The Sleepwalkers Part 7

He takes a step forward.

"Don't break the circle," the woman says fiercely.

Caleb stops and puts his hands up. He glances at his feet and sees there is indeed a circle made of some kind of white powder that stretches around the bonfire.

"There are spirits here that will drag you into the netherworld, where no eyes see and no lips speak," the woman yells with wild wolf 's eyes.

"Say your names," she commands. The clangor of the cowbell is maddening.

"Benjamin Michael Friedman," says Bean.

"Billy Mason," says Caleb.

The witch freezes, her bell clanging its last clang. She squints at Caleb, leaning forward as if trying to read some distant word.

"Billy? You're the little boy that was friend to my Annie?"

"Yes," he says, relieved. "You remember me."

"Don't move." She jabs her knife in the air. "My Annie was only a little girl, and you're halfway a man. Yer a liar."

She drops the bell. It lands in the gra.s.s with a metallic clank.

"I'm not lying. It's me, Billy. I visited Christine at the Dream Center. I wanted to come and talk to you. This is my friend. I swear to G.o.d it's me. I remember you used to make the cookies with the M&M's because Christine used to sneak me some. It's me, Billy."

The witch says nothing. She slowly turns the knife in her hand, as if twisting the blade in the heart of some unseen beast. She stares at Caleb.

"Where's my Annie?" she demands finally.

"I don't know, Mrs. Zikry," says Caleb. "I wish I did."

In the moment that ensues, a strange thing happens. The woman's fearsome scowl melts away and is replaced by a look of childish disappointment. She scratches her head with the knife-blade, almost as if confused, then sniffs and covers her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with her arms. Her shoulders hunch over and she seems to collapse in on herself.

"I was hoping you'd know, Billy," she mumbles. "I was really hoping." "I'm sorry," says Caleb, not knowing what else to say.

The witch looks at the boys and tries a smile. It seems she's putting up a mighty fight to hold back tears. She looks down at her mud-stained bare feet.

"You boys want a c.o.ke?" she asks. The question might be directed to her toes, but Caleb answers: "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

"Ahright," she says. "There's a hose over there. You boys put out the fire and come in when you're done. Don't step in the circle. And don't forget to wash yourselves up out here-you know the water don't work inside."

Caleb had no idea the water didn't work inside, but he obeys just the same, walking around to the side of the trailer with Bean in tow, turning on the water, and dragging the dirty green hose across the field of stars. On the way back to the fire, they pa.s.s the witch. She's walking to the trailer, taking small steps, her arms full with her hunting knife, cowbell, and the book, on the spine of which Caleb reads the words: Holy Bible. As she pa.s.ses them, the witch gives a little nod and wistfully mumbles: "Little Billy."

Bean only speaks once during their ch.o.r.e: as the fire gives up the ghost, he looks at Caleb, snorts, and says, "Dude, you owe me big-time."

As they mount the steps to the trailer, Bean pauses behind Caleb.

"You hear that?"

"No, what?"

Bean frowns. "Nothing, I guess. Sounded like a crackly whisper or something. I thought it was coming from under the steps. Never mind, I'm just cracking up. Let's get this over with."

The screen door moans as Caleb pulls it wide and sticks his head inside the trailer. A wave of nausea twists his gut instantly; the place stinks so bad he turns his head away.

"Billy? Billy, come in," the woman says. Her tone is pleasant, matronly.

Caleb takes a deep breath and steps into the trailer. The reeking, stagnant air is so pungent he can almost taste it. Flies are everywhere, zipping into his ears and bouncing off his arms, tangling themselves in his hair. What must be the remains of fifty TV dinners lie stacked, one upon the other, on a flimsy-looking dining table. The carpet crunches with crumbs, and its stickiness tugs at the soles of his shoes with every step.

He hears Bean exhale sharply behind him. Caleb figures his friend's reaction is probably to the filth of the place, but there is plenty else to be shocked about. Both guys are forced to duck, because what must be thousands of Native American dream catchers hang by little threads from the ceiling. Some are wound together with dusty old cobwebs. A stack of yellowing newspapers as high as Bean is tall sits in one corner, behind a plastic-covered recliner. Caleb presses deeper into the living room. In front of a worn, brown couch, on a badly scratched coffee table, sit a Ouija board, what must be six or seven decks of tarot cards, a book ent.i.tled Hearing Ghosts: A Guide to Communicating with the Spirit World by someone named Chuck Macomb, and several old bottles of whiskey, most of them long since cashed.

"Seriously," whispers Bean, "if we don't get out of here, I'm going to puke."

They hear the familiar slam of a fridge door, and the witch appears from a doorway veiled by strings of clicking beads. She has a can of c.o.ke in each hand.

"Here, here, take them. Sit down. Let's talk about my Annie," she says, settling into the recliner and gesturing to the couch.

Despite its dark color and the dim light (the only illumination is provided by a lamp made in the shape of a horse head in the far end of the room), they can clearly see that the couch is badly stained and littered with crumbs. Caleb sits anyway, setting his dusty c.o.ke can next to one of the tarot decks. Bean brushes a crushed beer can, a wadded-up paper towel, and several pieces of candy corn onto the floor and, wincing, sits next to Caleb.

"Here are pictures of my Annie," the witch says, producing a huge stack of photos. "Yes, here she is. She's only four here. Look at these pretty barrettes. She was going to be a great dancer. Ballerina. Look, here she is with her cute little ballet shoes. This was her birthday, I forget which year. Isn't she beautiful? This was right outside here, right out there by the woods. She loved to play in the woods, her and the other one."

"Yes," Caleb says. "Her sister, Christine, is in the big hospital over there. She said they send you reports about her. How's she doing?"

The woman frowns, flipping through a couple pictures of people Caleb doesn't recognize. "Christine is a bad girl," she says dismissively. "Oh, now look at this. Here's my Annie at her First Communion. What a little peach pit! Her dress was so pretty. And here she is sleeping. . . ."

"Mrs. Zikry," Caleb says, "why do you say Christine's bad?"

"Here's Annie with her little swimsuit on, her little water wings . . . "

"Why is Christine bad? What did she do?"

"Oh, and here," says the witch, then, "oh, no, no, no," and she flips past that picture and the next. They look like more pictures of Annie, but Caleb figures they must be of Christine-who knows? You could never tell them apart. Mrs. Zikry stops flipping. "Here's Annie on her new bike."

"What did Christine do, Mrs. Zikry?"

The witch raises one trembling hand to her face and seems to stop breathing.

"Do you want a drink? You boys are too young to have a drink, but I'll have one, and you can have c.o.kes. Do you boys like c.o.ke?" she asks, standing.

"We already have c.o.kes, Mrs. Zikry," says Caleb.

Mrs. Zikry takes a half-full whiskey bottle off the table and tips it vertical for a long moment before letting it fall sloppily to her side, exhaling sharply.

"Oh, here!" she says-like it's a great realization. "Here's Annie's school picture." She s.n.a.t.c.hes a framed picture of a pretty little girl missing a tooth. It is the only item in the home not sheathed in dust.

"She was in second grade, do you believe that? What a grown-up. I pulled that tooth and she cried and cried," says Mrs. Zikry. "Cried and cried . . . "

"They never found her, did they?" asks Caleb.

The woman stares at the picture. The corners of her mouth are down-turned, her bottom lip trembles. She sighs deeply. "Never."

She emits a little sound-it might be a laugh, but it isn't-and raises the picture over her head as if to smash it on the table. Bean leans back and raises his arms to protect his face, but the woman brings the picture slowly back down again and cradles it tight to her chest.

"What about your other little girl?" Caleb asks. "What about Christine?"

"That little tramp," spits the witch, suddenly ferocious.

"What did she do?" Caleb says, his voice rising almost to her pitch.

"Nothin'," she says, like the word is venom. "She won't help. She won't tell me where my Annie is!"

"What makes you think she knows where Anna is?" asks Caleb.

The witch takes another pull off the whiskey. She's standing now, pacing back and forth and brus.h.i.+ng the dream catchers above with one hand as she does, making them swing wildly.

"I tried everything, Billy. I got tarot cards, tea leaves, even bought me a set of pig bones, got me a Ouija board. I tried to learn the black arts," she says. "I sold my soul, lock, stock, and barrel. And they still won't talk."

Caleb has no idea what she's talking about, so he continues with the previous course of questioning.

"Why would Christine know where Anna is?"

"Because they talk to her!"

"Who talks to her?"

"The spirits!"

Caleb and Bean exchange a stunned glance.

"The spirits?" Caleb says. "Christine says she talks to spirits?"

"They talk to her all the time," says the witch, in disgust. "Never a word to me. To me, they won't say nothing. They'd rather talk to a d.a.m.ned lying little whoring b.i.t.c.h!"

"Maybe she's lying," Caleb says. "How do you know the spirits really talk to her?"

The witch is suddenly placid. "Oh, they talk to her alright. She knows things. Impossible things. Lying wh.o.r.e."

Silence, except for an electric snap as a fly-zapper in the corner claims a victim.

Caleb glances at Bean again, uncertain how to proceed. Bean only stares in rapt silence, the shadows of the swinging dream catchers playing strangely across his face.

"Where does Christine say Anna is?" Caleb resumes.

The witch swigs her whiskey. "Dead," she says; the word is almost a moan.

Caleb doesn't know what to say. He's. .h.i.t a roadblock. A strange feeling floods through him; he pities this woman. He fears her, but he pities her more.

"Christine can't know everything," he says, trying to comfort her. "Maybe she's wrong about Anna."

She looks at him. "She knew you'd come."

To this, Caleb simply can't respond. Of course, Christine had sent him a letter, but to go so far as predicting that he'd actually come back to Hudsonville because of that bizarre piece of correspondence-that's another thing entirely.

The witch sits down in her recliner, leans back and pops the footrest up before taking another long pull off the bottle.

"Mrs. Zikry," says Caleb, "do you mind if I look at Christine's room?"

The woman gestures dismissively and hides her face with her hand. Caleb has a feeling now that she's curled up with her bottle, she won't be saying much else. He stands and glances at Bean.

"Don't look at me, I'm staying right here," says Bean.

Caleb figures Bean has just about reached his limit on drama for this vacation, so he sets off on his own, down the dark hallway leading to Christine's room.

He gropes for the switch and, finally finding it, snaps it to life. What he finds is the last thing he expected: a pretty normal room. The walls are plastered with posters of rock groups and pictures of half-naked men ripped out of Abercrombie & Fitch catalogs. There's a tall CD tower full of good music, an unmade bed with a hair-straightener sitting on it, a half-open closet stuffed with clothes, shoes, and hats. On a dresser he finds makeup and hairspray bottles, scattered specks of glitter, a couple stacked books: Romeo and Juliet, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks. Pictures line the smudged mirror; each features Christine with her arm around a friend or two. Some of her friends are guys, some are girls. In a few pictures, she's holding a beer and looks fairly trashed. He opens one of the top dresser drawers. Socks, a stocking cap, some old movie ticket stubs. Next drawer: underwear, some of it white cottony stuff, some of it more s.e.xy. Next drawer, tank tops and T-s.h.i.+rts, next jeans. Over to the bedside table. There's a box. He opens it, and jumps back, startled as the tinkling tune bursts forth. A music box. He snaps it shut and looks down the hall to see if the sound disturbed the witch, but no one is coming. Good. He looks around again. Nothing weird at all. This is a normal room. The only slightly strange thing is that over in the corner, there's a small child's bed, neatly made, with a frilly, yellow comforter, stacked high with stuffed animals. Anna's bed. But that's only natural. They would have to keep something of hers. It would be heartless to throw it all out, or donate it to Goodwill-and Mrs. Zikry would never agree to that anyway. So Christine lived with it.

Strange, being here, he feels so close to her. And there's a feeling in his chest, oddly painful but also nice. Maybe it's because he smells her in here, just a little bit, and it's bringing back something from his childhood. Maybe it's just pure nostalgia; after all, he hadn't thought about her in months, probably even years, before the letter came, but now he suddenly realizes he missed his buddy Christine. His old best friend, his playmate. And it's kind of nice to know she's not that crazy, or at least she wasn't when she lived in this room.

The question is: how to help her? That's the tough one. He walks to the door, takes one last look around, and shuts off the light.

Then turns it back on.

Something caught his attention, just before the light went out- probably nothing, but there's a large, antique-looking wooden chest under the bedside table. He crosses to it and pulls it out, hoists it up (it's heavy), and sets it on the bed. He glances down the hallway again, full of the feeling that now he's about to delve into something very personal-but the hallway is still empty.

Of course, the chest will be locked, he thinks, perhaps hoping it will be, fearing what he'll find inside-but when he tries the lid it opens freely and lightly. It's so full that when he opens it, part of its contents spill out onto the comforter and even onto the floor. But it's not full of money or costume jewelry or severed dolls' heads or any of the other things he had imagined might be under the lid. It's just a bunch of folded-up papers. He picks one up off the floor, and opens it.

Dear Billy, School sucked so bad today. Mr. Phizer was having us find complementary angles in triangles. I don't know how anyone could actually think trigonometry is hard. . . .

He folds the letter and puts it back in the box, then pulls another one out: Dearest Billy, h.e.l.lo, my love! I have missed you so, so, soooooooooooo much!!!!! I can't wait until we get married and have babies and get the h.e.l.l out of this town!!! Everybody here is evil!! I'm in English cla.s.s right now, snooze. . . .

He pulls out another: Dear Billy, I've been thinking about you so much lately, I just can't help it. Every time I do I start touching myself and I get so wet. I can't wait to . . .

He folds this one up quickly. He's about to toss it back into the box, then thinks twice and sticks it in his back pocket instead. He takes out a handful of letters: Dear Billy, There are so many voices screaming at me every moment, but Anna is the worst. I keep telling her to SHUT HER G.o.dd.a.m.nED DEAD FACE, but she WON'T . . .

Dear Billy-baby.

what's up? so I'm killing my mom. I haven't decided when or how, but the b.i.t.c.h must die. She is really, truly the most crazy and certifiably f-ed up woman ever to live. . . .

Billy, i can't sleep, can u? I wish I couldn't hear them whisper to me, but I always can-when I'm sleeping, when I'm awake. It's gotten so much worse you wouldn't even believe it. I thought about stabbing my eardrums out with a pair of scissors today, then I thought what if I could still hear them, but I couldn't hear anything else?? It would be horrible with nothing to drown them out. I wish you were here. . . .

Billy, my Billy June 19th

Forever