The Betrayal

  The Betrayal

  The Betrayal

  R.L.STINE

  SIMON PULSE

  THE BEGINNING …

  “You cannot do this!” Susannah Goode shrieked, fear choking her throat. “You cannot do this to us!”

  The officers roughly dragged Susannah and her mother to the door. She heard surprised murmurs as they passed through the commons. Whispered questions.

  The prison loomed ahead, a low clapboard building behind the meetinghouse.

  “Why are you doing this to us?” Susannah cried, the words bursting from her throat. “Why are you dragging us from our home?”

  Benjamin Fier stopped on the path. His voice was low and steady. His eyes locked onto Susannah’s.

  “You two will burn before the week is out,” he said.

  DON’T MISS A SINGLE NIGHT

  #1: Moonlight Secrets

  #2: Midnight Games

  #3: Darkest Dawn

  AND THESE OTHER CHILLING TALES FROM FEAR STREET:

  All-Night Party

  The Confession

  Killer’s Kiss

  The Perfect Date

  The Rich Girl

  The Stepsister

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Simon Pulse edition August 2002

  Copyright © 1993 by Parachute Press, Inc.

  Originally published as an Archway Paperback in 1993

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster

  Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Printed in USA

  20

  ISBN-13: 978-0-671-86831-3

  ISBN-10: 0-671-86831-4

  eISBN-13: 978-1-439-12034-7

  ISBN-13: 978-0-671-86831-4

  FEAR STREET is a registered trademark of Parachute Press, Inc.

  THE FIER FAMILY TREE

  Village of Shadyside 1900

  The fire roared like thunder. Above the choking clouds of black smoke, the night sky brightened with a wash of angry scarlet.

  The flames tossed and crashed like ocean waves, rolling over the blackened mansion, pouring out every window, sweeping up the walls and over the roof until the house was nothing more than the dark core of a raging fireball.

  Staring down at the fire from the low hill that overlooked the wide lawn, Nora Goode pressed her hands over her ears. But even with the fire’s roar muffled she could hear the screams.

  The screams of those trapped inside the blazing Fear mansion.

  The screams of everyone she knew, of everyone she loved.

  “Daniel! Come out!” Nora cried, her small voice buried under the avalanche of terrified shrieks, anguished moans, and the unending roar of the spreading flames.

  “Daniel, I’m here! I am alive! I ran out! I escaped the fire!” Nora shouted. “Where are you? Are you coming out too?”

  The flames roared louder, as if to answer her.

  Nora’s entire body trembled in dread.

  She lowered one hand to the amulet on a chain around her neck.

  The fire had already blazed for more than an hour. Daniel wasn’t coming out. No one was coming out.

  Only minutes after the fire had begun, the Shady-side volunteer fire fighters had pulled their horse-drawn water truck onto the lawn of the mansion. But the flames had already swallowed up the entire house.

  Their faces revealing horror and awe, the fire fighters stood by helplessly and watched with the other townspeople who had gathered on the low hill, huddling in small groups, their faces red in the light of the flickering blaze.

  “You’re not coming out, are you, Daniel?” Nora said. “I’ll never see you again.”

  She shut her eyes. But even with her eyes closed she could still see the angry red and orange flames tossing across the inside of her eyelids.

  Squeezing the small round pendant tightly, Nora sighed. This silver amulet with its sparkling blue jewels held in place by a silver three-toed claw, like those on a tiny bird’s foot, had been given to her by Daniel Fear as a token of his love.

  “It is all I have left of you, Daniel!” Nora wailed.

  Voices rose around her, close by, louder than the thunder of the flames. Nora opened her eyes and turned her gaze on the horrified faces of the people from the village. They clung together, as if frightened for their own lives.

  “The fire will burn forever!” a bearded man cried, his face scarlet, the flames reflected in his eyes.

  “Look at the house,” a frail woman a few feet from Nora cried, pointing. “It is covered with flames, but it does not burn!”

  “It looks as if the sky is on fire!” screamed a little girl, hiding her face in her mother’s dark skirt.

  “I always knew this place was evil,” the bearded man declared, shielding his eyes with one hand. “I always knew the Fears would come to no good.”

  “They burned up inside their house,” someone said.

  “May their evil perish with them,” another person added.

  “The firemen did not even try to put it out.”

  “They could not put out this fire. It is not an ordinary fire. It is not a fire from this world.”

  “The evil of this house feeds the fire.”

  “The house is cursed! The ground is cursed!”

  “No! Please … stop it! Stop it!” Nora shrieked.

  Unable to shut out their voices, she began running toward the house. Her cloak flapped behind her as she stumbled down the hill and over the lawn.

  Slipping on the dew-wet grass, she could feel the heat of the fire on her face. Strange shadows flickered over the lawn, black against the reflected scarlet light.

  “Daniel, why is your family so cursed?” Nora cried as she ran. “What kind of evil brought you and your family to this fiery end?”

  Nora’s long dark hair floated wildly above the flapping cloak. As she ran, she held her arms out as if ready to embrace the flames.

  “Who is that?”

  “Where is she going?”

  “Somebody stop her!”

  Alarmed voices rang out from the crowd.

  Panting loudly, Nora raised an arm to shield her eyes as she ran. She could feel the precious silver amulet bobbing against her throat.

  “Daniel, are you in there? Daniel?”

  “Somebody stop her!”

  “Has she gone mad?”

  “Who is she? Is she a Fear?”

  The voices finally faded, drowned out by the crackle and roar of the blinding red-orange blaze.

  It’s so hot, so hot! Nora thought. She loosened the cloak and let it fall.

  I feel as if I am running into the sun! Now I feel as if I am on fire too.

  She stopped, choking on the hot smoke.

  Where am I?

  She gazed into the flames and suddenly realized she was standing in front of a window. The window of the grand ballroom.

  The tossing flames made the window glow.

  “Ohhh!” Nora moaned in horror as the faces inside came into view. Faces among the flames.

  Nora’s breath caught in her throat as she sta
red through the window at the wriggling dark bodies.

  Are they dancing in there? Dancing with the flames?

  No.

  Their faces were twisted in agony. Their dark bodies writhing in pain.

  She saw screaming women, flames rolling up from their hair.

  She saw the tortured faces of young men, dark holes where their eyes should have been, their clothing wrapped in fire.

  Who are these people? Nora wondered, unable to turn her eyes from the ghastly nightmare inside the house. Why are they in the ballroom? Why aren’t they consumed by the flames?

  Why don’t they die?

  And then Nora’s eyes focused on a figure in the center of the writhing, screaming crowd. A young girl. Wearing a long maroon dress and an old-fashioned cap.

  Nora gasped as the girl raised her head and their eyes met.

  The girl’s eyes were eggshell white. Glowing white.

  As Nora gaped in horror, she saw the girl’s mouth open wide into a tortured scream, a scream of rage, of unbearable pain.

  Then Nora noticed that the girl’s hands were tied behind her. Tied to a tall wooden pole.

  The girl was tied to a stake.

  And now her dress was billowing with fire. And the flames were rising up to her face, up to her long blond hair. The cap burst into flame then.

  Struggling against the stake, the girl shrieked as she burned.

  Then, with a low explosion, the flames hid them all behind a rippling yellow curtain.

  The window burst, glass shattering and flying out. The fire’s roar rumbled over her.

  And still Nora stood motionless, staring where the screaming girl had been, staring into the wall of flame, staring, staring into the bright, dancing horror….

  PART ONE

  Wickham Village, Massachusetts Colony 1692

  Chapter 1

  The fire crackled softly. A loud pop sent up a shower of glowing red embers.

  Susannah Goode uttered a cry of surprise and jumped back from the hearth. The embers died at her feet.

  After straightening the starched white apron she wore over her heavy, dark maroon skirt, Susannah bent over the bake kettle to lift the heavy lid and peer inside.

  Behind her in the small borning room, the baby started to cry. Susannah heard the floorboards creak as her mother made her way to the cradle to see what the problem was.

  “Susannah!” Martha Goode’s tone was scolding. “You have wrapped George too tightly again. The poor baby can barely breathe!”

  “The blanket is too small. I had trouble covering him,” Susannah complained, still bent over the kettle, a few long golden curls falling out of her bun and over her face.

  “The blanket will have to do,” her mother replied. “It is the best we can afford.” She lifted the squalling baby and held him up to her face. “Poor George. Poor George. What did your sister do to you?”

  Susannah sighed. “These biscuits are taking so long to bake.”

  Martha Goode stepped up behind her. George’s cries had softened to quiet whimpers as he lay his head against his mother’s stiff white collar.

  “The fire is too low,” her mother said, shaking her head disapprovingly. “You cannot bake in those dying embers. Put more wood on, Susannah.”

  Frowning, Susannah straightened up and tossed the locks of escaped hair behind the white collar that covered the shoulders of her dress. “We need firewood.”

  Susannah was tall and thin. She had sparkling blue eyes, creamy pale skin, and dimples in both cheeks when she smiled.

  Whenever Martha Goode found Susannah gazing into the looking glass or toying with her golden hair, she scolded her with the same words: “True beauty comes from deeds, not appearance, Daughter.”

  As a Puritan, Susannah had been endlessly taught the virtue of modesty. She had been taught that all righteous people are beautiful and the same in the eyes of the Maker.

  She felt embarrassed whenever her mother caught her admiring herself, as if her mother had peered inside her soul and found it flawed and unworthy.

  But at sixteen, Susannah felt stirrings that excited her as much as they troubled her. She found herself thinking of a certain boy, daydreaming about him as she worked. And she couldn’t help but wonder if she was pretty enough to win him over all the other girls in the village of Wickham.

  Martha Goode held the baby and rocked him gently as she stared disapprovingly at the fire. “Where is your father? He will want his biscuits on time, but he will not have them if he is not here.”

  “I believe he is at the commons, tending the cows,” Susannah told her.

  “Cows,” her mother scoffed. “Bags of bone, you mean.” She lowered her gaze sadly to the baby she held. “It is a wonder we survive, George.”

  Susannah started toward the door. “I will get the firewood and fetch Father. I was going out for a walk anyway,” Susannah insisted.

  “Susannah. Please,” her mother said, fear clouding her eyes. “You must stop taking solitary walks. You must not do anything—anything at all—to attract attention to yourself.”

  She gazed intently at her pretty daughter. Then she added in a low whisper, “You know the dangers. You know what is going on here.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Susannah replied impatiently. “But I think I can go out for a walk without—”

  “They took Abigail Hopping from her house last night and dragged her to the prison,” her mother said softly. “The poor woman’s screams woke me.”

  Susannah uttered a shocked gasp. “Abigail Hopping a witch?”

  “That’s what Benjamin Fier says,” Martha Goode replied, swallowing hard. “Benjamin accused Abigail of singing songs of the Evil One as she prepared the evening meal.”

  “I cannot believe that Abigail Hopping is a witch,” Susannah said, shaking her head. “Has she confessed?”

  “Her trial is at the meetinghouse tonight,” Martha Goode said darkly.

  “Oh, Mother! Will she burn like the others?” Susannah cried, choking out the words.

  Her mother rocked the baby and didn’t reply. “There is so much evil about, Daughter,” she said finally. “Three witches uncovered in our village by Benjamin Fier since summer began. I beg you to be careful, Susannah. Stay in the shadows. Give no one reason to suspect you—or even to notice you.”

  Susannah nodded. “Yes, Mother. I am only going to the commons for firewood. I shall be back quickly.” She pushed open the door, causing a flood of bright sunlight to wash over the dark room.

  “No! Stop!” her mother cried.

  Halfway out the door Susannah turned, her blue eyes flashing, an impatient frown on her face.

  “Are you going out with your head uncovered?” Martha Goode demanded. “Where are your thoughts, dear?”

  “I am sorry.” Susannah returned to the room, took her white cap from its peg, and pulled it down over her hair. “I will hurry back,” she said.

  She closed the door behind her and, shielding her eyes with one hand from the bright afternoon sunlight, made her way past the chickens pecking the dirt in front of the house.

  Susannah turned onto the path that led into the village. Walking quickly, her long skirt trailing over the dirt, she passed the Halseys’ house. The glass for their windows hadn’t yet arrived from England, Susannah saw. The windows were boarded up. Mr. Halsey was bent over his vegetable garden and didn’t look up.

  At the meetinghouse she saw someone up on the shingle roof working to attach a brass weather vane above the chimney.

  The village magistrate, Benjamin Fier, a troubled expression on his face, was just entering the building. Susannah stopped short and waited until he had disappeared inside. A cold shudder ran down her back as she thought of Abigail Hopping.

  I know Benjamin Fier is a good and righteous man, Susannah thought. But I am afraid of him, just as everyone else in Wickham is.

  As village magistrate, Benjamin Fier was the most powerful man in Wickham. He was also the wealthiest.

 
; His home, the biggest in the village, stood across from the meetinghouse. The aroma of roasting beef wafted out from the summer kitchen as Susannah strode past.

  The Fiers are so prosperous, Susannah thought, unable to suppress a feeling of envy. They won’t be having biscuits and gravy for their dinner. The Fiers can have roasted meat every night.

  Susannah knew that the Fier brothers, Benjamin and Matthew, were the most prosperous men in Wickham because they were the most worthy. Since she had been a little girl, she’d been taught that good fortune goes to those who are the most righteous.

  Thus, Benjamin Fier became magistrate because he was the wisest, most pious man in the village. It was he who conducted the witchcraft trials. And he who insisted the guilty ones be burned—rather than hanged as they were elsewhere in Massachusetts. Benjamin’s younger brother Matthew had a farm that prospered when others failed because Matthew Fier was more righteous and faithful than the other farmers.

  That was plain and simple knowledge.

  As she passed the meetinghouse and glanced toward the commons, Susannah found herself thinking about Benjamin’s son, Edward Fier.

  Edward, where are you?

  Are you thinking about me?

  “Oh!” she cried as she stumbled over an enormous pink pig spotted with black, and went sprawling onto the hard ground.

  The pig grunted a loud protest and scrambled off the path.

  Susannah picked herself up and brushed the dust off the front of her white apron. That will teach me not to have improper thoughts, she scolded herself, straightening her cap over her hair.

  But how can thoughts about Edward be improper?

  She saw her father at the far end of the commons, the large, rectangular pasture in the center of the village. He was busily raking a section of ground and didn’t see Susannah wave to him.

  Mr. Franklin, the blacksmith, was at his anvil in front of his shop, pounding noisily on a sheet of tin as Susannah hurried past. She smiled at Franklin’s apprentice, a boy named Arthur Kent, who was tending the bellows, which were nearly twice as big as he was.