Read Online Trick or Treat by Richie Tankersley Cusick - Free Book Online
Authors: Richie Tankersley Cusick
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interested in anything on the way home.”
This time Conor sighed. He put down the knife again, cleaned his hands on the dishrag, and turned and looked at her. “I figured you’d talk about it when you were ready. How much cheese do you want?”
Martha met his stare for a long moment, then grudgingly dropped her eyes. “I knew this was a horrible house from the very beginning. I knew it.”
“Okay. Tell me all those really important details.”
By the time Martha finished her story, the chili was simmering on the stove, but eating, for the time being, was forgotten. She repeated the story exactly as she’d heard it from Blake, and Conor sat across from her, elbows propped on the table, chin resting on hands, eyes lowered. His face showed no emotion — even when Martha recalled the grisly scene of the murder, Conor just listened, his face unmoved.
“Conor, are you in a trance or what? Have you even heard a single word I’ve said?” She waited expectantly, the silence lengthening between them. Something creaked in the hallway, and she glanced nervously towards the door. “Conor —”
“But they’re not sure it was him,” Conor said. “How can they be so sure it was him?”
“Of course it was him!” Martha stared, her calm snapping. “He was crazy and jealous, and he killed Elizabeth! In my bedroom! Conor, we shouldn’t even be here — this house is bad luck — it’s evil and dangerous! I don’t want to live in a house that’s supposed to be haunted — where someone was killed ! Everybody talks about it! They all act like I’m weird and bad luck! I’ll never have any friends. Nobody’ll ever come out here to see us —”
Conor lifted his head slowly and looked at her. “You’re talking like someone who believes in ghosts. I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”
“I —” her voice faltered. “All the … coincidences … the things happening around here — my room … the phone call … that scarecrow had a knife in him! — and that fire last night —”
“Oh. So now you don’t believe I started it.”
“This isn’t funny!” Martha’s hands clasped the edge of the table. “Of course you started it — you had to have started it. Maybe the house made you start it —” She broke off, her eyes fixed on his, almost pleading. Her voice came out small and tight. “Well … did you?”
“No,” Conor said. “I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe you,” Martha told him, and Conor rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what to believe! I’m not staying in that room another night!”
“You don’t have to,” Conor said agreeably. “I’ll change rooms with you if you want.”
“Really?”
“Of course.” He pulled himself up to his lean height and went over to the stove. “We’d better eat this stuff before it boils away.”
“Oh, Conor, how can you even think about eating at a time like this?” Martha groaned. “This whole thing is just so awful —”
Conor regarded her a moment, then replaced the lid on the pot. “It’s not awful. It’s perfectly natural.”
“Natural! Oh, right, it’s natural that someone was murdered in the room where you’re sleeping — it happens every day!”
“I’m not talking about the murder.” Conor looked away, and Martha wondered if he was trying to hide a smile. “I’m talking about the house.”
“And what could be natural about this horrible house?”
Conor remained unruffled. “When something so … so tragic happens in a house, it’s natural that all those high-charged emotions should be … well … absorbed by it. By the rooms … the atmosphere. Sort of like … tangible memories.”
“So what does that mean? It’s the bad memories haunting our house?”
Conor stared at the stove, at the low blue flame sputtering on the burner. “It means … yes. Bad memories are haunting our house.”
“Is that why my room is so cold?”
“Because it remembers, probably. Yes.”
“So what about the fire last
This time Conor sighed. He put down the knife again, cleaned his hands on the dishrag, and turned and looked at her. “I figured you’d talk about it when you were ready. How much cheese do you want?”
Martha met his stare for a long moment, then grudgingly dropped her eyes. “I knew this was a horrible house from the very beginning. I knew it.”
“Okay. Tell me all those really important details.”
By the time Martha finished her story, the chili was simmering on the stove, but eating, for the time being, was forgotten. She repeated the story exactly as she’d heard it from Blake, and Conor sat across from her, elbows propped on the table, chin resting on hands, eyes lowered. His face showed no emotion — even when Martha recalled the grisly scene of the murder, Conor just listened, his face unmoved.
“Conor, are you in a trance or what? Have you even heard a single word I’ve said?” She waited expectantly, the silence lengthening between them. Something creaked in the hallway, and she glanced nervously towards the door. “Conor —”
“But they’re not sure it was him,” Conor said. “How can they be so sure it was him?”
“Of course it was him!” Martha stared, her calm snapping. “He was crazy and jealous, and he killed Elizabeth! In my bedroom! Conor, we shouldn’t even be here — this house is bad luck — it’s evil and dangerous! I don’t want to live in a house that’s supposed to be haunted — where someone was killed ! Everybody talks about it! They all act like I’m weird and bad luck! I’ll never have any friends. Nobody’ll ever come out here to see us —”
Conor lifted his head slowly and looked at her. “You’re talking like someone who believes in ghosts. I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”
“I —” her voice faltered. “All the … coincidences … the things happening around here — my room … the phone call … that scarecrow had a knife in him! — and that fire last night —”
“Oh. So now you don’t believe I started it.”
“This isn’t funny!” Martha’s hands clasped the edge of the table. “Of course you started it — you had to have started it. Maybe the house made you start it —” She broke off, her eyes fixed on his, almost pleading. Her voice came out small and tight. “Well … did you?”
“No,” Conor said. “I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe you,” Martha told him, and Conor rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what to believe! I’m not staying in that room another night!”
“You don’t have to,” Conor said agreeably. “I’ll change rooms with you if you want.”
“Really?”
“Of course.” He pulled himself up to his lean height and went over to the stove. “We’d better eat this stuff before it boils away.”
“Oh, Conor, how can you even think about eating at a time like this?” Martha groaned. “This whole thing is just so awful —”
Conor regarded her a moment, then replaced the lid on the pot. “It’s not awful. It’s perfectly natural.”
“Natural! Oh, right, it’s natural that someone was murdered in the room where you’re sleeping — it happens every day!”
“I’m not talking about the murder.” Conor looked away, and Martha wondered if he was trying to hide a smile. “I’m talking about the house.”
“And what could be natural about this horrible house?”
Conor remained unruffled. “When something so … so tragic happens in a house, it’s natural that all those high-charged emotions should be … well … absorbed by it. By the rooms … the atmosphere. Sort of like … tangible memories.”
“So what does that mean? It’s the bad memories haunting our house?”
Conor stared at the stove, at the low blue flame sputtering on the burner. “It means … yes. Bad memories are haunting our house.”
“Is that why my room is so cold?”
“Because it remembers, probably. Yes.”
“So what about the fire last
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