Don't Stay Up Late (18 page)

I'm sorry. I know you have to go to work every afternoon, and you need somebody. But it just can't be me.

Please tell Harry I said bye.

Sincerely,

Joy

I read the letter through quickly. Then I went back to the top and read it slowly. By the time I finished the second reading, my hands were trembling. I tucked the letter back in the album.

It took awhile for the words to settle in my brain. It took me awhile to see clearly what the letter meant.

For one thing, Brenda had lied to me. When she interviewed me for the job, she said she was starting a new job and that's why she needed someone to stay with Harry. She said Harry had never had a babysitter.

But the letter and the photo proved that Joy had been the babysitter before me.

And Joy had to quit because frightening things were giving her nightmares.

Joy looked so sad and bedraggled, even with a grinning Harry on her lap. What had frightened her? What had given her the nightmares?

There was no clue in her letter. And no clue in the photo of her in the album.

I jumped to my feet. I felt a surge of excitement sweep down my body. I guess it was because I knew what I had to do.

I had to go see Joy. I had to talk to her as soon as I could.

 

45.

It took me a few days to find the time. I took the car. I told Mom I was going to the mall just to walk around and window-shop.

But I headed toward the address on Joy's letter. I knew where Jamison Way was. It was off the River Road in North Hills.

It was a bright afternoon, the sun golden and low in the sky. Right in my eyes as I followed the road along the Conononka River. Squinting into the glare on the windshield, I wished I'd remembered my sunglasses.

I kept picturing Joy, her name all wrong. Someone so sad-looking shouldn't be called Joy. I wanted her to tell me everything. I wanted to share my terrifying experiences in the house on Fear Street with her.

Would she talk with me? Would she want to talk about it with a total stranger?

I followed the River Road toward Jamison. Some people were kayaking on the river, their yellow kayaks bobbing in the shimmering water.

Some people are having fun,
I thought.

Yes, I was feeling sorry for myself. I barely had time to grieve for my father before the horrible murders began. Now everyone thought I was crazy, even my doctor.

Joy had to help me. She
had
to.

I turned onto Jamison and found myself driving past blocks of small redbrick houses set behind square lawns. Four or five kids were gathered around a wide-trunked tree at a corner house, shouting and gesturing. I realized they were trying to talk a cat down from a low limb.

I found 32 Jamison on the third block. The house had once been painted white but now the paint was peeling, and patches of redbrick showed through. An awning over the front window was torn and flapping in the warm breeze.

There were no driveways or garages with these houses. I parked Mom's car at the curb. Then I straightened my hair using the rearview mirror and climbed out of the car.

I could hear the kids cheering on the next block. I guessed they had succeeded in rescuing the cat.

Gazing at the concrete stoop in front of the small house, I began walking up the front lawn. I could tell it hadn't been mowed yet this spring. The ground beneath the sprawling grass was lumpy and hard.

A black mailbox was hung beside the front door. It had the number 32 in stenciled silver letters on the front. My chest felt fluttery as I climbed the two steps onto the stoop. I pressed the doorbell and took a deep breath.

Joy, please be home.

I didn't have to wait long. A short woman with cropped gray hair pulled the door open as if she'd been waiting in front of it. Her silver-gray eyes looked me up and down. Her face was overly made-up with bright red circles on her cheeks and thick lipstick over her mouth. She wore a black-and-yellow Steelers sweatshirt over gray sweatpants.

“Hello, I—”

“Can I help you?” she asked in a hoarse smoker's voice. Her face was tight with suspicion. She sneered. “You're too old to be selling Girl Scout Cookies.”

That made her start to laugh, a dry raspy laugh that ended in a coughing fit.

“I … I'm looking for Joy,” I said when she finally stopped hacking and coughing.

She winced. Her eyes bulged for a quick second. She narrowed the strange silvery eyes at me. “Is this a joke?”

“N-no,” I stammered. “Does she live here? Is she your daughter? I really need to talk to her.”

The woman sneered again, revealing yellowed teeth. “Did someone dare you to do this?” she demanded. “Did someone play a mean joke on you? Is that what this is?”

I swallowed. I took a step back and nearly toppled off the stoop. “No—” I started.

“Everyone knows Joy isn't here,” the woman rasped.

“Do you know where she is?” I asked.

“Of
course
I know where my own daughter is,” the woman snapped. “She's in the hospital, isn't she! She's in the hospital up in Martinsville. Why would you come looking for her here when she's in the state hospital?”

“I-I didn't know,” I stammered. I backed off the stoop. “Really. I didn't know.”

“Joy is in the state mental hospital!” the woman shouted. “She doesn't need any Girl Scout Cookies.”

 

46.

I found the hospital after driving around the same neighborhood twice. The streets in Martinsville are all one-way and confusing, and even though it's the next town to Shadyside, everyone always has to circle in on where they are going. There's never a direct route to anywhere.

While I was driving, I had plenty of time to think. My thoughts weren't bright or happy or hopeful. The more I thought about Joy, the more I was frightened for myself.

She had the same job before me. She babysat for Brenda Hart and took care of Harry. And terrible things happened. Things frightening enough, horrifying enough to put her in the state mental hospital.

Of course my biggest question was:
Am I next?

The hospital was a tall, white stucco building with tall hedges all around. Three cherry trees in the front had lost most of their blossoms. I parked the car in a visitor parking lot and followed a narrow stone path to a side entrance.

A bronze plaque beside the door proclaimed that the hospital was built by someone named Jacobus Fear in 1911. The silhouette of a face of a distinguished-looking man wearing a bowler hat was carved into the plaque.

At least they didn't call it Fear Hospital,
I thought.

I was met at the door by a middle-aged man with shaggy white hair. He wore a gray uniform, like a custodian's uniform. His cheeks were bright pink and his blue eyes gleamed, as if he was happy to see me. His cheeks were so close-shaved, it looked like he had peeled off layers of his skin.

“I'd like to see one of the patients,” I said.

He didn't reply. He held the door open, then led the way down a long dimly lit hallway of dark green walls and a hard tiled floor. The air smelled like cleaning products, very piney and sharp. I heard voices all down the hall, laughter and shouts, and music playing, some mellow rock tune I didn't recognize.

The man walked jauntily with his back straight up, shoulders back. He led me to a round desk in what had to be the front hall. A sign on the desk read:
INFORMATION
. But no one sat there.

The man smiled at me, his cheeks burning, and motioned for me to wait. Then he took my hand, raised it to his mouth, and
licked
it.

“Hey—!” Before I could pull my hand free, he slobbered all over the back of my hand. Then he uttered a short, high-pitched giggle. He turned and strode away, a strange stiff walk with his back as straight as an ironing board.

Well, what did I expect? I AM in a mental hospital.

I heard moans, sad moans, from a hallway on the other side of the desk. Someone shouted, “My cracker is on fire! My cracker is burning!”

Then silence.

A Barry Manilow song played from somewhere behind me.

I had a sudden strong feeling that I shouldn't be here.
I should have called ahead. What made me think it's okay to visit?

Sure, I desperately wanted to talk to Joy. But the clatter of voices down the long halls, the sad cries and moans … the voices became noise. The noise turned into a roar.

I must have turned away from the desk because a woman appeared in the chair as if by magic. She had wavy brown hair tied back with a red hair scrunchy. She appeared to be fifty or so. She had a colorful scarf at the neck of her blouse and wore a dark business suit with a gold pin of a bird on one lapel.

She scrolled down the monitor in front of her and typed something, eyes reflecting the screen. Finally, she turned to me. “Sorry. I was on my break.”

“No problem,” I said. “I wasn't waiting long. I—”

“Did Travis lick your hand?” she asked.

I held it up for some reason. “Yes, he did.”

She shook her head. Her eyes flashed with amusement. “He's a nice man. That's his way of showing that he likes you.”

“I-I came to visit someone,” I stammered. “Is it okay? I mean, are there visiting hours?”

Her expression turned serious. She glanced at her screen, then back at me. “Which patient would you like to see?”

I suddenly realized I didn't know her full name. “Uh … her name is Joy,” I said.

She blinked. “Joy Fergus?”

I nodded.

The woman toyed with the bird pin on her lapel. “Are you a family member?”

“No. I'm a close friend,” I lied.

“Well … I can check for you,” she said, chewing her bottom lip. “But I'm afraid Joy isn't having one of her good days.”

“Sorry,” I murmured. “If I could only…”

She picked up the desk phone and talked to someone. Her eyes studied me while she talked. She tsk-tsked and talked some more in hushed tones I couldn't hear. “And what is your name?” she asked me, hanging up the phone.

I told her. She handed me a clipboard with some kind of form on it. “Just sign at the bottom,” she said. “They will bring Joy to the library. You can talk to her there.”

I signed it. My hand was shaking so hard I couldn't read my own name. I heard a howl from down the hall. And then someone giggling loudly. The two sounds blended together and rang off the walls of the waiting room.

The woman pointed down the hall to her right. “You'll see the library. It's near the end of the hall.” I thanked her. “Joy may seem different to you,” she added. “She is slightly sedated, which makes her talk slowly. But she's doing very well. Most days.”

I thanked her again. And stepped into the hallway. A cold feeling of dread swept over me as my shoes clicked over the hard floor. Doors on both sides of the hall were closed, but I could hear voices in almost every room.

A white-uniformed nurse with a tall Afro hairdo led a young woman past me. The woman was sobbing, dabbing at her face with a yellow handkerchief and sobbing so hard she struggled to breathe.

Joy Fergus was waiting for me in the library. I stopped at the doorway and studied her. The room looked like a comfortable living room with armchairs and couches and bookshelves against three walls. Pale light trickled in through a tall window in the back. Even though it was spring, a low fire burned in a brick fireplace.

I took a deep breath and stepped inside. Joy was sitting stiffly in a dark leather armchair. She turned as I entered.

She looked better than in the photograph I'd seen in Brenda's house. Her brown hair was pulled neatly back in a tight ponytail. She had pale orange lipstick on her lips, and her eyes were big and clear. She wore a long-sleeved blue tank top and baggy faded jeans with a hole on one knee.

“Hi,” I said. I gave an awkward wave as I came close. “I'm Lisa.”

She had a half-smile on her face, but it faded as I stepped up to her chair. “They told me a friend came to see me. Are you my friend?”

I shook my head. “Sorry. I kinda lied about that.”

She nodded. “Okay.” Her voice was deep and smooth, velvety. I gazed at her. She seemed totally normal in every way. The only thing that marked her as a patient was the white name-bracelet around her left wrist.

“Can I sit down?” I asked, motioning to the armchair across from her.

“Sure,” she said. She crinkled her forehead. “Do I know you?”

“No. I'll explain,” I said. The armchair was softer than I expected and it made a loud
whoosh
as I sank into it.

“I h-have a problem with strangers,” she stammered, lowering her dark eyes.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I won't keep you long. I just want to talk to you about—”

“Who are you?” she interrupted, eyeing me suspiciously. She tugged at the ID bracelet on her wrist. “Tell me. Who are you? Did they send you from school?”

“No,” I said. “I'm sorry.” She had been calm but now I could see she was getting agitated. She tugged at the bracelet, then clasped and unclasped her hands.

“Really. I'm sorry to bother you,” I said. “You see … I babysit for Harry. Brenda Hart's son and—”

Her whole body arched up and went stiff. Her dark eyes bulged. She jumped to her feet. “I … can't talk about that.”

“No. Just one minute. Please,” I begged. I jumped up, too, and stood facing her. “I need to know—”

“I have nightmares,” she said. Her smooth voice had become strained, harsh. “I have nightmares. That's why I have to stay here.”

“I have nightmares, too,” I said. “And I've seen things in the house. I've seen—”

She raised both hands and backed away from me. “I can't talk. Please go away.”