Last Summer Boys(23)

But just then Frankie suddenly stops in front of me. Looking past him, I see Pete and Will have stopped too.

“What is it?” I ask.

No one answers.

Then I see her.

Beyond the beam of Pete’s flashlight, standing among the stones, is a woman. A woman in white.

The witch is here.





Chapter 9


MADLINER PLACE





Fear has a taste. It’s dead leaves and butterfly weed and moldy earth. It’s a funny thing to think as I run through that graveyard in the fog and the dark with my brothers and my cousin and a witch chasing us. But I taste it just the same, even though my tongue is bone-dry in my spitless mouth as I gulp chilly night air—maybe for the last time—and force my rubbery legs to move even faster.

A tombstone rushes out of the dark. I twist away from its shovel shape, my knee scraping rough stone as I go. The next one catches me square in the stomach. I go right over it and land flat on my back, all the wind rushing from me in a sudden gust.

I lie on wet soil with that tombstone leaning crookedly above me. Whoever it belongs to, they’ll be sharing it with me. That witch will kill me right here.

A pair of hands seizes my collar. It’s Frankie. He drags me up and points wildly through the curling fog to the stone wall.

“Straight through and don’t stop!” he shouts.

He don’t make any sense. The wall is too high to jump, and we are nowhere near the gate. Then a piece of mist lifts and I see what he means: there’s a section of the wall that’s crumbled. It’s hardly more than a heap of stones.

“Let’s go!” he cries and, still holding on to my collar, he starts off through those tombstones once again.

A splash of yellow light sweeps across us: Pete’s flashlight swinging crazily as he runs somewhere behind us. So the witch ain’t got him yet. Then I hear Will cussing—awful, terrible things—but that’s a relief too. If he’s cussing, he ain’t dead.

Frankie and me run along the wall. There’s a white-hot fire in my lungs, its flames licking the insides of my ribs. My knee throbs where I scraped it against that stone. My breath comes in ragged gasps.

“There it is!” Frankie cries.

Mist rolls through the hole in the wall. It rushes past my face as Frankie and me hurtle through that opening and go rushing into black night beyond. Next thing I know we’re crashing through high, wet grass and I’m laughing, laughing like crazy though there ain’t nothing funny about it.

Trees ahead. Tall and dark and safe. The trail appears on our left and I angle myself toward it, pointing so Frankie can see where to go. Only he doesn’t see; he keeps running straight and we bump. We stagger yet somehow keep from tumbling into the sea of fog that swirls about our knees. We keep running, and now thick tree trunks are dashing past us. We’re into the woods.

“We made it, Frankie, we made it!”

“Shut up, you fool!”

Will’s voice blasts in my ear and I realize he’s been right behind us the whole time. Grabbing hold of us both, he shoves us down behind one of the trunks, and all three of us slide into dead leaves and wet earth. At once, I twist to look back, expecting to see that witch coming right for us, her pale bony arms out, fingers grasping—

But the field is empty. The witch is nowhere to be seen. And neither is Pete.

For one horrible instant, I think the witch has got him. Then there’s a sound from behind me and a boy-shaped shadow drops into the leaves beside us. It’s Pete. There’s a few twigs in his moppy blond hair and he’s breathing fast, but other than that, there ain’t a scratch on him. Before we can say anything, he raises a finger to his lips and motions for us to follow him. In a heartbeat we’re moving again—but not down the trail. Instead, Pete leads us up the side of a steep hill.

It’s craziness, to my mind. We need to get as far away from here as we can. All the stories say you’re safe once you get clear of the cemetery, but I don’t want to take any chances.

My heart is still knocking about in my chest as we twist up the face of the hill, rising above the fog until we come to a clearing. Taking cover behind a fallen trunk, we peer down to the meadow and the graveyard below.

Pete looks at us.

“It ain’t Hiltch’s witch.”

His words make no sense at first. But then he points down the hill.

The meadow is empty; the cemetery is not.

The woman in white walks among slanted stones.

“The witch!” I gasp.

But Pete shakes his head. “No.” And in a tight voice he says:

“It’s Mrs. Madliner.”





She ain’t supposed to be able to walk.

Mrs. Madliner is bedridden. Wheelchair bound. Infirm. But there she is, walking from stone to stone, white robe hanging from bony shoulders and flowing to her feet, which are hidden in mist that’s as pale as she is.

“Who is she?” Frankie asks in a trembling voice.

“A neighbor,” Will answers. “Crazy as a loon! I’d rather have Hiltch’s witch after us!”

But Mrs. Madliner ain’t after us. She ain’t even left the cemetery. As we watch, she stoops before a gravestone. After a long time, she rises and wanders on.

“What’s she doing out here?” I ask.