We stared at each other for a moment. Then he turned and began to drift across the yard. I followed him.
The rain hit me hard, and in seconds my clothes were clinging to my skin. I had gone about ten feet when a sheet of lightning rippled through the sky. In the instant of light the ghost nearly disappeared. Then the darkness returned, and his image grew sharp once more.
The thunder that followed the lightning made me jump. Before the sound had faded, another flash of lightning neoned through the sky. The ghost ignored it, continuing to drift across the lawn.
“Where are we going?” I called.
No answer—not that I really expected one. None of the ghosts Chris and I had met so far had ever talked to us. I had no reason to think this one would be any different.
If the two of us continue to become more sensitive to the spirit world, I hope that will change. Our work would be a lot easier if ghosts could just tell us what they want!
The rain was coming down so hard now that it was becoming difficult for me to see him.
“Where are we going?” I shouted in frustration.
No answer but the pounding of the rain.
As we continued down the hill, another flash of lightning lit up the night. I could see a small white structure ahead of us. The rain was so thick that it wasn’t until we got closer that I could tell it was a summerhouse—a gazebo, as my father would say.
The ghost led me inside.
I was relieved to be out of the rain—though only slightly, since I was already so soaked that the only real improvement came from the fact that the rain was no longer actually beating against me. I had to be careful where I stood to maintain that situation, since the roof leaked, and in several places the water was drizzling through it in steady streams. I also had to be careful because of the spongy condition of the wooden floor, which had rotted right through in some spots. I had a feeling the leaking had been going on for years.
Now that we were out of the rain, what I really wanted to do was ask the ghost some questions. I certainly had enough of them, such as, “Why did you bring me here?” and “Are you the one who was banging the shutters?” and “If so, why?” and “Is it true that you don’t want Phoebe to sell the house?” and “If not, why not?” and “Who is the little girl upstairs?” and “Who was singing in the cellar?”
Of course, I would have settled for just asking, “What’s going on around here anyway?”
Not that I thought I would get any answer.
A streak of lightning sizzled down nearby. The clap of thunder that followed less than a second later was so powerful it nearly knocked me over. I shook my head and tried to sort through the images my eye had picked up in the instant of illumination.
The gazebo was built like the tower room, with many short, flat sides joining to make a nearly circular shape. From the center of the ceiling hung an old-fashioned swing like the one Norma had on her porch. One side of it had come unhooked and was dragging on the ground.
Cornelius Fletcher drifted past the broken swing to the far side of the little building. He stopped next to a bench that looked something like a window seat and pointed to it.
I crossed the floor, feeling my way around the swing. As I got closer, I expected the ghost to do a quick fade, but he continued to float there, waiting for me.
I slowed down. I may be used to ghosts, but I wasn’t used to getting this close to them. At least, not voluntarily.
Fletcher looked impatient.
As I took another step forward, I heard a car horn honk from the direction of the house.
My father! He was here to pick me up. And since he was honking, he’d probably already been waiting for a few minutes.
Normally I wouldn’t mind making him wait. But I was afraid he might get impatient and go up to the house. If the prowler was carrying a gun, I sure didn’t want Dad to go to the door and startle him into using it.
I had to get back to the car.
But the ghost clearly wanted me to find something.
Honk! Honk!
“Sorry,” I said to the ghost. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
I turned to go. As I did, the broken side of the swing lifted into the air. Floating back to the ceiling, it pressed itself into place.
The swing began to rock, slowly at first, then faster and harder than it ever could have moved with people in it. In seconds it was whizzing back and forth so violently that I knew if I tried to walk past it, I would be knocked flat.
I spun back to the ghost. “What do you want?” I screamed.
Again he pointed to the window seat.
I raced across the floor and threw open the top of the seat. In the faint glow that came from Cornelius Fletcher, I could just make out the clutter that filled the seat: moldy blankets, chipped dishes, a croquet set.
The car horn sounded again. I had to get out of there!
I glanced over my shoulder. The swing was still whizzing back and forth.
I stared at the contents of the bench in dismay. I didn’t have time to go through all this stuff. I had to get to the car before my father decided to go into the house to get me.
I turned toward the ghost and screamed, “What do you want me to take?”
Cornelius Fletcher scowled. Lightning blazed through the sky. Then a metal box rose slowly out of the seat, until it was floating just before my face.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Fatherly Concerns
I hesitated for a second, then reached forward and snatched the box out of the air.
Instantly the ghost disappeared. Behind me I heard a clatter as the broken side of the swing dropped to the floor.
Honk! Honk!
“I’m coming!” I screamed as I stumbled over the spongy wooden floor and back into the rain. Clutching the box to my chest, I raced up the hill. Twice I slipped on the wet grass and fell. The second time, the corner of the box poked me in the stomach, knocking my breath away.
The cold rain lashed me. My soaking clothes made it hard to run. My hair stuck to my head as if it had been painted on.
At the top of the hill, I headed for my bike, then veered away. I didn’t want to waste the five or ten seconds it would take to grab my wheels. I was too worried about my father’s going up to the house. I shot around the front corner just in time to see him getting out of the car.
“Let’s go!” I cried.
I raced down the sidewalk and scrambled into the Golden Chariot.
My father was glad enough to get out of the rain. But he wasn’t too pleased about the situation in general. After he started the car, he turned to me and snapped, “What in heaven’s name were you doing all this time?”
“Give me a minute,” I said. I was clutching the spot where the box had jabbed me. It really hurt.
Dad turned on the ceiling light. “Are you all right?” he asked. The anger had vanished from his voice.
“I’m okay. Let’s just go home. Please. I promise I’ll tell you all about it after we get there.”
Then I realized there was one more thing I had to do first. “Is there a phone between here and home?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
So much for waiting until we got home to explain things.
“There’s a prowler in Phoebe’s house. We have to call the police right away.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?”
The truth was, until that moment I had been so worried about getting the two of us away from harm that it hadn’t occurred to me. But we had to get someone to the house fast! For all we knew, the prowler was looting Phoebe’s house while we talked.
“Dad!” I said urgently.
He nodded, revved the car, and off we drove. It was a lot faster by car than by bike, especially the way my father was driving now, so in less than three minutes I was running up the steps of our house to make my call. The drive had kept him pretty occupied, and as soon as he got in the house, he had to get on the phone to assure the police that this was no prank. S
o it wasn’t until he hung up the phone that he had a chance to turn to me and say, “All right, spill. What went on over there?”
I started to answer. But now that the crisis was past, everything started to hit me. I was wet and cold and frightened, and when I tried to speak, my teeth began to chatter.
My dad closed his eyes. “Save it,” he said. “First thing you do is get out of those wet things and into a hot shower.”
“Th-th-that’s a g-g-good idea,” I said, rubbing my arms to try to warm them.
“Then,” he said, “you owe me a story!”
I nodded and headed up the stairway, which was now completely stripped of wallpaper. As I peeled myself out of my soaking clothes, I replayed in my mind everything that had just happened. I was dying to know what the ghost wanted—but at least now we had some kind of a clue. I couldn’t wait to open that box and see what was inside.
I turned the shower up as hot as I could stand it. I was cold down to my bones, and the steaming water running over my skin made me feel as if I were taking a short trip to heaven.
While I toweled down, I began to wonder about the person wandering around in Phoebe’s house. Was this just a typical robbery—or was the break-in somehow connected to whatever else was going on up there? I wondered if the prowler was trying to steal her picture!
After wrapping myself in my robe, I slipped into my Garfield slippers, grabbed the metal box Cornelius Fletcher had shown me, and clomped down the stairs. My dad was sitting in the dining room, looking through a book of wallpaper samples.
The table was set for dinner. Standing in the center was a big tureen of soup and a plateful of Dad’s special homemade biscuits. A curl of steam rose from the pot of herbal tea sitting beside my plate.
I smiled. I had been through so much, I had forgotten he’d been making dinner when I left for Phoebe’s house.
“What do you think of this?” he asked, holding up the book to show me a page of red-and-gold striped wallpaper.
I stuck out my tongue and wrinkled my nose.
“That’s the trouble with wallpaper,” he said. “If you have more than one person living in the house, it’s almost impossible to find a pattern everybody likes.”
He closed the book and nodded toward the table. “Madame may have her dinner now if she wishes.”
“Madame wishes,” I said, sitting down and pouring myself some tea. I put my hands over the steaming cup. Even after my shower the warmth felt good.
“So,” said my dad, splitting a biscuit and slathering it with butter. “What’s in the box?”
“You’ve got me,” I said, shrugging. “I won’t know until we open it. All I know is that the ghost really wanted me to take it.”
My father raised an eyebrow. “The ghost in the tower?”
I shook my head. “The ghost outside. I think it’s Cornelius Fletcher.”
He made a little choking sound. “You met Cornelius Fletcher?” he asked in astonishment.
“Well, it’s hard to say for sure, since he didn’t talk to me. But I’m pretty certain.”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” he said. He stood up and ladled out the soup. Then he sat down and folded his hands. “I’m all ears.”
“That’s going to make it hard to eat your soup.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said calmly, “if you will just get on with your story.”
When I was done, I realized that he was staring at me with a really unhappy expression. “You could have been killed,” he said, speaking slowly.
“Do you think I don’t know that?”
“Nine, you’ve got to start being more careful.” He paused. “Not just you. I’ve got to stop letting you do stuff like this.” He took a deep breath, and I could tell he was about to wallow in guilt.
I put down the spoonful of soup I had been lifting to my lips. “Whoa, Dad,” I said. “Calm down. What did you let me do that was so terrible? It’s not like I was out walking the streets at midnight. I was helping a friend. Who could figure someone would break in to her house at this time of day?”
He stared into his soup. I could tell he was really upset by what had happened. But he knew I was right: It hadn’t happened because I had done anything unusual. It just happened.
I do think it’s interesting that the thing we were both worried about was the prowler, and not the ghost.
Finally he heaved a deep sigh. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. But you’re right—you weren’t doing anything out of the ordinary. For that matter, I know you could get run over by some insane driver while you’re walking to school tomorrow. Sometimes I wish you were tiny again, so I could just keep you here and keep you safe.”
I made a face.
He laughed. “Sorry, but that’s the way fathers feel. Mothers, too, I suppose. Listen, sweetheart, you can’t understand how much I want to keep you safe. But I know there’s no point in keeping you locked in the house. That’s not safe for your spirit. I just—oh, I don’t know.”
He put down his spoon and walked into the kitchen. I waited a few seconds, then followed him.
“Dad?”
He put his arms around me. “I love you, Nine,” he said, holding me close.
I hugged him back. “I love you, too, Dad.”
We stood like that for a minute, and it made me think of the ghost in Phoebe Watson’s house—the one who kept crying for her daddy. I hugged my father a little tighter. Then I said, “Let’s find out what’s in that box.”
He nodded.
But when we went back to the dining room and put it on the table, I hesitated. “You know, Chris should really be here for this.”
He sighed. I doubt he would have agreed to it if he hadn’t been feeling so mushy, but he told me to call Chris. He said that if her parents agreed, he would drive over to pick her up.
Between getting Chris and telling her everything that had happened, it was over an hour before we were ready to try again. Finally the three of us—Dad, Chris, and I—sat down around the table.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Ready,” they said.
I pulled the box toward me, then pressed the latch.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“This Is a House of Darkness”
To my dismay, the box wouldn’t open.
“Let me see,” said my father, after watching me struggle with it for a few moments.
I passed the box to him.
He looked it over and said, “It’s rusted shut. I’ll be right back.”
After he had dashed down to the cellar, Chris turned to me. “I can’t believe you went to Phoebe’s house without me!”
“What was I supposed to do? Drive over and get you?”
“You weren’t supposed to do anything. It just makes me mad. Not at you. Just mad. I wish kids could drive!”
“Now that,” said my father, coming into the room with a handful of tools and bottles, “is perhaps the most frightening idea in what has already been a long, frightening night. Nine, go get some old newspapers, will you?”
We spread the papers on the table. Dad squirted some stuff into the hinges and the latch area of the box, then began tapping at them with a tiny pointed tool. He sticks his tongue out when he’s concentrating; at one point he was concentrating so hard, I was afraid he was going to bite it off. Finally he whispered, “Come on, come on, that’s the way!”
When the latch came free, he smiled and turned out his hands, like a waiter presenting a meal in a fancy restaurant. I could tell he felt smug about getting the box open. He was also saying that now it was my turn.
I opened the box. Inside lay a packet of letters, tied together with a faded red ribbon. Underneath the packet were some loose envelopes and some scraps of paper.
I took out the packet first.
My hands shook a little as I untied the ribbon. “They’re all to Amanda Fletcher,” I said after a moment. “The address is the same as Phoebe’s house.”
I took
out the first letter and unfolded it. The paper was worn, the ink faded. But the handwriting was beautiful, an odd combination of cursive and printing. Some of the letters were formed in a way I had never seen before. Even so, they were clear and easy to read.
“An artist’s handwriting,” said my father when I showed it to him.
“Read it aloud,” Chris said.
I cleared my throat and began. This is what it said:
March 23, 1918
Somewhere in France
My Dearest Amanda,
It is raining, and the entire world seems to be made of mud.
In the distance I hear the boom of cannons as the bombardment continues.
The trench in which I sit is seven feet deep and a yard wide. It runs north and south for nearly a quarter of a mile, our own little world below ground, where we lurk while we wait for the Hun to attack—or for the orders that will send us once more to attack him.
These trenches cut across most of northern Europe now, as if the devil himself had plowed the fields with a finger of fire.
A few feet from me lies a man who is dying. He was wounded this morning, but there has been no way to get him medical attention. The stub of his arm, which was blown away at the elbow, is bound with a strip torn from my shirt.
I find I like to tend the wounded, though I have little enough skill at it.
Oh, Amanda, you and Alida are ever on my mind. I long to see you, touch you, hear your voices. I need to remember goodness, for it seems to me now as if the entire world has gone bad. Or maybe only mad, for what I see all around me are good people doing bad things. As am I.
I do not know if this letter will reach you. I do not know if I will ever reach you. If I do not return, know that I love you, as I have, as I always will. Please kiss Alida for me, and tell her that her father loves her, too. More than he can say.
Your husband,
Cornelius
On the back of the second page of the letter were some sketches Cornelius Fletcher had made of the things he saw around him. They were pretty depressing.
The other letters in the packet were all fairly similar to the first one. But the loose papers in the box were very different. The most interesting was a long letter that looked a little like the rough drafts I write for school: lots of inkblots and crossed-out lines. It wasn’t from Cornelius; it was from Amanda, to her sister Edith.