Home alone. Gretchen slumped back on the soft leather of the living room couch and listened to the rattle of a tree branch against the front window. Her mom knew the front yard trees had to be cut back. The limbs had grown dangerously close to the house. But that problem wasn’t at the top of her list.
Gretchen pressed her hands into the cushion and listened to the tap-tap-tap. It sounded like someone knocking on the window, trying to get in.
Don’t freak yourself out, she scolded herself. She’d felt tense, totally on edge since her confrontation with Devra an hour earlier. She kept playing the conversation over again in her mind.
Each time it made her angrier—and more anxious about how desperate Devra was to win the cheerleader spot this year.
“Spoiled brat,” Gretchen murmured out loud. Obviously, Devra was used to getting whatever she wanted.
Gretchen sighed. Didn’t Devra realize how lucky she was? Her father owned department stores. He and Devra lived in North Hills. Madison had explained to her that was the fanciest section of Shadyside, with enormous mansions, gated to keep the rest of the world out.
Gretchen’s father had moved to Milwaukee with his new girlfriend. He didn’t care if he heard from Gretchen or not. He never tried to call her or even email. Not a word from him on her last birthday.
She shifted tensely on the couch, listening to the insistent tap-tap-tap at the window. The house was silent. So silent she heard the click of the fridge rumbling on in the kitchen.
With a sigh, she raised her phone. Maybe Madison was back from her violin lesson. She wanted to tell her about Devra’s attempt to bribe her. She listened to the ring until Madison’s voicemail came on. Then she clicked it off.
Gretchen realized her hands were shaking.
Why am I so upset?
I’m too old to be scared of being home alone.
She knew it wasn’t that. She had looked forward to a new start here in Shadyside. A house on Fear Street sounded intriguing, even exciting. Why would someone give a street that name?
It wasn’t being home alone in a new house on a windy night that disturbed her. It was Devra Dalby. Once again, she pictured Devra’s head toss, sending her red hair back over her shoulders … her icy blue eyes.…
Devra’s harsh whisper: “How about a thousand-dollar store credit?”
Gretchen squeezed the phone in her hand. Maybe I’ll call Polly. Talking to Polly always helps me get my head together.
Just as Gretchen started to push Polly’s number, the doorbell rang.
A loud clang clang.
Gretchen jumped, startled. She hadn’t heard the doorbell before. No one had visited yet.
She set down the phone and earphones and strode to the front entryway. She frowned at the framed color print her mother had hung on the entry wall—six dogs wearing human clothes, sitting around a card table playing poker.
“Just a joke,” Mrs. Page had explained. “Until our real art arrives from Savanna Mills.”
Gretchen thought it embarrassing that her mother had even bought something so atrocious.
The bell clanged again. “Who is it?” Gretchen called, her throat clogged from not talking to anyone for an hour.
No answer.
“Who’s there?”
Gretchen pulled the door. It stuck. The wood had swollen, making it too tight against the frame. Another fix-it project on her mother’s list. She gave it a hard tug with both hands, and it swung open.
Gretchen stared into the triangle of yellow light from the porchlight.
No one there.
“Hello?” she called. “Hey—are you there?”
The wind made the trees shake. Dead leaves rained to the ground. The lawn was already covered in a blanket of fallen leaves. Gusts of wind made a whispering sound all around.
Gretchen squinted to the street. No cars. No one there. A quick glance at the front of Madison’s house next-door. No one.
With a shiver, she shoved the door closed. She stood in the entryway, staring at the hideous dog print on the wall. The wind couldn’t have rung the doorbell.
A hard tap on the front window made Gretchen spin around. It seemed louder than the gentle tapping of the tree branch.
Another hard knock. Another. Was someone pounding on the window?
Gretchen lurched back into the living room. She tripped over the edge of the carpet that hadn’t been tacked down yet. Caught her balance. Eyes on the window. Only darkness beyond the pale curtain of light from the front porch.
She pushed her nose against the cold glass and peered out.
No one there.
Is this a joke? Or am I going crazy?
The hard, repeated knock on the kitchen door made her cry out. The sound rang down the back hallway. Definitely a fist pounding on the glass section of the back door.
“Who is it?” Gretchen shouted. Sudden fear tightened her throat as she ran through the hall, shoes thudding loudly on the bare floorboards. “Who’s there?”
Into the kitchen. A single ceiling light on dim. Neat and clean. No one had eaten at home tonight.
A drumlike pounding on the door. Gretchen saw only darkness in the glass square that formed the top half of the door.
She grabbed the knob. Breathless. Heartbeats racing now. Grabbed the knob with both hands and yanked the door open.
A whoosh of cold air greeted her. “Who’s there? Who is doing this?”
A lawn rake on its side against the back stoop. The wooden lawn chairs and table glowing dully under the light of a half-moon.
No one there. And no footsteps. No one running to the side of the house.
A ghost.
Gretchen allowed herself a stupid thought. Yes, a ghost. That must be why they call this Fear Street.
She still held the knob to the kitchen door in her hand when she heard the clang of the front doorbell.
Someone is playing a mean joke.
Someone is trying to scare me. And it’s working.
She slammed the kitchen door and carefully locked it. She checked the kitchen window. Locked.
The doorbell rang again.
Gretchen stopped halfway down the back hall. I’m not going into the living room. I’m not going to answer it.
Her whole body shuddered. Did someone plan to break in? Or were they just trying to terrorize her? Such a mean, babyish stunt. But she had no way of knowing if it was just a joke, a trick, a harmless prank.
Or if …
Someone pressed the front doorbell and kept it clanging.
Gretchen sucked in a deep shuddering breath and held it. Fighting back her panic, she forced her trembling legs forward. To the door. The bell deafening now.
She grabbed the knob in both hands and pulled with all her strength. The door shot open, sending her tumbling back, off-balance. She stared wide-eyed at the face in the doorway—and screamed. “Mom? It was you?”
Mrs. Page shifted the hooded cloak she wore. “Sorry. I forgot my keys.” She stepped into the house. “What took you so long, Gretchen?”
“I…” Gretchen gaped at her, her whole body still tense and trembling. “Mom, you tapped at the window? You went around back?”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Page said, letting the cloak fall off her shoulders, wrapping it in her arms, and carrying it to the coat closet. “Marci from work dropped me off and I rang the front bell.”
“But, Mom—” Gretchen started.
Someone banged on the window. And pounded on the back door.
“Close the door,” Mrs. Page said. “You’re letting the cold air in.”
Gretchen stepped back to the door and started to push it shut. But she stopped when something caught her eyes. She squinted into the yellow porchlight.
Something on the evergreen shrub at the side of the front stoop. She stepped out of the house. The wind ruffled her T-shirt and tossed back her hair.
She tugged the object off the bush. And raised it into the light.
A bandanna. A red-and-yellow bandanna. It had become caught in the pine needles.
Gretchen stared at the bandanna, wrapping it around her hand. Where had she seen it before?
On Devra Dalby?