SHUDDERVILLE THREE (5 page)

“I’m afraid we’re lost,” Ryan said apologetically. “How do we get to Welcome Street from here?”

The woman wiped the sweat off her upper lip and said, “Yeah, you’re way off.”

Ryan held up the map. “They told me to take Exit 5.”

“No, no.” The woman shook her head, grabbed the map and traced her finger over the little lines. “Get back on the main road here and take a left. Keep going straight for two miles. Take another left at the light. Go another five miles and you’ll come to this fork in the road. See this fork? Take a right at the fork, go three miles, and it’s on your left. See there? You can’t miss it. Dead end street.” She tapped her finger on the map and handed it back. “I suppose they’re still out there. Nobody knows for sure. Tickets? Step aside, please.”

A jostling line had formed behind them. Ryan and Cassie stepped aside.

“Come on,” he told her. “Let’s go.”

“What did she mean—nobody knows for sure?” Cassie whispered.

“No idea.”

“This place has ‘Deliverance’ written all over it.”

He smirked.

She made the sound of the deranged banjo duet, while they got back in the Range Rover. They followed the ticket-taker’s directions past abandoned farms and ruined houses with
For Sale
signs stuck in the yards. Cassie knew the economy was bad, but this was ridiculous. Entire streets were abandoned. They followed Welcome Street to the bitter end, where Delilah Kincaid lived. The road simply stopped. It turned into an overgrown pasture studded with rocky outcrops.

Ryan pulled into the driveway next to an old black Ford Escort. He got out and moved purposefully across the yard, seeming to want to get it over with. As if he’d resigned himself to the fact that Delilah Kincaid wouldn’t have any answers for him, either.

Cassie was nervous as hell. One more visit, and they could go home. She hurried to catch up, the blood throbbing in her temples. As they crossed the shaggy yard of this sprawling property, a flock of birds burst into the air, crying out in protest before gently settling into the thin limbs of a pear tree.

The old house frightened her. The dilapidated Victorian was in dire need of restoration. Climbing ivy grew up the peeling walls, and the impenetrable windows on the second floor reminded her of tormented eyes. She could almost feel the house watching her. It was probably just the people inside who were watching her, but that didn’t make her feel better.

Ryan knocked with mild impatience, and a bland beauty with swan-white skin, scraggly brown hair and passive blue eyes answered. “Hello?” she said, and Cassie knew right away this must be Delilah Kincaid, the third name on the list. She wore a simple faded housedress with an apron tied around her waist. Like a housewife from the 1950s.

Ryan went through his spiel. “Hi, I’m Ryan, and this is my wife, Cassie. Tobias Mandelbaum sent us. He said you might be able to help me with my ‘wish’ problem. Can we come in?”

The woman drew a surprised breath, and Cassie detected a slight shifting within her clothes, a stiffening of her leg muscles, as if she were about to flee. She acted like a cornered animal. “Who did you say sent you?”

“Tobias Mandelbaum. Do you know him?”

“I’m sorry,” Delilah said carefully.

“He gave me your name and address.”

She seemed to draw a blank. She wiped her hands on her apron and said, “Where are my manners? Won’t you come in?”

Cassie could tell by the grim set of Ryan’s mouth that he was losing hope by the millisecond. “Thanks,” she interjected, accepting for both of them. She felt sorry for this woman, living way out in the middle of nowhere.

They took off their sunglasses and entered the house, which was relatively dark. The air smelled oppressive, of burnt toast and marshmallows. They passed an oval mirror in the foyer, a jam-packed coat rack and a scratched mahogany side table. Cassie noted the pile of unanswered mail in the basket on the table. Dust coated every surface like a sprinkling of talcum powder. So much for Delilah Kincaid’s housekeeping prowess. So much for the apron.

The cautious little creature escorted them into the living room, where flimsy lace curtains billowed in the warm breeze. It was brighter inside the living room than the rest of the house, and Cassie noticed streaks of gray running through Delilah’s shoulder-length dark hair. Perhaps she wasn’t so young after all.

A strange-looking boy sat cross-legged on the carpet, playing with a couple of battered toy trucks—a big lumbering child whose arms dangled from his broad shoulders. He had a flat, lazy face, and there was barely any color to his cheeks. He wore a crazy-looking outfit—red plaid pants, a pale orange shirt and rainbow-colored suspenders. He stopped playing the second they entered the room and pursed his lips like a sour old lady. He seemed to instantly find fault with them.

“Andy, say hello,” Delilah coached.

“Hello.”

Cassie felt the hairs quiver on her arms. The boy was 12 or 13 and very intense-looking. He stood up and came tumbling over to them. He wore scuffed loafers but no socks. His face flushed an ugly mottled red color. He held up his hands as if he were passing her a baby. “Would you like to play with me?” he bellowed.

Cassie turned helplessly toward Delilah.

“Go sit down, Andy,” Mrs. Kincaid said with a flustered wave of her hand. “Can I get you anything?” she offered them. “Coffee? Tea? Lemonade?”

“I’ll have a glass of lemonade,” Ryan said, surprising the hell out of Cassie.

Cassie shrugged. “Sure, thanks.”

“Two lemonades?”

“Fine.”

“Have a seat. I’ll be right back.” Delilah seemed grateful to have something to do and quickly disappeared into the kitchen. They couldn’t refuse her hospitality, especially because she acted like a woman who rarely had visitors.

Ryan and Cassie sat together on the mustard-colored swayback sofa, while Andy Kincaid resumed his private games. He smashed two trucks together and said, “Ka-pow! Crash! Boom!” then looked at them and laughed. He wouldn’t stop laughing, until they responded. Cassie smiled nervously, while Ryan pointed his finger at the boy and pulled an imaginary trigger. “Ka-pow,” he said, and the boy laughed even harder. Then he repeated the whole thing again.

It was beyond bizarre.

“What’s going on?” Cassie whispered in Ryan’s ear. “Does she know Tobias or doesn’t she?”

“No idea,” Ryan whispered back. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

“No whispering,” the boy said, pointing an accusing finger at them.

“Sorry, buddy.” Ryan shrugged.

Andy laughed and crashed the trucks together again. “Ka-pow!”

Cassie glanced around at the mismatched chairs, the spindly end tables and dusty canvas lamps. The shelves were crammed with cheap-looking pottery and books with broken bindings, and a few slender strips of faded wallpaper had begun to curl away from the walls.

Now the boy said, “There’s going to be an accident.”

“What?” Cassie said with creeping dread.

“An acci-dent.”

“Andy, stop that.” A little girl appeared in the doorway, and the sound of her voice hit Cassie in the solar plexus like a football. She didn’t know why. She was just a sweet little girl. Maybe ten. Her short dark hair curved around her temples and cheeks like ribbons, and her voice was lyrical and surprisingly confident. “Stop it, Andy. Cut it out.”

“Andy?” Delilah chimed in from the kitchen. “Keep the noise down.”

The boy defiantly smashed the two trucks together. “Ka-boom!”

“Mom, he’s still doing it,” the little girl complained. Then she smiled at Cassie. She wore a pretty pink t-shirt with a pattern of violet sequins around the collar, neatly pressed jeans and checkered sneakers. Her bangs were pinned back with two yellow plastic barrettes in the shape of rising suns. She said with a slow smile, “Welcome to the second level of hell.” It was oddly sophisticated and compellingly chilling.

“Olive?” Delilah hurried back with a tray of drinks. “Watch your language, young lady.”

“Hell is a real place, Mom,” she said matter-of-factly.

“No, it isn’t, honey. Come on. We’ve had this discussion before.” She smiled apologetically at Cassie and Ryan and handed them each a glass of ice-cubes with a little bit of lemonade at the bottom. She gave her children their glasses, put the tray down on the cherry wood coffee table and sat in a creaky blonde-wood rocking chair with her hands folded in her lap. She was the only one without a glass of lemonade. Her hands were red and chapped. “I’m sorry, who was it who sent you again?”

“Tobias Mandelbaum,” Ryan repeated patiently. “Do you know him?”

She shook her head stiffly. “Never heard of him. Who is he?”

Ryan’s face fell. His cheeks darkened. “Doesn’t matter.”

The lemonade tasted bitter. Cassie set her glass down carefully on the polished coffee table, worried that the condensation from the glass would stain the dark wood.

The little girl was staring at her. “Are you here to see Isabelle?” she asked.

“Who’s Isabelle?” Cassie asked back.

“My sister. She helps people.”

“She does?” Ryan interjected hopefully.

Delilah Kincaid grew grossly embarrassed by this. “Olive. Andy. Go outside.”

“But Mom…”

“No buts.”

“Mom!” Andy protested.

“Both of you,” Delilah said sternly. “Outside. Now.”

They did as they were told. Andy grunted as he struggled to his feet, and the two of them joined hands and ran outside to play. Cassie watched out the living room windows as they ran across the empty street and stood beneath a shady stand of birch trees, staring back at the house.

“Do you mind telling me what this is all about?” Delilah asked softly.

Sighing audibly, Ryan took out the list and handed it to her. “I was given a list of names and told that one of these people could help me. You’re the last name, see?”

“Oh.” She gazed down at the list. “I’m sorry.”

Cassie glanced out the window again. The children were gone.

Ryan explained the situation to Delilah, and while they were talking, Cassie’s attention began to wander, and for the very first time she noticed scratch-marks on the walls. Little crosshatches, like the work of an educated cat. She soon realized some human hand had etched those words into the wallpaper. Only she couldn’t tell what it said.
Do Not Bend, Donate Blood, Do Not Believe, Does Not Belong
. She couldn’t tell.

Cassie took a sip of lemonade and could still taste the bitterness. Not enough sugar. She put the glass down for good and ran her damp, nervous hands over the sofa cushions. The fabric felt grungy and greasy with age. She realized what she was doing and stopped. She hoped Delilah hadn’t noticed her wiping her hands on the sofa, but there weren’t any napkins. She rubbed her hands across her thighs.

Through one of the living room windows, Cassie spotted a tiny red tractor on a distant field. The field was as green as the sea and rose like a cresting tsunami toward a foamy splash of woods. At the edge of the forest stood the two children. Her heart gave a little kick. How did they get up the hill so fast?

Delilah turned to Cassie and asked in a polite, restrained way, “Would you mind if I borrowed him for a few minutes?”

“I’m sorry, what?” she sputtered. Borrow him? What for? Her head throbbed. Her stomach felt squeamish. For a moment she wondered if they’d been poisoned again. She looked over at Ryan and noticed for the first time how bone-tired he seemed. They really should be getting home.

“She wants me to take a look at her washer-dryer,” Ryan said.

Cassie couldn’t help smiling. “What do you know about washer-dryers?”

“I’m full of surprises, aren’t I?” he said, chiding her.

“Thank you, it’s very kind of you.” Delilah stood up. “It’s downstairs in the basement.”

Ryan said, “Could you give us a minute?”

“Of course.” She grew deeply flustered. “I’ll go make the kids’ lunch.”

As soon as she was gone, Cassie said, “What the hell is going on?”

“Weren’t you listening?”

“No, I was too busy being distracted by those weird scratches on the walls.”

“What scratches?”

“Never mind. What’s going on?”

“She’s a widow, her husband died in Iraq. She’s got nobody else. You’ve seen the neighborhood. So she asked if I’d check out the washing machine for her, that’s all. It’s making a funny noise or something.” He put his arm around her and kissed her. “We first met in a laundry room, if you’ll recall. And I can assure you that I know a few things about washer-dryers.”

“Okay, but what about the other thing? Can she help you or not?”

“No. It’s over,” Ryan said. “I’ll see what I can do about the broken washer, and then we’ll be on our way.”

Relief bloomed in her chest. “On our way home?”

“Yeah.” He laughed cynically. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

“That’s the best news I’ve had in ages!” She flung her arms around him and hugged him. She heard footsteps outside as two shadows darted past the window and she experienced a feeling of unanchored fright. “What is up with those kids?”

“Little weirdoes, aren’t they?” He winked.

“Anyway.” She couldn’t help grinning. “I’m sorry you struck out.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“You’re right. I’m not.” She kissed his soft lips.

“Kids? Lunch is almost ready,” Delilah yelled from the kitchen.

“Be right back,” Ryan said, getting up, and she clung to him.

“Where are you going?”

“Bathroom, silly,” he said soothingly. “Be right back.”

She felt a shapeless dread. “Don’t leave me here alone with them,” she hissed.

“Hey. You can relax now. You got your wish.”

She tried not to look too happy about it. “So you’ll look at the washing machine, and then we’ll head home?”

“Yes. Be right back.” The stairs creaked under his feet.

Cassie sat for a moment and gathered her composure before getting up and joining Delilah in the kitchen. She put on a friendly face. “Can I help with anything?”

“All set. There’s coffee. Help yourself.”

She poured herself a cup of steaming hot coffee, added milk and sugar, and took a seat at the oak table. “Your name’s Delilah, right?”