The Ghost in the Big Brass Bed

  Even though the place was rundown, I thought it was wonderful. As soon as Norma parked the truck, Chris and I jumped out.

  As we did, I realized one more thing about Phoebe Watson’s house.

  It was haunted.

  Very haunted.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Painted Past

  I turned to Chris. “Do you feel it?” I whispered.

  Eyes wide, she nodded.

  I could tell she was frightened. I was, too. The reason was simple: Until that moment, we had never known a place was haunted without somehow experiencing the ghost itself. Yet the instant we stepped out of Norma’s truck, we knew there was a ghost somewhere nearby. It didn’t show itself. It didn’t touch us. We just knew it was there.

  Waiting.

  Waiting for Chris and me?

  That didn’t seem likely.

  But if not for us, then who? And why did we know about it?

  The last question was the only one I thought I might have an answer to. Chris and I have a theory that one reason we met Captain Gray was because our experience with the Woman in White had increased our sensitivity to spirits. Had our second experience done the same thing? Had we started on some kind of spiral that would have us meet more ghosts, and become even more sensitive to the spirit world, so we would meet even more ghosts?

  How long could that go on? Would our lives become crowded with ghosts that no one else could see? I hoped not. Much as I like being able to meet ghosts, I do want some kind of limit to it all!

  Norma was halfway to the porch before she realized we weren’t with her. She turned back to see what was keeping us. The look on our faces must have startled her because she asked, “What’s wrong with you two? You look like you just saw …” Her voice trailed off. “Forget it. If you saw what you look like you saw, don’t tell me. I promised Phoebe we would pick up this wardrobe, and I won’t be able to do it if I’m all the time worried that someone is floating behind my shoulder.”

  I took a deep breath. “It’s okay,” I said, trying to reassure her. “Neither of us saw a ghost.”

  “Donteventalkaboutit!” cried Norma, so fast it all came out as one word. “Now, come on, before I change my mind. And if you see anything weird, don’t tell me!”

  We nodded and began to walk up the path.

  I was frightened, but not terrified. After all, the ghosts we had met so far had actually been pretty nice.

  The porch echoed hollowly under our feet.

  Norma rang the doorbell. Phoebe took so long answering that I began to think that maybe she had died and the ghost we had sensed was hers. It wasn’t until she opened the door and we started to follow her into the parlor that I remembered how slowly she moved.

  The parlor was almost pretty. It had a high ceiling, dark blue wallpaper covered with little flowers, and an Oriental rug. The October light streamed in through three tall windows. Clearly the room had once been beautiful. But it looked slightly shabby now, and somehow empty, as if it should have had more furniture than it did. The only decorations were a painting that hung above the fireplace and a large Oriental vase.

  The one thing in the room that didn’t look worn out was the person sitting in the blue armchair. He was probably about sixty years old, but he had a full head of thick, silvery-white hair. He was dressed in business clothes and looked very formal except for his tie, which was bright red and covered with images of large, fan-tailed goldfish. He stood as we entered the room. Crossing toward us, he said, “You must be Norma Bliss! I’m so pleased to meet you!”

  Norma looked surprised. “I didn’t know I was so famous,” she said with a slight laugh.

  “Phoebe has told me all about you.”

  “This is Stephen Bassett, Norma,” Phoebe said. “He’s a very dear friend of mine. Now, why don’t you introduce the girls, while I go get some tea things.”

  “Make mine coffee,” said Norma.

  As Phoebe left the room, Norma began to introduce us.

  Mr. Bassett raised a hand to stop her. “No need for an introduction. I know who they are.”

  “You do?” I asked in surprise.

  “You are Nina Tanleven, aren’t you?”

  Judging from the way he laughed, I must have appeared even more surprised than Norma had. “Don’t be so worried. You live up the street from me. I know your father. And I assume you’re Chris Gurley,” he continued, turning to Chris.

  “How do you know that?” asked Chris.

  “You two did gain a certain notoriety after your adventure in the Grand Theater this past summer,” Mr. Bassett said. “The newspapers covered the story, in case you forgot.”

  I was starting to like this guy. I figured I might learn something from him.

  “You have the advantage on us, Stephen,” said Norma. “Why not tell us what brings you here?”

  “Business,” he said, and shrugged.

  Norma frowned. “Don’t tell me you’re an antique dealer, too. My business is tough enough as it is.”

  “I’m Phoebe’s lawyer,” he said. I could hear a hint of steel in his voice. “If you want to know anything beyond that, you’ll have to ask Phoebe herself.”

  I had a feeling tht Norma wanted to give him a big “Well, excu-u-u-use me!” But she held it in and said something polite, and pretty soon the two of them were involved in a conversation that I thought was totally boring.

  It didn’t seem like the kind of situation where we were going to learn anything. So when Chris made a gesture with her head, I was glad to follow her over to look at the painting that hung above the fireplace.

  At first I thought it was just a pretty picture of a forest. Then I realized there were dead bodies scattered among the fallen leaves. After I spotted the first few, I couldn’t miss them. My eyes began picking out more and more, almost as if I were staring at one of those find-the-hidden-object pictures.

  Some of the bodies were marked with terrible wounds.

  My head began to whirl. For a moment the painting seemed to take me in. I could hear the moans of dying men, the deep thud of cannons in the distance. The air around me felt cold and wet. It was filled with the smell of fire and blood.

  I tried to look away. To my horror, I couldn’t move. The picture had trapped me and was forcing me to see things I didn’t want to know about.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In the Tower

  I started to panic. I wanted to turn from those terrible images. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t escape the blood and the death—until Phoebe came back into the room and asked, “Well, now, who wants what?”

  Her voice broke the picture’s terrible hold on me. Shivering, I spun away. I wanted to ask Chris if she had felt the same thing, but I would have to wait until we were alone. Then I saw her eyes, and I knew I didn’t have to ask. She had felt it, too.

  Before anyone could answer Phoebe’s question, the doorbell rang.

  “That must be Carla,” said Phoebe. “Goodness, I can’t remember the last time I had so many visitors.” She turned to Stephen and said, “I didn’t expect everything to happen at once like this. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mr. Bassett said, waving his hand.

  Phoebe hobbled off to answer the door. While she was gone, I pointed to the painting and asked softly, “What is that?”

  “It’s called ‘Early Harvest’,” said Mr. Bassett. He grimaced. “Dreadful, isn’t it? Very famous, though.”

  Before I could ask why it was famous, Phoebe returned. Following her was a tall, white-haired woman dressed in a dark blue silk blouse and a pair of jeans that had faded to light blue. Her eyes were blue, too—ice blue in a face that was tanned and wrinkled. Although she looked only a few years younger than Phoebe, she seemed a lot stronger.

  “Carla!” Norma cried. “What are you doing here?”

  The tone in Norma’s voice made it clear that she was really happy to see Carla. But the white-haired woman drew back a little, as if someone had made a rude noise.
>
  Norma just laughed. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be nosy. I mean, I am nosy, but I try to keep it under control. I’m just surprised to see you!”

  Carla relaxed a little. “Actually, I’m a little surprised to see you, too,” she said. She spoke slowly, and her voice had a musical quality to it that I liked very much.

  Norma gestured for Chris and me to join them. “Girls, this is Carla Bond. She teaches art history at the university. I use her as a consultant when I’m having trouble figuring out the date for a piece of furniture. She’s the best in the city.”

  Carla Bond smiled at the praise. “Pleased to meet you,” she said after Norma had told her our names. She was formal, but not stiff. She held out her hand, which felt cool and smooth in my own when we shook. She smelled like peaches.

  Ms. Bond had just let go of my hand when a large black-and-white cat wandered into the room and began rubbing against Norma’s legs. Norma jumped back with a little cry.

  “General Pershing!” Phoebe exclaimed. “How did you get in here?” Moving stiffly, she bent to pick up the cat, which hissed angrily. “I’m sorry, Norma,” said Phoebe. “I’ll put him outside.”

  “I’m allergic,” Norma explained to the rest of us as Phoebe shuffled away.

  After a moment of slightly awkward silence, Ms. Bond turned to Norma and said, “I expect you’ll find some excellent pieces here. Phoebe’s family was quite prominent in Syracuse before the tragedy.”

  My ears perked up. “Tragedy?” I asked. “What tragedy?”

  I must have sounded too eager, because Ms. Bond gave me an exaggerated version of the look she had given Norma. “The family fell on hard times,” she said softly.

  Then she turned and went to sit on the couch.

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” Chris whispered, with a smirk.

  I know that’s supposed to mean you can get into trouble by poking your nose in places where it doesn’t belong—but at the moment I felt that curiosity was going to kill me all by itself. I wanted to know what had happened so badly, I thought I might pop.

  It wasn’t just what my dad calls idle curiosity either. Ghosts and tragedies seem to go together. Whatever the tragedy was, it probably explained why the place felt haunted.

  Of course, Carla Bond’s reaction had made me even more curious.

  I glanced at the three adults sitting on the couch. Norma looked as curious as I felt. I could tell she was dying to know what Ms. Bond was doing here, but didn’t dare ask.

  Phoebe reappeared at the door with a tea cart. “Well, that’s better,” she said, rolling it into the room. “Now we can chat for a moment.”

  She poured tea for everyone except Norma, then passed around a plate of little cookies, and it was all very nice. But it didn’t last very long because after about ten minutes Mr. Bassett glanced at his watch and said, “I hate to be unsociable, but I have to get going soon.”

  Norma took the hint. “Actually, we’d better get moving, too. No need to climb the stairs, Phoebe. I know where it is.”

  Phoebe looked at her gratefully.

  When we were back out in the hall, Norma said, “I’ve got to get my toolbox. Why don’t you two go on up. Turn right at the top of the stairs. You’ll find the room at the end of the hall. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  She turned and went out the door. Chris and I wandered up the stairway, which had wide steps covered by a dark red rug. The rug was faded, and almost worn through in spots, but you could tell it had once been very elegant.

  The striped wallpaper was faded, too, and several places at the top and the bottom were starting to peel.

  “Looks like she’s been selling off the family portraits,” said Chris, pointing to a series of rectangles where the wallpaper’s colors were less faded. “Poor old lady must really be broke.”

  “Who would want pictures of someone else’s relatives?” I asked.

  “All right, so maybe it wasn’t the relatives,” Chris said. “Maybe Phoebe had paintings of clowns hanging here. Or purple and green daisies. The point is, something used to be here, and now it’s gone.”

  The talk of paintings reminded me of something else. “What was that all about—that thing that happened when we were looking at the picture downstairs?”

  “I don’t know,” Chris said, her eyes wide. “But it sure felt creepy.”

  I nodded. Actually, this whole place was slightly creepy. Sad, too, I realized.

  That feeling of sadness didn’t come from the house’s slightly rundown look. I don’t think it came from anything you could see. My father says old houses take on a personality from all the living that’s gone on inside them. He’s not usually superstitious, but he does restore old buildings for a living, so I figure he ought to know.

  By the time we reached the top of the stairs, I decided Phoebe Watson’s house had seen a lot of sadness. I wondered again about the tragedy Carla Bond had mentioned. Then I shook myself, trying to shrug away the feeling of sorrow.

  We were standing in a long hallway. To our left was another stairway. We turned right, as Norma had told us, and headed for the end of the hall.

  “Good,” whispered Chris. “It’s in the tower.”

  I smiled. I was dying to see the tower rooms myself.

  “Oooh!” Chris exclaimed when we opened the door. “I want to live here!”

  I felt the same way.

  The room was about fifteen feet across, with a high ceiling, dark green wallpaper, and woodwork that had never seen a paintbrush. (Painting over the woodwork is this terrible thing that has happened to most of the old houses around here.)

  The curve of the tower was created by short walls that met at broad angles, making the outline of the floor look like the edge of a stop sign. All but the three inner walls had large, diamond-paned windows made of thick glass, beveled on the edges to create extra reflections and rainbows.

  Except for two pieces of furniture, the room was empty.

  One piece of furniture was the big brass bed that sat in the center of the room. It had four shiny posts topped with large knobs. Curved brass pipes at the head and foot of the bed made fanciful swirls between the posts. An old-fashioned patchwork quilt covered the mattress.

  “That’s the kind of bed I always wanted,” I said.

  “It’s gorgeous,” agreed Chris. “But I like this better. It makes me think of Narnia.”

  She was pointing to the other piece of furniture in the room, the large wardrobe that stood against one wall.

  “Big, isn’t it?” I said.

  “And beautiful,” said Chris.

  We walked over to look at it. The wardrobe was about eight feet tall and four feet wide—so big it was like a whole closet standing separate from the wall. I wondered how we were going to get it into the truck.

  Most of it was made of reddish-brown wood. Carved panels ran across the top and bottom. On them were thick, scrolling designs that looked like knotted ropes made of wood. On the door was a huge mirror. The glass was dark, and streaked with age.

  I looked at our reflections as we walked toward the wardrobe. Chris was a couple of inches taller than me. Her reddish-blond hair was a lot more interesting than mine, I thought. My hair was a plain dark brown.

  We stood side by side for a moment, staring at ourselves. Suddenly I caught my breath. In the dark glass of the mirror, I saw a ghost take shape in the bed behind us.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Watched, by Unseen Eyes

  Not saying a word, barely moving, I tipped my head in the direction of the bed and mouthed, “Do you see?”

  Chris, looking not at me but at my reflection, nodded.

  The ghost was a little girl, probably not more than six years old. She wore an old-fashioned nightgown and clutched a rag doll. The look on her face was so sad it almost made me cry.

  “Let’s turn around,” mouthed Chris’s reflection.

  It was my turn to nod. Slowly, silently, we turned back to face the bed. But as we d
id, Norma came bounding into the room with her toolbox.

  “Look at that bed!” she shrieked.

  At once the ghost faded out of sight.

  “Did you see it?” I asked in astonishment.

  “Of course I’ve seen it before,” said Norma, misunderstanding my question. “I’ve been trying to get Phoebe to sell it to me for over a year now. It would be perfect for the shop.”

  “Should we tell her?” I whispered as Norma turned back to admire the bed.

  Chris shrugged. “She said she didn’t want to hear anything about ghosts. I guess if she didn’t notice it was there, it won’t hurt her.”

  Norma stood at the foot of the bed, holding on to the brass tubes. “Actually, I’ve offered Phoebe more than this is worth,” she said, “just because it would look so good in the shop. But she absolutely refuses to sell. Sentimental attachment, I guess.”

  I wondered if Phoebe’s “attachment” was because she knew her bed was haunted.

  I stared at the bed, trying to sense the ghost. It was frustrating because I didn’t really know what to do. If I was trying to see better, I would squint. If I was trying to smell something, I might sniff. But since I don’t know how I sense ghosts, I didn’t know how to try harder.

  Where had the little girl gone? Where do ghosts go when you can’t see them? Are they still there, just invisible? Do they float off to some ghost place?

  I wish I knew.

  I glanced at Chris. She shook her head, signaling that she could no longer detect the ghost either.

  I was so wound up about the ghost, I forgot the real reason we were there until Norma’s voice brought me back to reality. “Actually, this is almost as good as the bed,” she said, admiring the wardrobe. “Won’t take much work to get it in shape either. Well, the first thing we have to do is move it away from the wall. Time to flex your muscles, ladies.”

  Working together, the three of us were able to slide the wardrobe across the floor without much trouble. We found two things behind it: a pile of dust bunnies and a little door. The door was definitely more interesting than the dust. About two feet high and two feet wide, it was located nearly halfway up the wall. Next to it was a brass square with a pair of buttons inside.