The Demon Notebook (6 page)

Every town has at least one unfortunate resident who, because of age, infirmity, crankiness, loss of mental faculties, or all of the above, becomes known as the local crazy person. Mrs. Quinlan was one such person.

She lived in a neighborhood not far from the school grounds, in a run-down house teeming with cats, and kept very much to herself. Her frizzy gray hair and pale eyes made her moth-eaten, disheveled clothes look even older than they were, and her shrill voice and fierce looks scared any children who dared approach her.

The Saint John's schoolkids loved to tell terrible tales about her—that she cursed those who dared to call to her house, that in each flea-bitten cat was the captured soul of someone who had dared to cross her, and, courtesy of a particularly imaginative eleventh grader, that she had killed and eaten her own husband.

Obviously, there was no evidence to support any of these rumors, but they persisted. Parents hushed their sons and daughters when such stories were brought up at the dinner table, but then gently instructed them to keep clear of old Mrs. Quinlan.

On Thursday afternoon, when the final bell had rung for the day, the girls slowly crossed the football field, clambered through the wiry hedge behind the school, and out into the cul-de-sac of Wilton Place. Mrs. Quinlan's dilapidated house was the very last one. It looked dark and lonely, in sharp contrast to the other, much better kept, houses of the neighborhood. Already, the girls could see a couple of the infamous, soul-filled cats lazing in the front garden. The girls inched forward, none of them willing to be the first to reach the driveway.

“Hold on,” said Grace, putting out her hands to halt their slow progress. “What are we going to say?”

“Ahem,” Jenny mused, “what about, ‘Hey, Old Cat Lady, we were wondering if you're a witch 'cause our friend's possessed by a spirit or something and soon we're going to kill the school bully. Got a spell for that?'”

Grace couldn't help but think, despite Jenny's sarcasm, that that was exactly what they
needed
to say. But somehow, they'd have to approach the subject with a little more subtlety.

“Why don't we say we're doing a school project or something?” suggested Rachel. “And ask for help.”

“What kind of project?” asked Grace.

“I don't know…about the area. About Wilton Place. Yeah! We can say we're collecting stories from long-term residents about the history of Wilton Place. You know, and the school. Modern history and all that.”

“Ancient history, more like,” mumbled Jenny. “Have you seen Old Cat Lady?”

“Let's avoid calling her that for the moment,” warned Grace. “Everyone be as polite as possible.” She hitched her bag higher onto her shoulder. “Everyone ready? Let's go.”

The girls huddled tightly together as they reached the front step, right in front of the door. Adie held on to Jenny's bag as she leaned backward, glancing right and left at the sleepy-looking cats, searching for human souls in their slow-blinking eyes.

“Right,” said Grace, taking a deep breath, “here goes.”

She linked Rachel's arm, just in case the others spooked and ran off at the first sounds of life within the house, then reached up to grasp the wreath-shaped knocker.

Bang, bang, bang.

They waited. Nothing happened.

Grace shrugged and tried again.

Bang, bang, bang.

They waited again.

“Maybe she's out,” said Jenny.

“Yeah,” said Adie, “I guess even crazy old ladies—
aaagh
!”

They all jumped to see a pair of pale eyes glaring at them through the frosted glass beside the door. Suddenly, the door was wrenched open and Old Cat Lady stood before them in all her moth-eaten glory.

“
What
do
you
want?!
” she shrieked, spittle flying from the corners of her mouth as she spoke.

“I—um—we—” Grace stammered. It was taking up all her energy not to turn and run. She gripped Rachel's arm with all her might. Rachel in turn was holding on to Adie, who held on to Jenny. Somehow they managed to stay rooted to the spot.

“Well?” More spittle. “I said,
what
do
you
want
?”

“We're studying the history of the area,” Rachel's confident voice suddenly chimed. “We're talking to local residents about their memories of Wilton Place and Saint John's School. It's part of our history curriculum—a small project on modern history. We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions.”

Rachel beamed brightly, as if she'd surprised herself. Grace and the others exchanged impressed glances.

“History?” Mrs. Quinlan said, squinting at her. “I don't know anything about history. Now clear off. All of you.”

The girls were protesting when, suddenly, a small ginger kitten shot past Mrs. Quinlan's feet and out into the garden.

“Damn it!” the woman hissed. “Catch it, then! Don't just stand there!
Catch
it!
”

Spreading out across the dry, brown lawn the girls ran about, tripping over themselves and each other, before Jenny managed to snatch the little creature by the scruff of the neck. She tucked it into the crook of her arm and stroked it gently as it hooked onto her school sweater with its little claws.

“Bring it here,” said Mrs. Quinlan, flapping her hands in Jenny's direction. “It's not supposed to be out.”

Jenny unhooked the kitten and placed it into the woman's outstretched hands. Mrs. Quinlan cradled the little animal, then looked at the girls suspiciously.

“What sort of questions are you asking? How many of them?”

“Oh, just a couple,” Grace replied. “It won't take long. We promise.”

Mrs. Quinlan snorted loudly, then turned to go back into the house.

“I suppose you can come in for a minute,” she growled, as she disappeared inside. “Shut the door behind you.”

The dark hall smelled funny. Like damp clothes and animal fur. As they passed doorways on the left side and stairs on the right, the girls could hear muted meows all around.

“She must have dozens of cats in here,” whispered Adie. Then she tapped Jenny lightly on the elbow. “Hey, did you look into that kitten's eyes?”

“Yeah.”

“And?” Adie pushed.

“And what?”

“Did you
see
something in its eyes?”

“Yeah,” breathed Jenny.

Adie froze. Jenny smiled.

“Conjunctivitis.”

Adie scowled and followed the others into the ramshackle kitchen at the end of the hall. The smell was even stronger in there. Cat beds and litter boxes lined the edges of the room. On the kitchen table, a wire cage housed a very sorry-looking animal. It hissed angrily at them, baring its yellowed teeth and arching its back, making its balding, patchy fur look even more unsightly.

“That cat looks a little mangy,” Rachel said to the old woman. “What's wrong with it?”

“Mange.”

“Oh. Well, shouldn't you let it out to get some exercise or something, so it can get better?”

“I can't let it out, you fruit loop,” the woman snapped. “It'll infect the others. Have to keep it isolated while it's being medicated.”

“How come you have so many cats?” asked Grace.

“Some are mine. Some are fostered. They go to new homes when they're socialized and healthy. Any more questions about general animal welfare, or are you going to get to the point?”

Given the woman's testy mood, it didn't seem like a good idea to launch into the witch question, so the girls asked a series of awkward and uninteresting questions about the history of their school and the surrounding area.

“Attended Saint John's myself,” Mrs. Quinlan said, a little more relaxed now as she sat, gently stroking the orange kitten in her lap.

“It was built back then?” Jenny asked.

“Yes, it was built
back
then
,” the woman snapped. “I'm not that old, you know.”

Looking at her this closely, Grace could see that Old Cat Lady was, in fact, not nearly as old as they presumed her to be. She could have been in her early fifties, or even late forties, though her sallow and weather-beaten face made her look that much older. It didn't help that she dressed like she'd just stepped out of a trash can.

“It was a different place then, of course.” Mrs. Quinlan gazed at the ceiling. “None of these new technology things, PC computers and all the rest. We learned the good old-fashioned way—with blackboards and chalk.”

“We have interactive whiteboards now,” said Rachel.

“And the teachers didn't take any lip,” the woman continued, ignoring the interruption. “The kids weren't rude like they are nowadays. If you caused any trouble, you were given a good beating. And you didn't cause trouble again.”

She pursed her lips and gave them all a look.

“What happens nowadays, hmm?” she went on. “The parents are called, and the teachers and the students all talk about their
feelings
, and
why
the brat misbehaved. It's all that psycholosophy garbage now. Don't know how to raise kids anymore, that's the problem! Bring back the ruler, that's what I say.”

She fell silent, still staring into the distance as if she could see the old schoolrooms right in front of her. Grace let this heartwarming sentence settle before going on with her questions.

“And what sort of hobbies did you have?”

“Hobbies? The usual, I suppose. Sports, though I wasn't much for that. I liked reading a lot.”

“Really?” said Grace. “What sort of books? Mysteries, thrillers, horrors…the occult?”

“The what?” the woman snapped, narrowing her eyes at Grace.

“Oh, I was just wondering what sort of books you liked reading.”

“I got that much, Einstein.”

“Right, well…um…nowadays everyone our age is big into the supernatural stuff. You know—vampires, werewolves…witches. That sort of thing. Was that what you and your friends liked to read?”

“I read some books like that.” Mrs. Quinlan was now scrutinizing Grace's rapidly reddening face with suspicion.

“That's cool,” Grace replied, avoiding her gaze. “We like that stuff too. And about witches, in particular. And witchcraft. You know, spells and stuff.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And sometimes we think, wouldn't it be fun to, you know,
do
spells. And stuff.”

“
Do
spells?” the woman said.

“Yeah. Did you ever think it might be fun to do spells?”

Mrs. Quinlan's brow furrowed as she sat in silence. Grace, feeling sweat break out at the back of her neck, raised her eyes to look directly at the woman in front of her.

“Did
you
ever do spells?” she said quietly.

Mrs. Quinlan paused, slowly stroking the sleeping kitten in her arms.

“Did
I
ever do spells?”

Grace looked helplessly at the woman and nodded slowly.

“What class was this for again?” Mrs. Quinlan looked at each of them calmly.

“It's not for a class,” Grace said. “We need to ask if you're a…if you're a…a witch.”

Mrs. Quinlan's eyebrows shot up toward her graying hair and her mouth went into a hard line.

“Well, my, my, my,” she whispered. “I've had some brats come to my door in the past, but none as sneaky as you all.”

She stood up slowly, tipping the kitten onto the floor, and loomed over the girls, her eyes narrowed to slits. Her voice was low and menacing.

“Out you go, now,” she said.

“Let's get out of here, Grace,” Adie whispered urgently, tugging at her friend's sweater.

“Please, Mrs. Quinlan! We need help,” Grace said. “We don't know who else to turn to.”

“Out. Now.” The woman's voice was still frighteningly quiet. She began to inch around the table toward them.

“
Now
, Grace!” Adie's voice became frantic. “Jenny? Rachel? She'll curse us. She'll…”

She stepped backward, tripping over a large tabby cat, and squealed with fright. The cat made a horrible screeching sound, catapulting Mrs. Quinlan into action.

“OUT!” she screamed, grabbing Grace by the collar and dragging her toward the front door. The others followed close behind, yelling at the woman and trying to loosen her grip on Grace's collar.

“Please!” Grace shouted desperately. “Our friend's possessed! We don't know how to help her…”

“Little brats!” Mrs. Quinlan shrieked, still holding fast to Grace's collar. “Horrible little brats!”

“Please!” Grace begged again as she began to cry. “The spells are all happening. We did the Ouija board—ouch!—in school! Now something's making all our spells happen…and…”