to her bed, riveted by terror. Though she couldn’t say what was calling, she knew all too well where the voice was coming from.

  The pond.

  As she had always known would happen one day, something in those murky waters was after her—desperately, urgently summoning her to come to it.

  “I won’t go,” she whispered, tightening herself against the bed as if she could actually press herself into the mattress, merge with it so that nothing could pull her away. “I won’t go!”

  The voice called and pleaded, until finally Margaret shouted out in terror. That brought Auntie Alma bustling in to sit beside the bed and try to comfort her. The old woman’s face was sad, and her wise old eyes seemed to hold some awful secret. But her voice was soothing and, even better, her muttered reassurances about bad dreams managed to drown out the voice that still called so longingly, so seductively, from the pond.

  Finally Margaret fell asleep again.

  When she woke, she noticed water on the floor.

  From the dank smell, she knew it had come from the pond.

  Late the next morning, somewhat to her astonishment, Margaret found herself standing once more at the edge of Auntie Alma’s pond. A surge of panic rippled through her. How had she gotten here? She certainly didn’t remember the walk! She swallowed nervously. Was whatever waited beneath the water so strong it could draw her here against her will? How much longer could she go on resisting?

  She forced herself to back away from the water. After three steps, she turned and ran up the ridge that separated the pond from Auntie Alma’s house.

  Halfway to the crest she stopped and looked back.

  The boat still floated in the center of the pond. The black water surrounding it was smooth and mirrorlike. The hot air held no hint of a breeze, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

  Margaret looked past the boat to the far side of the pond, where a row of willows stood so close to the water it looked as if they were about to go wading. Their long, drooping branches overhung the pond, shading it for much of the day. Fallen leaves, narrow and shaped like the tips of spears, dotted the surface of the water, floating aimlessly.

  Beyond the willows the land sloped up to a forested area, dark and mysterious yet somehow as inviting as the pond was terrifying.

  Standing here now, Margaret remembered a summer day years earlier when she had been playing at the edge of the water. She had been three, maybe four, years old, and she was sitting happily on the grassy bank. Suddenly her uncle Ted had reared up from the pond, murky water streaming from his long hair, green weeds dangling from his grasping fingers. “I’m going to get you, Margaret!” he growled, stalking forward. “I’m going to get you!”

  She had shrieked and run for her mother, which caused the assembled grown-ups—all the aunts and uncles and cousins—to laugh uproariously. Only Auntie Alma had disapproved, and Margaret still remembered with satisfaction the way the old woman had bawled out Uncle Ted.

  Since then Margaret had often watched grown-ups play with children; she was still amazed at the way adults seemed to think it was fun to frighten little kids. Yet frequently the kids laughed. Did they really find the scares funny, or were they just trying to hide their fear? Was it possible they actually liked being frightened? If so, why didn’t she? Was she really that different from all the others?

  Probably, Margaret thought bitterly. I’ve always been different. I should be used to it by now.

  With a start, she realized that Auntie Alma was standing beside her. How had the old woman walked up without her noticing?

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  Margaret didn’t answer right away. She wasn’t all right, not really. But she didn’t think there was anything Auntie Alma could do to change that—except send her home, of course. Which didn’t seem likely.

  “I’m afraid,” whispered Margaret at last, startling herself by letting the words escape.

  Auntie Alma nodded. “It’s hard when things change. Gets a person all stirred up inside.”

  Margaret relaxed a little. Mayb
e Auntie Alma understood better than she thought. She waited a moment, then said cautiously, “I’m afraid of the pond.”

  Auntie Alma didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was soft and sounded far away. “No need to be afraid of it anymore. Not now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  The old woman laughed. “If I told you everything you wanted to know, it wouldn’t leave anything for you to find out on your own.”

  “Good thing you’re not a teacher.”

  “Oh, the very best teachers never tell you everything, my dear. The best teachers know that you have to figure some things out for yourself.” She smiled. “After all, what’s life without a little mystery?”

  “Safe,” grumbled Margaret. But she said it so softly that Auntie Alma didn’t seem to hear.

  When Margaret climbed into bed that night, rain was pattering lightly against the window. She listened to it for a long time, staring into the darkness and unable to sleep.

  Slowly, and to her great horror, she began to hear words in the rain—the same words she had heard the night before, now clearer and stronger than ever. Over and over they whispered, “Come to me, Margaret. Oh please come to me.”

  “Leave me alone!” she shouted at last.

  At least, she thought she had shouted it. But since Auntie Alma didn’t come in to find out what was wrong, maybe she hadn’t shouted after all. She shuddered. Had the thing, whatever it was, stolen her voice?

  She tried again. “Leave me alone!”

  That sounded real enough. Why didn’t Auntie Alma come?

  She tried the direct approach. “Auntie Alma! Auntie Alma, I need you!”

  No answer. No sound except the falling water and the voice that came from within it, calling her name, calling her to the pond.

  A cold dread grew inside her. Where was Auntie Alma? Why didn’t she come?

  Part of her longed to fling aside the covers and go in search of the old woman, while another part of her shrank in terror from the thought of leaving the bed.

  She lay, trembling, until the voice finally left her alone.

  It was hours before she slept.

  In the morning, there were puddles of pond water on her floor again. The sight terrified Margaret so thoroughly she couldn’t bring herself to get out of bed until Auntie Alma came to her door to see if she was all right.

  “Why didn’t you come when I called last night?” asked Margaret angrily.

  The round old face wrinkled in dismay. “I’m sorry, child. I must have gone out.”

  “Out in the rain?”

  “I like the rain. And the nighttime. They’re beautiful, if you pay attention.”

  “But I was frightened!”

  “I’m sorry, pumpkin. But there isn’t any reason to be frightened. No reason at all.”

  Margaret wished that not being afraid was as easy as Auntie Alma made it sound.

  That afternoon she went for a walk in the opposite direction from the pond, following a faint trail that wound through the meadow on the north side of the house. She grew uneasy as she moved between the walls of high grass. At first she was uncertain why. Then she remembered what lay at the end of the path: the small family cemetery where the last three generations of Jeffersons had been buried. She thought about turning back, then decided against it. The cemetery wasn’t really scary. In fact, it was a nice place to sit and think. She had gone there several times with her cousin Peter last summer, and they had talked about everything they wanted to do when they grew up.

  She reached it now, walking under a thick branch of a low-growing apple tree that nearly blocked the path. The spot was much as she remembered it: a small clearing—about the same size as the pond, actually—hedged all around with brush and brambles that were starting to creep their way into the cemetery itself.

  Fifteen or twenty white stones, some cracked, others severely tilted, marked the haphazardly arranged graves. Wild roses twined over many of the stones, and a variety of flowers grew on and around the low mounds that rose over the final resting places of Auntie Alma’s relatives. Alma had told Margaret that she would probably be the last one to be buried here. She had no children of her own, and none of her nieces and nephews seemed to want a spot here. Margaret thought that was a little sad.

  She sat beneath the apple tree and listened to the birds. The warm sun felt good on her skin. After a while she got up and began to read the gravestones, calculating the ages of various Jeffersons when they had died. The set that got to her, and always had, was a group of four—mother, father, and two children. What brought a lump to Margaret’s throat each time she read the stones was that the husband and children had all died within a year of each other, leaving the mother to live on alone for another fifty years. Her messages on the tombstones—carved into each were the words I WILL LOVE YOU FOR ALL OF MY LIFE followed by MOTHER, MOTHER, and then WIFE—always struck Margaret as both beautiful and infinitely sad.

  At the south side of the little clearing she noticed a grave that she didn’t remember. The stone was not weathered, and the grave itself was not overgrown the way the others were.

  The skin at the back of Margaret’s neck prickled as if she had caterpillars crawling across it. A horrified feeling growing in her chest, she walked to the grave and knelt to read the stone.

  Alma Jefferson, Beloved Friend

  And the date—this past April.

  With a cry of horror, Margaret turned and ran from the cemetery. She raced along the path, the grass whipping at her legs. Halfway to the house she suddenly stopped. How could she go back there, back to the old woman who was dead? She had to call her parents, tell them to come and get her.

  Only she didn’t know where they were.

  Margaret stopped.

  How could they have left her here to begin with?

  The world seemed to swirl around her. Finally fear overwhelmed her, and she blacked out.

  When Margaret woke it was to the music of crickets singing in the grass. The moon was riding low at the edge of the sky, pale and insubstantial, yet somehow comforting nonetheless. She remembered her teacher explaining that Shakespeare had had Juliet call the moon “inconstant” because it changed every night, moving through each month from nothing to fullness and back to nothing again. That might be, but at least it always came back. That was constant enough for Margaret right now. Its pale presence was like an old friend.

  Like Auntie Alma.

  Margaret stood still for a moment, then made up her mind. Auntie Alma had taken good care of her, hadn’t tried to hurt her, would never try to hurt her. There was nothing in the house to be afraid of. Maybe the old woman even needed her help.

  Telling herself this, ignoring the deeper, stranger questions that fought for her attention, Margaret made her way back to the house.

  It was empty.

  Somehow she had known it would be. Even so, a chill crept over her. Where was Auntie Alma? Or, to be more specific: Where had her ghost gone? Margaret had read enough ghost stories to have some idea of how this might work. She feared that the discovery of the tombstone had driven the ghost away.

  Leaving her here alone.

  Why was she here alone?

  It grew darker. Margaret thought about getting something to eat, but her stomach was too tight for that.

  And then the calling began again.

  Margaret. Mar-gar-et. Come to me. Please, please come to me.

  Was it Auntie Alma calling?

  No. It wasn’t her voice.

  But if not her, then who?

  Or what?

  The house was too dark and lonely to protect her. The call had grown too strong to resist. Margaret began to weep—not great sobs, just a slow, gentle flow of tears down her cheeks. Against her will, she drifted through the door. With no light save that of the pale moon, she walked through the backyard, past the grape arbor, along the overgrown path, over the ridge to the pond.

  Fireflies drifted above the dew-soaked grass, their br
ief, pale lights flashing on and off. But the crickets had fallen silent, as if waiting for something. No breeze stirred the surface of the water. The moon’s reflection in the pond seemed that of a ghost moon floating, waiting.

  And on the other side of the water, standing among the willows, was Auntie Alma.

  Pale, translucent Auntie Alma, her color the same as that of the moon in the water, who held out her hands longingly to Margaret, imploring the child to come to her.

  “I can’t!” wailed Margaret. “I can’t! I can’t!”

  But inside her mind the voice—not Auntie Alma’s, the other voice—was whispering urgently, Margaret, please! Come to me. It’s time to stop pretending.

  Unable to resist, she walked to the edge of the water, to the same place she had found herself standing again and again for the last few days. The horror was growing inside her, filling her so full it seemed as if she must burst with it.

  “Margaret!” called Auntie Alma from across the pond. “Margaret, dear, the only way out is in.”

  Margaret stood trembling in the darkness.

  The only way out is in.

  What was that supposed to mean? Actually, part of her knew exactly what it meant. Even so, she wanted to ask. But somehow she also knew that Auntie Alma couldn’t tell her and had bent the rules to say even as much as she had.

  She turned and ran, then stopped at the top of the rise and looked back. The pond lay black and still, the moon’s reflection like a single enormous eye in its center.

  The translucent woman still stood on the far side, waiting with open arms.