"Yeah, right," Zach said. "Like I have nothing better to do."
"Stop bickering." Mom kneeled down and smoothed out the wrinkles from one of the pictures. "Nothing is ruined. It just has to be set up again. It was probably mice."
"Yeah," Zach added, "everybody knows mice don't like Social Studies."
Mom gave him a don't-mess-with-me look. "They were probably running back and forth over the wood and knocked the papers off."
"Yeah," I said, "then a team of them got together and flipped the wood over. I had the good side up."
"Maybe the cockroach did it," Zach said, nodding toward Vicki, "so that her little invisible friend wouldn't do it first."
"Don't call your little sister a cockroach," Mom said.
"No cockroach," Vicki echoed.
Mom finished, "And she wouldn't be strong enough to lift this, anyway. Ted, are you sure?..."
Yeah, I was sure which end I'd had up and that neither Vicki nor mice could have flipped the wood over. And it certainly didn't seem likely that Zach would have gone so far out of his way just to sabotage my homework. I sat down heavily on the bottom step. "I think," I said, "it may have been Vicki's bad lady. I—"
"Ted!" Mom said sharply, at the same time giving Vicki a reassuring hug.
"I was talking to Jackie," I continued. "And she says she used to see Marella and this bad lady, too, when—"
"Oh, jeez!" Zach said, throwing his hands up in the air. "It's contagious!"
"Ted," Mom said, getting to her feet, "that's enough."
"But listen—"
"No more. You were in such a hurry, because you waited till the last second to do this, that you accidentally put the board down the wrong way; then mice ran over the pages, scattering them. I'm sorry you have to do them over again, but that's the way it goes."
No wonder Jackie had given up trying to explain to her parents. "That's not the way it happened," I said, maybe getting a little louder than I should have.
"Don't take that tone with me, young man."
"That's not the way it happened," I repeated with oh-so-careful politeness.
"And don't take that tone with me, either," she warned. "Now, do you need help turning that paneling over or not?"
I took a deep breath. "I can do it myself," I said.
Surprisingly, Zach stayed after Mom and Vicki went upstairs, and he helped me get the board right side up. But he didn't say anything; he just shook his head like he was thinking, It was nice knowing you before you went completely over the edge. He even got out the staple gun for me, which worked better than the hammer and nails. Then when I was finished, he helped me carry the entire display upstairs. After what had happened, I wasn't going to let it out of my sight until it was safely in Ms. DiBella's possession.
But I was worried. There's a big difference between a ghost who can menace someone's dreams and a ghost who can pick up a solid piece of wood and fling it over.
What else could our ghost do?
CHAPTER 8
Here We Go Again
THAT NIGHT, I HAD a dream, which picked up pretty much where the one from Friday night had left off.
I was in the dark, with water over my head. Don't panic, I told myself, remembering I was in Luxembourg. This is a castle. Castles have high ceilings. There'll be air up there. I kicked off from the bottom, and my head broke the surface of the water. I still couldn't see anything, but I heard voices yelling and, once again, the clanging of a bell.
But the weight of the hammer I was carrying dragged me back under.
My feet settled down to the bottom again, and I kicked off again.
It took longer to reach the top—the water was continuing to rise. In the second or so I had, I heard that the voices were still calling, the bell still ringing, but more distant now, as though we were drifting apart. I gasped in another lungful of air before the water closed over my head. Even so, I was unwilling to let the hammer go.
Once again my feet hit bottom. Once again I launched myself to the top. It seemed to take forever. My lungs were aching, my chest burning. I'm never going to make it, I thought.
But I did, momentarily. I caught a glimpse of stars, which sang to me, replacing the voices and the bell, before I began my downward journey again.
Down and down I went. My lungs hurt, my head hurt, my stomach hurt, and I couldn't find the bottom.
And then—just when I thought things couldn't possibly get worse—I felt that cobwebby touch on my face again. I brushed my hand over my eyes to get it away, which I should have done ages ago because suddenly I could see. And I saw that it wasn't cobwebs: It was hair. And the hair was attached to a head, which was attached to a body, a little body—a tiny body—dressed in a long white dress that floated and fluttered in the water. A stray current bobbed the head. Marella, I was sure of it, though I'd never seen her. A sweet-faced little girl no older than Vicki. And obviously dead. Her eyes were closed, her skin was pale gray brown. How incredibly, incredibly sad.
I dropped the hammer, realizing it was Marella I was here to get. I reached out, but she drifted almost out of my range. My hand just barely caught the fabric at the back of her dress. I pulled her close, and I could smell the same rotten-seaweed smell I'd noticed two nights earlier with the corpses. The body twisted around in the water, and it was no longer Marella I held.
It was—obviously—Vicki's bad lady. Her eyes were open and full of evil intent. Her dark face was corpse gray, her lips blood red. No wonder she frightened Vicki and made Jackie twitchy. She had the kind of face that if you saw her in a movie, you'd know she was the villain. More important, she could breathe underwater, I realized, or she didn't need to breathe at all, and she'd lured me to stay here too long.
Don't breathe in, I told myself, Don't breathe in. And the more I said it, the more I knew I had to. Don't, don't, don't...
And then I did.
The stars burst in front of my eyes, and the water rushed in, thick as mud, and foul and tasting of old death, and the bad lady watched.
I woke with a start, drenched in sweat and still tasting the water I'd swallowed, which sat in my stomach like a lump of seaweed, reminding me ... reminding me...
I fell out of bed, catching my foot in my sheets, and half ran, half staggered down the hall, barely making it to the bathroom before throwing up what felt like the majority of my internal organs.
Somehow Mom was there for the end of it, holding her cool hand against my head. Which was probably all for the best. By then I'd just as soon have crawled into the toilet and flushed myself down.
"What happened?" Mom asked.
Well, we'd both seen what had happened. I guessed she was asking me why it had happened. I was in no condition to argue again, so I just shrugged.
"Did you eat something bad at Uncle Bob's and Aunt Rose's?" she insisted.
Why do mothers always ask that? If I knew something was bad, why in the world would I eat it? Yes, Mom, I ate some two-week-old raw pork that's been sitting on the back porch. It was REAL bad—especially the flies and ants that were all over it. My stomach was in no mood for sarcasm. "All I had was Uncle Bob's French toast," I whispered. I got a mental image of globs of unmelted butter and thick pools of syrup, and groaned.
"It's probably just the flu," Mom said, handing me a cup of water to rinse the taste of vomit out of my mouth. "Are you feeling better now?"
Well, at least I'd gotten the water a little girl had drowned in out of my stomach. That was a relief no matter how you looked at it. I nodded, and Mom led me back to my room.
She tucked me in. "Want me to stay a bit?" She was probably feeling guilty for having yelled at me earlier.
I figured Vicki, who was still sleeping in my parents' room, had Dad to protect her. I nodded again, and Mom sat on the edge of my bed.
She didn't say anything and I didn't say anything, and before I knew it, I fell asleep.
I WOKE UP WHEN I heard the bus beep. At first I thought I'd dreamed it; but when I opened my
eyes, it was much too bright in my room. Then I thought it must be somebody else's bus—but if I was still in bed while anybody's bus was coming around, I was in trouble.
I ran downstairs, and there was Mom, alone, sponging off the kitchen table.
"You're looking better," she said.
"My bus!"I said.
"Yes, you just missed it."
I sat down in my regular chair. "Why didn't you get me up?"
"You're sick. I already called the school office and told them you wouldn't be in."
I groaned and put my head on the table. Any other day. Any other day. "Today's the Social Studies Fair," I protested. "Everybody's going to think I'm faking because I didn't finish my assignment on time." Anytime I did need an extra day, Mom would cheerfully chirp, "You don't look that sick to me."
Now she said, "I'll send in a note tomorrow. Why don't you go back up to bed? I'll bring you some toast and juice."
Tomorrow would be too late, I was sure of it. I thought of my pictures, scattered at the foot of the basement stairs, and I thought of the evil face I'd seen last night, and I realized I'd gotten off easy. A mental image came to me of my Luxembourg display shredded to bits and gnawed on. "Could you bring it in?" I asked.
"What?"
"Luxembourg. Could you bring it in to school so they can set it up? Please?"
She must have still been feeling guilty about yelling at a child who had been obviously sick. Sighing, she said, "All right." She tested my forehead. "Now, how about you? I'm supposed to go in to work at 11:30. Do you want me to call in and stay home with you?"
"No, I'm fine," I assured her. I figured I'd be OK so long as I stayed awake, and being home alone would give me a chance to try something out.
CHAPTER 9
Reach Out and Touch Someone
ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, I decided I preferred being downstairs in the living room rather than in my own room. I brought down my Social Studies display and set it against a wall where I could keep an eye on it—I don't know what Mom made of my sudden devotion to Luxembourg—then I settled in on the couch, in front of the TV. Mom provided me with assorted pillows, an afghan she'd knitted during her arts-and-crafts days, the remote control, a glass of ginger ale—normally reserved for special occasions, but being sick is one of them—and a bucket to throw up in, just in case the ginger ale didn't settle my already perfectly well settled stomach.
"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked, tucking the afghan around me.
"Yes," I told her.
"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked again, before going upstairs to get dressed for work.
"Fine," I told her.
"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked once more, as she put on her jacket to leave for work.
"Great," I told her.
She rested her hand on my forehead despite the fact that she'd already taken my temperature twice that morning and seen that it was normal. She was more convinced I was ill than when I rub the thermometer on the blanket to get the mercury up and roll around moaning. This was worth remembering.
Finally she picked up Luxembourg and left.
As soon as her car pulled out of the driveway, I turned off the TV. If you weren't sick to begin with, daytime TV could get you there.
I called up my grandparents in Florida.
Granddad answered the phone on the second ring.
"Hi, Granddad. It's me, Ted."
"Hi, Ted. How are you doing?" I could hear him turn away from the phone without waiting for an answer and tell Grandma, "It's Ted."
"Hello, Ted," Grandma called out from what was probably the entire length of the apartment.
"Hello, Grandma," I said.
"Ted says, 'Hello.'" Granddad passed it on to her. To me he said, "Grandma can't come to the phone right now. She's elbow deep in potting soil. She picked this morning to repot every single plant in the place."
"That's not true," Grandma said. "I never touched the rubber tree."
"So," Granddad said, "you kids up there in New York got another day off from school? When I went to school, we went to school. It seems like kids today have a day off every week."
"Actually I'm home with the flu," I said, which was the simplest explanation.
"Oh, that's too bad." Again his voice faded. "He says he has the flu."
It was Grandma's turn. "Poor sweetie."
"Actually I'm feeling all better now," I told them. "I just wanted to ask you some questions about the house."
"Sure," Granddad said. "Is this some sort of school project—because of the old Erie Canal bed out back?"
"No," I said real quick. But not quick enough.
Grandma had heard the magic words. I could hear her start singing, as she always does at the mention of the Erie Canal. "'Looooow bridge, everybody down. Looooow bridge, for we're coming to a town.'" She got louder, as she must have moved in closer to the phone. " 'Oh, you'll always know your neighbor, you'll always know your pal, if you've ever navigated on the Erie Canal.'"
I moved the phone back to my ear. "Real nice, Grandma," I told her. It wasn't as bad as it could have been. At least this time there weren't nonfamily members present.
Granddad said, "We're safe. She's gone back to the porch again." She answered back something I couldn't hear, then Granddad continued, "So, what's your question?"
"Did anybody ever die in our house?"
There was a long pause, then Granddad and I both spoke at once. I asked, "Like, especially, a little girl?" as Granddad asked, "What kind of school project is this?"
"It's not exactly a school project," I admitted. "I'm just wondering, you know, since the house is so old, if it could be, like, sort of, haunted."
"Not that I ever heard of," Granddad said. "Let's see ... Did anybody die?" Grandma asked something, and he told her, "No, he wants to know if anybody ever died in the house." To me he said, "You're asking about children, did you say? Girls? Actually there haven't been that many girls in the family. Like about how old?"
I didn't want to say "Vicki's age," for fear they'd think there was something wrong with her my parents hadn't told them. "Please just tell me about the house."
"Well, it was built by old Theodore Beatson and his wife, Winifred, in the 1840s. Winifred lost three or four babies in childbirth, I believe. I don't know if any of them were girls. Is that what you need?"
"I don't think so," I said. Marella was very definitely not a baby. And this certainly didn't explain the woman Jackie took to be Marella's mother.
"Let's see if I can remember this," Granddad said. "The two children who survived were Rebekka and Jacob. Do you need the dates?"
"No," I told him. "You don't have to be that exact."
"Theodore died in the Civil War—no famous battle, he caught dysentery in the Union camp. Jacob went to war, too, but only right in time for the end. Afterward he got married and moved to Watertown. Meanwhile Rebekka stayed at home to care for her mother, who was always sickly after all those hard pregnancies and dead babies. Winifred died a few years after the war—probably at the house itself."
But she would have been an old lady by then, I thought. And she probably wasn't African American, unless there was something about our family nobody was telling me.
Granddad continued, "The house went to Rebekka, who stayed a spinster all her life. Toward the end, her brother, Jacob, and his wife—Eudora, I think it was—moved in with her."
"Did Jacob and Eudora have any kids?" I asked to get him back on track.
"Of course they did," Granddad said. "Where do you think we come from? But they were all grown up by the time Jacob and Eudora moved back to Rochester. The house went to the oldest, my father's brother—the black sheep of the family, my crazy uncle Josiah—when their parents died."
"Black sheep" made my heart skip a beat before I remembered that it meant somebody nobody wanted to admit being related to. "Josiah's the one who made the house into a tavern," I said, remembering this part.
Grandma m
ust have abandoned the repotting and been sharing the phone with Granddad. Her voice chirped into the receiver, "And not a nice one."
Granddad repeated, as though Grandma's volume hadn't nearly punctured my eardrum, "Grandma says, 'And not a nice one.' He kept it going even during Prohibition. Gin and loose women."
I heard Grandma hiss at him that I was too young for him to be talking to me about loose women. "Did he have any kids?" I asked.
"Nope," Granddad said. "That's why the house came to me, in 1947."
Grandma called into the phone, "And what a mess it was."
"I thought you were repotting," Granddad scolded her. To me, he said, "And we, of course, only had boys: your father, your uncle Bob, and your uncle Steve. I suppose one of the tavern girls could have died. Those were pretty rough times. What?" That last was apparently directed to Grandma, who was scolding him in the background again.
None of this was any help.
"OK," I said. "Well, thanks a lot."
"Ted?" Grandma had obviously wrested the phone from Granddad. "What exactly is this school project?"
"Well, it's not really a school project," I started.
"Because," Grandma continued, "if you need to write about something interesting that happened in your house, you could write about the secret room."
A tingle of excitement started all over me, but I told myself it was probably nothing. "What secret room? You mean down in the basement?" There are several little rooms down there—root cellars, and places for shelves and shelves of canned food, needed in the days before refrigerators and easy shopping trips to the supermarket. I'd explored all of them before I was old enough to go to school.
But, "No," Grandma said. "This was a tiny room we found under the kitchen when we ripped up the kitchen floor—under the kitchen, but over the basement."
This was totally new to me.
Grandma went on. "We had no idea it was there, just an empty space, oh, maybe as big as the new powder room but not nearly as tall. And there wasn't even a trapdoor to get down there, though that was probably covered over when Josiah turned the place into a tavern. We wouldn't have found it except that we ripped up the subflooring when we put in the gas furnace. It got sealed back up again when we finished the floor."