Something Wicked This Way Comes

Then when she had strength enough and was quieter she turned her face, her eyes almost swollen shut with weeping. She was shocked to see anyone near, then surprised.

‘Jim! Will! Oh God, it’s you!’

She seized Jim’s hand. He writhed back, yelling. ‘No! I don’t know you, let go!’

‘Will, help me, Jim, oh don’t go, don’t leave!’ she gasped, brokenly, new tears bursting from her eyes.

‘No, no, don’t!’ screamed Jim, he thrashed, he broke free fell, leaped to his feet, one fist raised to strike. He stopped, trembling, held it to his side. ‘Oh, Will, Will, let’s get out of here, I’m sorry, oh God, God.’

The little girl in the shadow of the tree, flung back, widened her eyes to fix the two in wetness, moaned, clutched herself and rocked back and forth, her own child-baby, comforting her elbows. . . soon she might sing to herself and sing that way, alone beneath the dark tree, forever, no one able to join or stop the song.

‘. . .someone must help me. . .someone must help her. . .’ she mourned as for one dead, ‘someone must help her. . .nobody will. . .nobody has. . .help her if not me. . .terrible. . .terrible. . .’

‘She knows us!’ said Will, hopelessly, half bent down to her, half turned to Jim. ‘I can’t leave her!’

‘Lies!’ said Jim, wildly. ‘Lies! She don’t know us! Never saw her before!’

‘She’s gone, bring her back, she’s gone, bring her back,’ mourned the girl, eyes shut.

‘Find who?’ Will got down on one knee, dared to touch her hand. She grabbed him. Almost immediately she knew this was wrong for he tried to tear free, so she let him go, and wept, while he waited near and Jim, far out in the dead grass, called in for them to go, he didn’t like it, they must, they must go.

‘Oh, she’s lost,’ sobbed the little girl. ‘She ran off in that place and never come back. Will you find her, please, please. . .?’

Shivering, Will touched her cheek. ‘Hey now,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll be okay. I’ll find help,’ he said, gently. She opened her eyes. ‘This is Will Halloway, okay? Cross my heart, we’ll be back. Ten minutes. But you mustn’t go away.’ She shook her head. ‘You’ll wait here under the tree for us?’ She nodded, mutely. He stood up. This simple motion frightened her and she flinched. So he waited and looked at her and said, ‘I know who you are.’ He saw the great familiar eyes open grey in the small wounded face. He saw the long rainwashed black hair and the pale cheeks. ‘I know who you are. But I got to check.’

‘Who’ll believe?’ she wailed.

‘I believe,’ Will said.

And she lay back against the tree, her hands in her lap, trembling, very thin, very white, very lost, very small.

‘Can I go now?’ he said.

She nodded.

And he walked away.

At the edge of the lot, Jim stomped his feet in disbelief, almost hysterical with outrage and declamation.

‘It can’t be!’

‘It is,’ said Will. ‘The eyes. That’s how you tell. Like it was with Mr Cooger and the evil boy—There’s one way to be sure. Come on!’

And he took Jim through the town and they stopped at last in front of Miss Foley’s house and looked at the unlit windows in the morning gloom and walked up the steps and rang the bell, once, twice, three times.

Silence.

Very slowly, the front door moved whining back on its hinges.

‘Miss Foley?’ Jim called, softly.

Somewhere off in the house, shadows of rain moved on far windowpanes.

‘Miss Foley. . .?’

They stood in the hall by the bead-rain in the entry door, listening to the great attic beams ashift and astir in the downpour.

‘Miss Foley!’ Louder.

But only the mice in the walls, warmly nested, made sgraffito sounds in answer.

‘She’s gone out to shop,’ said. Jim.

‘No.’ said Will. ‘We know where she is.’

‘Miss Foley, I know you’re here!’ shouted Jim suddenly, savagely, dashing upstairs. ‘Come on out, you!’

Will waited for him to search and drag slowly back down. As Jim reached the bottom of the steps, they both heard the music blowing through the front door with the smell of fresh rain and ancient grass.

The carousel calliope, among the hills, piping the ‘Funeral March’ backwards.

Jim opened the door wider and stood in the music, as one stands in the rain.

‘The merry-go-round. They fixed it!’

Will nodded. ‘She must’ve heard the music, gone out at sunrise. Something went wrong. Maybe the carousel wasn’t fixed right. Maybe accidents happen all the time. Like to the lightning-rod man, him inside-out and crazy. Maybe the carnival likes accidents, gets a kick out of them. Or maybe they did something to her on purpose. Maybe they wanted to know more about us, our names, where we live, or wanted her to help them hurt us. Who knows what? Maybe she got suspicious or scared. Then they just gave her more than she ever wanted or asked for.’

‘I don’t understand—’