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  After that brief moment of contact the duck raised its head, started away, and stopped to look back with a sharp nod that left Audrey absolutely certain that she was supposed to follow—and she did. To follow a duck who, like Lily in her grandmother’s stories, knew how to lead people to places they should go. In Lily’s case it had often been to where a person could make herself useful by turning over a stone or brick to uncover a tasty bunch of worms and sow bugs.

  “All right. I’m coming,” Audrey said. “I’m following you. Where are the worms?” And she did follow, only a few steps behind, as the duck waddled with awkward dignity across the high terrace and through the grove of saplings on the far edge of her family’s property—and kept on going. Kept going past several rocky places where there might be good worm hunting and continued on, even when Audrey tried to tempt it by turning over a flat rock and a chunk of tree bark.

  The duck’s shuffling gait was not swift, but it seemed to cover ground with surprising efficiency. Skirting trees and bushes, on paths that were still damp from the recent rain, it paused to look back now and then before continuing on up the slope that led toward the foothills. Paused, and then, when Audrey was lagging too far behind, flapped its wings and nodded its head in a way that clearly meant for her to hurry. No longer bothering to detour around the muddiest places, Audrey made an effort to keep up, but as she slid and skidded on the narrow path, she thought, more than once, that the duck seemed not only confident, but also strangely demanding for a common barnyard fowl. A barnyard fowl, but on the other hand, perhaps something much more.

  They’d crossed the first shallow gully and started up the next steep rise before Audrey began to guess where they were going. Guessed, and then wondered why. Why would a duck be going to such a place? Ducks, as far as she knew, were not cave dwellers.

  But her guess proved to be a good one. The duck continued to follow the secret trail that Audrey remembered very well from the days of the Mayberry pirates. It wasn’t long before it reached the bottom of an almost vertical cliff, and the entrance to the forbidden cave.

  CHAPTER 3

  JUST AS SHE REMEMBERED, THE HILLSIDE was almost covered by a thick growth of ivy that cascaded down the slope in long leafy coils. She remembered the ivy, but there was much more of it now, so thickly overgrown that the entrance to the cave was almost hidden. Audrey stopped and watched as the duck headed directly toward a narrow opening in the heavy curtain of vine. It stopped one more time to look back before disappearing.

  After pausing doubtfully for only a second, Audrey was about to follow when she was startled by a flurry of sound and motion, as if the whole hill had suddenly come to life. All across the hillside green leaves quivered and shook as dozens of small dark birds erupted from the ivy, chirping frantically.

  Audrey staggered back, throwing up her hands to protect her head as the blackbirds surrounded her, their fluttering wings brushing her face and hair before they took off to disappear into a nearby grove of trees. Blackbirds living in the ivy? She didn’t remember them. No birds when she was there before, not even one. She was quite certain of that.

  She was still staring, first at the now limp and silent vines and then off toward the trees, when the duck reappeared. But only briefly, to nod at her impatiently, before it disappeared back through the ivy curtain. A flicker of memory reminded Audrey of something she had just written. The part about how Heather had risked her life by following an animal into a dark alley. And then she was allowing herself to be led into a secret and sinister cave.

  Once inside, it was surprisingly dark. Much darker than she remembered from when she was there with the Mayberrys. But the entrance had been more open then, less covered by the curtain of vine.

  It took a long moment for Audrey’s eyes to adjust to the semidarkness. But the smell was immediately familiar—a heavy, earthy odor that hinted at things that oozed or slithered. Then the shadows gradually receded, and near the front of the cave dim shapes began to materialize. Her first impression was that nothing had changed. On each side rough rocky walls arched up over an area as large as a long narrow room. An almost empty room, except where two sawhorses supported some long splintery planks surrounded by apple crates—an arrangement that had served as a table and chairs in the days of the Mayberrys’ game. Other than the remains of pirate furniture, there had been only a messy pile of old rugs and blankets stacked up against the rear wall, but now that whole area was lost in darkness.

  Nothing much to see, but now Audrey was becoming aware of noises. From the darkness at the back of the cave came some soft clacking, hissing sounds and, from farther up, a series of tiny squeaks. She took another step into the darkness, and now, far up on the wall, a row of white faces were looking down at her. White faces with huge round eyes and sharp pointed beaks.

  Gasping, she was backing away when her fright changed into surprised recognition—owls, barn owls. Along with ducks, Grandma Nellie had been particularly fond of barn owls. Audrey came to a stop and started back. The owls’ round eyes gazed unblinkingly and their white faces quivered as they emitted another chorus of hoots and hisses.

  But there were still those other sounds. A dim whispery chorus of squeaks and squeals that seemed to be coming from…Audrey listened and then, following the sound, looked up to where a large patch of the cave’s rocky ceiling seemed to have come to life. Staring down at her were dozens, maybe hundreds, of large round eyes in pointed foxy faces. The ceiling of the cave was alive with bats.

  Grandma Nellie had known a lot, not only about owls, but also about bats. So Audrey knew, at least her mind knew, that bats were harmless, useful creatures, but another part of her wasn’t so sure. There were, it seemed, hidden feelings that came from rumors that bats would suck your blood—or at least tangle themselves in your hair. She was backing away, her hands protecting her head, when there was a new sound. This time a loud squawking noise that came from the back of the cave.

  In the silent gloom of the cave the noise was startlingly loud, almost frightening. “Ack,” it said. “Ack, ack, ack.” The harsh sound was all she heard. Not exactly a quack—as Audrey looked quickly from side to side, she saw there was no sign of the duck; it seemed to have disappeared. But whatever the noise was, it seemed to quiet all the others.

  As Audrey turned back toward the darkness at the end of the cave, she began to be aware of motion. Something was moving back there. As if coming out of nowhere, an indistinct figure seemed to be materializing—a dim, unrecognizable something…or someone. As Audrey blinked hard and went on staring, she gradually began to sense, if not quite see, a strangely shapeless figure, draped in a long dark cape, who seemed to be sitting or crouching against the far wall. It wasn’t until it spoke that Audrey was entirely sure it was alive—and human.

  “Well, well,” a creaky voice said. “Welcome to my private abode, my dear.” And then, before Audrey could even begin to imagine answering, it went on. “I thank you for coming.”

  Audrey swallowed hard and managed to say, “Are you—are you talking to me?”

  It wasn’t until then, when the thing at the back of the cave shook its head and emitted a high cackling laugh, that Audrey began to think of it as female. “Yes, I am, my dear,” the weird, high-pitched, squawky voice went on. “And I am looking forward to conversing with you. I know we have much in common, or you wouldn’t be here. I imagine we will have some important things to say to each other. Don’t you agree?”

  “Well, I—I guess so,” Audrey was stammering when the creature—the woman, whatever it was—continued.

  “For instance, you could begin by telling me about yourself. About what you have become.”

  “About myself? You mean my name and—”

  “No, no. Never mind that,” the voice said impatiently. “Names aren’t important. What is much more important. That is something I would very much like to know. What you are doing, for instance, and what is important to you.”

  Audrey was at a loss. She didn�
�t understand what was being asked of her any more than she understood what—or who—it was that was asking. She still seemed unable to see more than the faintest shadow of whatever it was at the back of the cave. The deep shadow was part of the problem, but there was more to it than that. The dim figure seemed to be constantly changing, in size and shape.

  “What do I do?” she asked. Was that a nod? It seemed to be, so she blundered on. “I just go to school. I’m only twelve years old.”

  “Ah. I see. But what do you plan to do, forever and always? With all your days and years?”

  What did she plan to do with all her days and years? Audrey suppressed a critical smirk. It was such a weird way to put the question. A question that she knew the answer to, of course, not that she would share it with anyone. Particularly not with a creepy old creature who seemed to be something out of a strangely vivid dream.

  She was assuring herself that she would never think of telling this woman what her plan for the future was when suddenly she heard a voice speaking—her own voice. With her eyes cast down toward the cave’s muddy floor, she suddenly heard herself say, “I want to be an author. I want to write stories.”

  She stopped abruptly then, not only amazed and shocked by what she had already said, but frightened, too. Afraid of the strange creature who seemed to be able not only to read her mind, but also to force her to say things she definitely hadn’t meant to say.

  “Ah, yes.” The creature’s head seemed to be bobbing up and down in a strangely birdlike way. “Ah, yes, I see.”

  Along with shaken surprise, there was now anger as well. What right did this person—did anyone—have to force her to talk about her private plans? And she had been forced. She had no idea how it had been done, but she knew it had. Otherwise, she would never have mentioned a secret she’d never told anyone—not even her closest friends.

  Shoulders squared against a surge of fear mixed with anger, Audrey backed away. She would just turn around now and leave. Yes. That’s what she would do. She was at the mouth of the cave, reaching up to push aside the curtain of vine, when the creaky voice called after her. “Come back, child. You must come back.”

  Audrey paused long enough to say, “No. I’m going. I have to go now and I’m not going to—that is, I don’t think I can—come back.” She meant it when she said it, but even as the words left her mouth, she knew that they might not be true. And she somehow felt certain that the woman knew they weren’t.

  As she made her way back down the Mayberry pirates’ hidden path, what she had said about never coming back was only part of a larger uncertainty about everything that had just happened and what might only have seemed to be happening. Of what might be only a particularly vivid product of her “overactive imagination.”

  The duck had been real, she was sure of that. There was no way she could have imagined that solid, sturdy whiteness and the confidence of that black-eyed stare. It was possible to imagine that someone could be tempted into danger by the slit yellow eyes of a cat. But to sense such evil purpose in the shiny black eyes of a duck? That seemed, somehow, impossible.

  And the rest of it? The creature—old woman—whatever—in the pirates’ cave. That hooded shape with its birdlike cackle. How much of it had been the product of her imagination? Of that overactive imagination that, as she had so often been told, was sometimes way out of control? As Audrey made her way down the steep, slippery path, there were still so many questions without answers.

  CHAPTER 4

  IT WASN’T AFTER THAT FIRST VISIT THAT Audrey told her parents about the woman in the cave. She thought about telling them, of course, but for more reasons than one, she decided against it. In the first place there was the fact that she had been forbidden to go there. Had, in fact, promised never to visit the cave again. That, by itself, was a good enough reason not to have mentioned it. But there was more to it than that.

  The other reason was a lot harder to put her finger on, but it had something to do with the possibility that some of it had been added to, at least a little bit, by her imagination. That sort of thing, Audrey had to admit, had happened before. There was, for instance, the time when she had gone with her mother to put flowers on her grandparents’ graves and she’d heard a voice reminding her to water her grandmother’s favorite rosebush. She’d been sure, or almost sure, of what she’d heard, and she’d told her mother so. But after a while she herself began to wonder whether it had been a real voice or only, as her mother insisted that day in the graveyard, a well-remembered one.

  And now, on the evening of that first visit to the cave, Audrey was still sorting it out. Trying to narrow it down to the things she was absolutely certain of, while at the same time cleaning the cockatiel’s cage and half listening to what her mother was saying about yesterday’s visitors. It wasn’t easy.

  For one thing Sputnik, the cockatiel, was, or at least tried to be, a dangerous bird. John, Audrey’s dad, had rescued him from a reporter at the Greendale Times, who had called him Bleep and had threatened to throw him to the chicken hawks because he was hopelessly mean and foulmouthed.

  Andy Anderson, the reporter, had been right about the foulmouthed part. Sputnik certainly did know how to swear. The Abbotts had changed his name from Bleep to Sputnik not because he’d stopped swearing, but because of his tendency to go into orbit whenever he escaped from his cage. So cleaning Sputnik’s cage was never easy, but Audrey had discovered she could do it without being pecked or sworn at if she ignored his threats and moved quickly and quietly.

  “They do mean well,” Hannah was still insisting. “At least Virginia does.” Adding freshly peeled carrots to the stew pot, Hannah Abbott turned and gave Audrey a rueful smile. “I do have to admit that Maribel always did have a mean streak. I remember one time in Mr. Martin’s chemistry class…”

  It was about then that Audrey lost track completely of what her mother was saying as she focused once more on what she had seen in the cave.

  There had been the duck and then the slippery trip up the muddy path. Of that much, she was absolutely certain. But then there was the cave itself and the strange creature—an old woman, perhaps. Audrey closed her eyes and tried to picture exactly what she had seen. Some of it wasn’t hard to recall.

  The vine-covered entrance to the cave and the rickety table and chairs were all as clear as if a negative had been imprinted on the inside of her eyelids. And the owls and bats as well were easy to picture. But farther back, almost hidden in the deepest shadows, there was only movement and a vague, ever-changing shape and the sound of a raspy, high-pitched voice. A remembered sound that was now competing with Sputnik’s squawks.

  But in spite of having to cope with a bad-tempered cockatiel, Audrey was still managing to concentrate pretty well on what had happened in the cave until her visual memories were interrupted by something even more distracting. Something cold and wet was pressing on the back of her right leg.

  Beowulf ’s arrivals were usually announced by pants and snuffles and clicking toenails, but this time, because of Sputnik’s uproar, Audrey had heard nothing before his nose made contact with her bare skin. Dropping to her knees, she wrapped her arms around the big shaggy head and shook it.

  “You sneaky thing. You scared me,” she told him, glad for his familiar, comforting warmth. They were still wrestling on the floor with her arms wrapped around his neck and most of her left hand inside his big gentle mouth when the wheelchair’s whiny rattle announced her father’s arrival.

  “Hey, Wulfy, knock it off,” John Abbott was saying. “A guy who’s supposed to avoid excitement shouldn’t have to watch a member of his family being eaten alive.”

  Audrey giggled, and Beowulf ’s growling gurgle seemed to mean he got the joke. He went on growling—doing his killer-dog bit—while Audrey pulled her hand out of his mouth, wiped it on his head, and went to hug her father.

  Hannah Abbott was almost smiling too as she said, “And now that you’re through being eaten alive, please don’t forget
to wash your hands before you set the table.”

  “Good idea, kiddo,” John told Audrey. “You and I might not mind having Irish wolfhound slobber on our first course, but in today’s world we might be in the minority.”

  Beowulf ’s slobber was another subject the Abbotts often joked about, but this time it was a different part of what her father said that stuck in Audrey’s mind. It was the part about “in today’s world” that came and went and came again as she set the table and even after she sat down to eat.

  “In today’s world.” It was a phrase that Audrey’s father often used when he talked with her about all sorts of things. Important things that were going on all over the world and that were written about in newspapers and magazines. Particularly in the Greendale Times where John Abbott was—or had been—the editor.

  But at the moment “today’s world” meant the world as it existed in the spring of 1973, in the state of California, in the town of Greendale. A world that, on this particular day, was a place where a person’s father could have something called “angina pectoris,” which meant that he had to spend most of his time in bed. And where that same person’s little, skinny mother had to go back to work at a job she hated, besides doing most of the work in a big old house and in what had once been a prizewinning vegetable garden.

  Glancing at her mother, whose thin face made her famous eyes look even larger, Audrey suppressed a sigh and slid into a familiar guilt thing about not doing enough to help around the house. But feeling guilty did have an escape route she’d used many times before, by way of a favorite daydream. The dream about how, after her first published book became a famous bestseller, she would build a mansion for her folks to live in and hire servants to do all the work. And she would find the best doctors in the whole world, who would have discovered a wonderful cure for angina pectoris. And then, in that “world of today,” everything would be as good as, or even better than, it used to be.