Halloween Party (Fear Street Book 8)

Terry didn’t really like the idea of Alex helping him find Niki, but he realized it made sense. Too much time had passed already.

Please, he thought. Please let her be okay.

“I’ve already checked on the second floor,” he told Alex. “Why don’t you check it again in case I’ve missed something.”

“Wait,” said Justine. “I’ll go. I know the house better than anyone.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Alex.

“No, Alex,” she said sweetly. “You wait in the living room with the others—in case anything happens.” Alex was about to protest again, but Justine leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Please—let me do this. I feel so terrible about everything that’s happened. At least let me try to help Terry.”

Grumbling, Alex went back to join the others by the fireplace.

“Thanks, Justine,” Terry said. “Please be careful.”

“I promise,” she said. “Why don’t you check down here while I go upstairs?”

Terry nodded. The only place he hadn’t looked was the basement. He didn’t really think Niki would have gone down there alone, but couldn’t think of anywhere else to look.

As he started down the dark, narrow steps, he could hear the others talking in hushed, frightened tones back in the living room. Please, he kept thinking over and over. Please, please, please.

This was the first time he’d gone down to the basement. Each step creaked like something alive, and he wondered if the stairs were strong enough to hold him.

The flashlight showed thick ropes of cobwebs and splintered, dusty beams. It was obvious that Justine and her uncle hadn’t done any renovations on this part of the house.

The basement itself was jammed full of old boxes and splintered boards. He jumped as something skittered across the floor behind him. It’s just a mouse, he told himself. At least I hope it’s a mouse.

Niki can’t be down here, he thought. He wanted to call out her name, but knew she couldn’t hear him even if she was there.

He heard another noise, a kind of thumping, from the far end of the low, dark space. In the circle of light he saw a large storage closet set against the wall. Gingerly, he approached it and yanked the door open.

Inside was what he first thought was a bundle of rags.

And then the bundle moved.

It was Niki.

She stared up at him with a dazed expression. “Terry?”

“Funny Face!” Terry dropped to his knees and put his arms around her. He held her tightly, overwhelmed with relief that she was alive. Finally he let her go and shone the flashlight so she could see his face.

“Are you all right?” he said.

“Where are we?” asked Niki, looking around in confusion.

“In the basement of Justine’s house,” said Terry. “In a closet.”

“The basement?” said Niki. “How on earth did I get—”

“I don’t know,” said Terry. “What happened to you?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I think someone knocked me out.”

“Knocked you out!” Terry felt his heart begin to race. He searched Niki’s face and saw that she had a large purple bruise on her forehead. “Tell me what you remember, Funny Face.”

Niki pulled herself to her feet and brushed the dust off her red gown. She squinted, remembering. “Right after we had that—that silly argument,” she said, “I went back up to Justine’s room. It was really dark and spooky, but I kept thinking there had to be something I’d missed, something that would explain the strange way Justine’s been acting.

“I went back in the secret closet,” Niki went on, “and this time I noticed a shoe box on the floor. None of the other shoes were in boxes, so I opened it. It was full of mementos—old pictures, some pressed flowers, and—and this.” She reached in her pocket and handed Terry a brittle news clipping from the Shadyside paper.

Terry took the clipping and shone the flashlight on it. In growing confusion and disbelief he began to read:

Local Couple Killed in Fiery Crash

Edmund D. Cameron, 26, and his wife, Cissy, 20, were killed late last night when their car was hit head-on by a car driven by James B. Whittle, 16.

The Camerons’ car, a late-model Ford, was headed south on Old Mill Road when it was hit by Whittle’s car, a Chevrolet station wagon. According to witnesses at the scene, Whittle had been drag racing with another car, a Corvette driven by John McCormick, 16. The Cameron car spun out of control and into a ditch, where it burst into flames.

“I didn’t see anything till it was too late,” Whittle said. “They just showed up in the fog. I feel terrible about it.”

Whittle’s car sustained major damage, while the Corvette was untouched. Neither Whittle nor McCormick, nor any of their passengers, was seriously injured. Those riding with Whittle included Evelyn Sayles, 15, Joanne Trumble, 15, Arlene Coren, 16, and Robert Carter, 14. The passengers in the Corvette were Jim Ryan, 18, Nancy Arlen, 16, and Ed Martiner, 15, all of Shadyside.

The Cameron couple are survived by a daughter, Enid, age 1.

No charges were filed pending police investigation.

Terry quickly finished reading the article. “This must be the accident that killed the original owners of the mansion!” he said. “What a horrible way to die—burning to death in a car!”

“Yes,” agreed Niki. “No wonder it made Justine crazy.”

“What are you talking about?” said Terry.

“Terry, the couple who were killed in that crash— they were Justine’s parents!”

Terry just stared at her. “Maybe we ought to get you to a doctor,” he said. “After all, someone hit you on the head—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” said Niki in exasperation. “Are you really so afraid to look at the truth?”

“But Justine’s parents—Justine—it doesn’t make any sense,” Terry protested. “Besides, the clipping says their daughter was named Enid.”

“Remember? That’s the name I saw on those prescriptions,” Niki said. “Besides, look at this.” She reached in her pocket for something. It was a driver’s license, showing Justine’s picture and made out to Enid J. Cameron.

Terry looked at it, shocked. “Well,” he said finally, “I guess Justine isn’t a distant cousin after all. But why would she want us to think she’s someone else?”

“You still don’t understand, do you?” said Niki. “Did you notice the names of the people in the accident?”

Quickly Terry scanned the clipping again. “Whitle,” he said. “McCormick. Sure, they’re some of the same names as some of our friends. But so what? Shadyside is a small place.”

“Terry, they’re not just the same names as some of our friends—they’re the names of our parents! Didn’t you see your father’s name? Jim Ryan?”

“I guess I just skimmed it,” admitted Terry. “But what about the other names—Joanne Trumble, Arlene Coren—”

“Arlene is my mother,” said Niki. “Coren is her maiden name.”

Terry just stood a moment, thinking about what Niki had told him. He didn’t want to think about what it might mean.

“There’s another thing,” Niki went on. “Did you see the date of the article?”

“Yeah, it’s—let’s see,” said Terry, doing some quick mental arithmetic. “Twenty-eight years ago.” And then he realized what that meant. “So Justine is—is—”

“Nearly thirty years old!” Niki finished for him. “Terry, she’s not a high school student! She’s a grown woman!”

“A double life,” said Terry. He let out a low whistle. “I wonder what Justine would say if she knew you found this stuff.”

“I think she already knows,” Niki said. “Or somebody does. After I put away the shoe box I started back to tell you what I’d found. Only before I could close the secret door someone must have snuck up on me. I remember bending down to pull the door shut, and the next thing I knew I was in this closet.” She touched her finger to the bruise on her head.

Terry leaned down and gently kissed the bruised spot.

“Thank heaven nothing worse happened to you,” he murmured.

Niki looked carefully at his face. “What do you mean worse?” she said. “Terry, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Oh, Niki,” he said. He squeezed her hand, hard. “So much has been happening.” Quickly he told her about finding Les’s body and Philip’s bloodstained jacket. When he finished, Niki was paler than ever. “So you can imagine,” he said, “how worried I was. I thought that maybe you had been—had been . . . ”

“I can’t imagine why she let me go,” Niki said. “She just must not have had the time to—to do with me what she did to Les.”

“She?” said Terry. “You think Justine killed Les?”

“Who else could it be?” said Niki. “Terry, look at the facts! First, there was the invitation list—”

“Okay,” he said, thinking. “So Justine invited us—the children of the kids who were in that crash—”

“That’s right,” said Niki. “And only us. Didn’t you think it was strange that she insisted no one else could even come to the party, not even as a date?”

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” said Terry. “I guess I’m still having a hard time believing it.”

“That’s why she’s getting away with it!” said Niki. “Because no one would believe that sweet, innocent Justine could be a murderer. But, Terry, we have to face it. Justine had us here to this party for one reason only.”

She paused, then went on, her voice suddenly shaking. “For revenge!”