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.
“She’s searching for someone,” Pete says. “But I ain’t got any idea who.”
Mrs. Madliner drifts to another grave.
I shiver.
All I’ve ever known of Mrs. Madliner are the things I heard from Ma. They were friends when they were little and growing up together. Elmira was the town beauty when she was younger. Pale skin and large, dark eyes that seemed to hold captive just about every boy in New Shiloh. Then one day Arthur Madliner came to town. Where he came from, nobody knew. The marriage was quick—some thought too quick. Then Mr. and Mrs. Madliner moved out of town to the old house across the meadow from Stairways. Elmira was seen less and less. It wasn’t long after Caleb was born that word got around she’d taken ill.
I strain for a glimpse of her face, but it’s covered by a tangle of black hair.
“How come she didn’t say nothing when we saw her?” Will asks suddenly. He’s done being afraid. He’s angry now.
Pete’s shakes his head. “She’s sick. Sick in the mind. Maybe she saw us. Maybe she didn’t.”
In the cemetery below, Mrs. Madliner drops before one of the stones. A sound rises through the fog: weeping.
She stays that way a long time. None of us say anything. We just watch. Then at last Mrs. Madliner rises. She crosses the graveyard once more and passes through the iron gate. We lose sight of her when she walks into the meadow and its wafting mist.
Finally, Pete stands up. Wordlessly, we follow him back down the hill toward the trail.
It’s a while before I have the heart to talk again. “Why is she that way?”
Pete answers. “Nobody knows for sure. Ma says she was the same as everybody else when they were girls together. No one knows what happened after she married Arthur Madliner.”
“Well, we know he’s a damn liar,” Will says. “His wife can walk just fine.”
Pete is quiet for a time, then replies, “I get the feeling he doesn’t know.”
We walk through trees dark as the thoughts crowding our minds: If Mrs. Madliner can walk, why bother pretending that she can’t?
We go slow, each of us listening to the Pennsylvania night around us—snapping sticks and rustling leaves. It’s only when I feel firmer earth under us and realize that we’ve reached the trail home that I begin to relax any. Pete leads us along it, back to Apple Creek, where a fine mist is rising off the water and drifting toward the stars. We go for a time under their twinkling cold fires, but then our bank lifts and lets us see another light in the dark, that same orange ember burning far across the valley: Madliner House.