The Confession by R.L. Stine Read Free Book Online Page B

not sure from what.
    I told her that Hillary, Sandy, and all my friends planned to be there. So there was no way I could stay home.
    True, I kept having nightmares about Al.
    Who wouldn’t have nightmares after finding a friend strangled in an alley with a skate shoved down his throat?
    But I didn’t think that going to the funeral would add to my horror—or my nightmares. In a way, thefuneral might close this sad and frightening chapter of my life.
    At least, that’s what I hoped.
    As I dressed for the church, pulling on my dark skirt and buttoning my black linen blouse, I had no idea that the horror was just beginning.
    I rode with my parents to the church. Mom and Dad didn’t know Al’s family that well. But they felt they should attend the funeral since Al had been my friend.
    No one said a word the whole way. Dad kept his eyes straight ahead on the road. I stared out the window, watching the blur of green from the new leaves on the trees. Thinking about what a beautiful day it was, and how strange it felt to be going to a funeral on such a sunny, cheery day.
    The church stood on a low hill outside of town where Division Street meets the highway. A small, white church. A brass bell in the steeple glowed brightly, reflecting the sunlight.
    Large pots of white lilies at the door made the air smell sweet as we stepped inside. Most of the long, dark-wood pews were already filled. I recognized a lot of kids from school and a few teachers.
    Mom and Dad slid into seats near the back. I walked down the aisle to talk to Hillary and some other kids. They were clustered near the front, somber expressions on their faces, talking in low tones over the organ music.
    Everyone was so dressed up. The boys looked stiff and awkward in their ties and dark blazers. It was all so unreal, like a scene in a movie.
    That’s what I remember about the funeral.
    The boys so uncomfortable in ties and jackets. The soft, unnatural whispers, barely loud enough to be heard over the mournful, depressing organ music.
    The smell of lilies. So sweet it became overpowering.
    The cold, damp touch of Hillary’s hand as she gripped my arm in greeting.
    The long, dark coffin in front of us.
    Al couldn’t really be lying inside it—could he?
    A tiny woman with tight curls of white hair, her head bowed, her lips moving, tears dripping onto the lap of her black dress.
    Those are the things I remember.
    And the whispered rumors.
    Someone said that Al’s mother was too overcome to attend the funeral. She had to be sedated and was in the hospital.
    Someone said that Al’s father had offered a reward to anyone who helped find the killer.
    Someone said that the police knew who the killer was. That it was one of Al’s friends from Waynesbridge. He had run off, and the police were searching for him.
    Rumors. And the smell of the lilies. And the tiny woman letting her tears fall onto her lap.
    I remember all that.
    And the faces of my friends.
    I had a seat in a side pew. I could see all of my friends, their faces pale and drawn and sad. While the minister talked, my eyes moved from one to another.
    Sandy leaned forward in the pew, elbows on the bench in front of him, his face buried in his hands. I waited for him to sit back up. But he didn’t.
    Vincent’s features were set and hard. I could see him clenching and unclenching his jaw. He stared straight ahead blankly, as if he were thinking himself somewhere else, somewhere far, far away.
    Hillary’s face was a blank. I couldn’t read it at all. She sat erect, one hand toying with her long, black braid, tugging it, smoothing it. No expression.
    Taylor cried softly into a wadded-up tissue. Her white-blond hair had been pinned up on her head. But it had come loose and fell over her face as she dabbed at her eyes.
    These aren’t the faces of murderers, I thought, watching them, studying them as the minister droned on in front of Al’s coffin.
    I know