All the Lovely Bad Ones

  Corey shivered and folded her arms across her chest. "Tracy's a lot braver than I am. I wouldn't sleep here by myself. Not if you paid me."

  "Me, either." I glanced at her. "Last night I swear somebody was hiding here in the shadows, watching us."

  Corey drew in her breath and hugged herself tighter. "I thought it was my imagination."

  We were both whispering, as if someone might be listening as well as watching. When the crow cawed from its perch overhead, we both jumped and then tried to pass it off with a laugh.

  "Let's go," Corey said. "This place gives me the creeps."

  We left the grove and wandered through a sunny patch of weedy ground, leaping with grasshoppers and humming with bees. Wild thistles grew taller than our heads. A narrow path led toward a dilapidated shed and the remains of a barn, its roof fallen in and its walls collapsed. Vines and brambles crawled and curled over the weathered wood, prying the boards apart.

  Corey stopped suddenly and pointed at a row of small square stones barely visible among the weeds. "What are those?"

  We knelt down to look closer. A two-digit number had been chiseled into each stone, but years of rain and snow made them almost illegible.

  "They must mean something," I said.

  "But what?"

  I shook my head, puzzled.

  Losing interest, Corey pushed her hair back from her face. "It's boiling hot. Let's go swimming."

  She headed toward the inn, but instead of following her, I stood there, contemplating the row of stones. "Forty-one," I read, "forty-two, forty-three, forty-four." My eyes moved from stone to stone. There were twelve of them. And many more in other rows, all numbered.

  "Travis," Corey yelled. "Are you coming?"

  Suddenly aware of the heat and the gnats buzzing around my head, I ran to catch up with my sister.

  Corey and I spent the rest of the morning in the pool, then got dressed and went to the dining room for lunch. Robert and Tim had checked out that morning to explore New Hampshire's White Mountains. Mr. Nelson was gone, too, claiming he had no desire to experience any more supernatural manifestations. The Jennings gang was still there, along with a new couple from Albany who'd already been drawn into the ghost conversation.

  Just as I took a bite of my hamburger, another newcomer swept into the room. Short and plump, with a head of frizzy blond curls, she wore layers of dark gauzy clothes that seemed to float in the air around her. Her arms clanked with silver and copper bracelets. She sported a ring on each of her chubby fingers, as well as a few on her round little toes, and a small silver hoop in one nostril. Earrings dangled to her shoulders in a shower of stars. Her scarlet lipstick matched her nail polish. She'd taken care to coat her eyelids green and spike her lashes with mascara.

  With much twittering, she joined the group at the Jenningses' table.

  "Don't stare," Grandmother whispered.

  "Who is she?" Rude or not, neither Corey nor I could take our eyes off the woman.

  "Miss Eleanor Duvall," Grandmother said with a sniff. "A self-proclaimed ghost hunter."

  "Really?"

  Grandmother tapped Corey's wrist. "Eat your hamburger and stop looking at her. I'm sure she loves the attention."

  Despite Grandmother's injunction, Corey and I watched Miss Duvall as if she'd hypnotized us.

  By the time we'd finished eating, Grandmother was thoroughly annoyed with both of us. "You're from New York," she said. "You must see people like her every day."

  We shook our heads. Even in the East Village, Miss Duvall would have stood out from the crowd.

  "Oh, no," Grandmother muttered. "She's coming this way." Indeed she was, followed by the Jenningses and all their friends.

  "Don't talk to her about your so-called ghost sightings," Grandmother warned Corey. "Or we'll never get rid of her."

  "I'm Edna Frothingham," one of the newcomers said. "And this is Miss Eleanor Duvall, the world-famous psychic and ghost hunter. I called her as soon as I heard from the Jenningses."

  Miss Duvall bared a mouthful of tiny teeth in a smile aimed at Corey. "You're the little girl who sees ghosts," she proclaimed, jangling her bracelets like a musical accompaniment.

  Just then the phone rang, forcing Grandmother to excuse herself. "Not a word," she hissed in Corey's ear.

  But of course Corey couldn't resist a chance to take center stage. "Yes," she said modestly. "I see ghosts all the time."

  "Lovely." Miss Duvall sat down in Grandmother's chair. The others gathered around the table, hanging on every word their new leader uttered.

  Corey told her about the granny ghost, the ghost of the haunted grove, and the other presences she felt in the inn—the crying baby she heard late at night, the footsteps in the hall outside her door, the sobs, moans, and spooky laughter, the howling dog, and so on. There was no end to her imaginings.

  Obviously enjoying herself, my sister had everyone's total attention. Even Tracy drew near, clutching a tray to her chest, her eyes wide, her mouth half open.

  "You are truly gifted," Miss Duvall whispered to Corey. To the others she said, "Often it is children who are most in touch with the spirit world. It is to be expected. After all, they are closer to the other side than we. As the great poet William Wordsworth says, 'Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.... Heaven lies about us in our infancy.'"

  The Jennings gang nodded solemnly, as if they all knew Wordsworth by heart and understood exactly what Miss Duvall meant. Which was more than I could say for myself.

  "When I first spoke with Corey, I knew she was special," Mrs. Jennings said, taking the role of my sister's discoverer.

  Miss Duvall turned to me. "And how about you, Travis? Do you share your sister's powers?"

  Taken by surprise, I said, "Sometimes I sense things. Like the grove. It's, it's—I can't explain it, but—"

  "The grove, yes!" Miss Duvall rose from the table in a whirl of gauze and a tinkle of jewelry. "Take me there. I must see it!"

  With some reluctance, Corey and I led the whole group of adults across the lawn and into the grove. Immediately, they all began to shiver. The woman from Albany made the sign of the cross, and her husband mumbled a prayer. Mrs. Jennings said she felt faint and took her husband's arm. Her friends gathered closely about Miss Duvall.

  "Are you all right, Eleanor?" Mrs. Frothingham asked.

  Eyes closed, Miss Duvall swayed as if she'd fallen into a trance. With outstretched arms, she turned in a slow circle, breathing heavily. "Come forth," she whispered. "Show yourself, spirit of darkness. I fear you not." She stood still and waited. Nothing happened. Nothing that we could see or hear, that is. But something was there. Something that sent shivers racing up and down my spine and prickled my scalp. Corey actually reached for my hand and held it tightly, something she wouldn't do normally.

  Opening her eyes at last, Miss Duvall stared at us, the dim light silvering her hair. "It is here," she whispered, "just as the child said. But it does not wish to reveal itself. Perhaps there are too many of us."

  With a nervous gesture, she smoothed her clothing and took Corey's other hand. "Come," she said, "we'll return tomorrow when Chester arrives."

  "Chester?" I asked.

  "Chester Coakley, my associate," Miss Duvall explained. "He was delayed by a nasty piece of business in Salem but should arrive tomorrow with our equipment."

  Once we left the grove, the guests began babbling away about the presence in the trees. If Corey and I hadn't felt the thing ourselves, we would've had a good laugh at their expense.

  That night, Corey and I made plans for some new tricks. Well after midnight, we tiptoed out of Grandmother's apartment, through the silent kitchen, and into the hall. Scarcely breathing, we crept up the stairs. Moonlight streamed through the tall window on the landing.

  "Look. There's Tracy." Corey pointed outside.

  We watched the girl cross the lawn, lighting her way with a flashlight. After she vanished into the grove's shadows, we lingered for a moment, watching
her light appear and disappear among the trees.

  "Just like Nancy Drew," Corey whispered.

  "Don't go to the grove, Nancy," I intoned in a spooky voice. "Don't open that door, don't go down those steps, stay out of the attic, watch your—"

  "Shut up." Corey hustled me up the stairs.

  At the top, we paused and listened. Except for a chorus of snores, all was silent. The guests' doors were closed. No lights showed. At the opposite end of the hall were the back stairs, our escape route to the kitchen.

  We looked at each other, and I nodded. Corey began to sob in a high breathless voice, and I waved a tiny pocket flashlight. Its faint blue light barely lit the darkness. Under our bare feet, the floor boards squeaked and creaked. I tapped at one door, then another, and laughed a horrible laugh.

  As the guests began shouting and stumbling about in their rooms, we ran silently down the stairs and hid under the kitchen table.

  Upstairs, Miss Duvall screeched joyfully, "Sobs, rappings, laughter, footsteps, a blue light—a classic visitation!"

  Grandmother opened the door of her apartment and stepped into the kitchen. From our hiding place, Corey and I watched her bare feet pad past.

  As soon as she headed upstairs to quiet the guests, my sister and I scurried back to our rooms and jumped into bed. We'd done it again.

  I would've laughed out loud if Tracy hadn't screamed somewhere outside in the dark.

  By the time Corey and I reached the front door, Grandmother and the guests had gathered around Tracy.

  "What's wrong?" Grandmother asked her. "What were you doing outside at this time of night? I promised your mother I'd make sure you behaved—"

  "I went to the grove," Tracy sobbed. "To see the ghost, and it, oh, Mrs. Donovan, it, it—" She collapsed into Grandmother's arms, weeping.

  "We heard the ghost, too," Miss Duvall put in, her voice rising. "It was roaming the hall, sobbing and moaning."

  "There was a blue light," Mrs. Bennett added.

  "Blue," her husband agreed. "But very dim. Spectral."

  "It pounded on our door," Mr. Jennings added. "It laughed like a maniac."

  "There must be two ghosts!" Mrs. Jennings cried. "One outside and one inside."

  "Maybe more," Mrs. Frothingham whispered.

  Finally, Miss Duvall turned to Tracy, who was still crying in Grandmother's arms. "What did you see?"

  "I didn't see anything," Tracy sobbed. "But something was there, I felt it, it was cold and horrible. Evil." She clung to Grandmother and cried harder.

  Corey and I stared at each other. We could explain the inside ghost, but the outside ghost was beginning to frighten both of us.

  Keeping one arm around Tracy, Grandmother said, "I think it's time we all went to bed and got some sleep. Tomorrow I'll ask Martha what she put in her tomato sauce—it must have been pretty potent."

  If Grandmother had hoped for a laugh, she was disappointed.

  "Don't blame the food," Miss Duvall said. "This inn is haunted. Just wait till Chester sets up his equipment tomorrow! Then you'll see."

  With that, she flounced upstairs, her gaudy silk robe and nightgown fluttering, her bare feet seemingly too tiny to bear her weight. Even without jewelry and makeup, she was an amazing sight.

  The other guests followed her, murmuring to each other about the sobs and laughter, the blue light, and the terrifying presence in the haunted grove.

  Flashlight in hand, Grandmother led Tracy back to her room in the carriage house, and Corey and I went to bed. For once we didn't feel like talking about the ghosts of Fox Hill. Or even thinking about them.

  6

  The next day, Corey and I cornered Tracy in the kitchen. She'd been surrounded by guests all morning, and we wanted to talk to her alone.

  "Tell us what happened," Corey begged.

  "Every detail," I added. "Don't leave anything out."

  Tracy shook her head. "Can't you see I've got dishes to wash?"

  Mrs. Brewster looked up from the laundry she'd been sorting. "Go ahead. Tell them. I'd like to hear it myself."

  All three of us stared at her, surprised by her interest. Without looking at us, she went on separating white napkins from blue napkins.

  "I don't want to talk about it anymore," Tracy murmured.

  "You've told everybody else, but I haven't heard a word." Mrs. Brewster frowned at a red sock. "How did that get in with the table linens?"

  "Okay," Tracy said, gulping a little. "I wanted to see the ghost—which was totally stupid—so I went to the grove and waited for it to come. After a while, I started hearing a lot of rustling sounds, like squirrels or mice in the leaves." Without looking at us, she paused to wipe her soapy hands on her apron. "Then I thought I saw a face."

  "Are you sure it wasn't one of these two playing tricks on you?" Mrs. Brewster scowled at Corey and me as if she knew exactly what we'd been doing. We both edged away from her sharp eyes.

  Tracy shook her head. "Laugh if you want, but there was something in the dark watching me." Her voice dropped so low I could hardly hear her. "It wasn't Corey or Travis ... or any other living soul."

  Mrs. Brewster picked a stray blue napkin out of a pile of white tablecloths and waited for Tracy to go on. But Tracy just stood there, twisting her apron and trying not to cry.

  "Is that all?" Mrs. Brewster sounded disappointed.

  Tracy nodded. Tears ran down her face, and she wiped them away with her apron. "You wouldn't say 'Is that all' if you'd been there."

  Mr. Brewster entered the kitchen as quietly as a ghost himself and frowned at us all, even Mrs. Brewster. "Leave the girl be," he said. "Can't you see? She don't want to talk about it."

  With a sigh, Mrs. Brewster picked up an armful of tablecloths and headed for the laundry room. "Bring the napkins," she told Tracy, "and help me get the wash started."

  As Tracy walked past, I grabbed her arm. "I know just what you mean," I told her. "Something's in the grove. I've felt it, too."

  Corey nodded. "It's a scary place."

  Although we hadn't spoken loudly, Mr. Brewster said, "If I was you, I'd stay away from there. No sense looking for trouble."

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  He hesitated, hands deep in his pockets, chin stuck out. "Trouble finds folks who look for it." Then, without another word, he left the kitchen. A moment later, we saw him walking toward the vegetable garden, pushing a wheelbarrow.

  Corey made a face at his back and darted out the back door. I followed her. As we walked along the hedge separating the vegetable garden from the lawn, we heard Mr. Brewster say, "I thought you was doing the laundry."

  "Tracy can do it," Mrs. Brewster said.

  Peeking through the hedge, we watched her sit down on a bench. Mr. Brewster leaned on his hoe beside her, the weeding forgotten.

  "Bound to be trouble now," he muttered.

  "It's those grandchildren," Mrs. Brewster said. "Soon as I saw 'em, I knew they'd stir things up. Bad ones—that's what they are. I can spot 'em every time. They've got her up and about. And the little ones, too."

  Mr. Brewster nodded, his face glum. "They wake up easy."

  "And it's so hard to lull them back to sleep, poor dears."

  "Mrs. Brewster!" Tracy called. "There's something wrong with the washer. Soap's everywhere. I can't shut it off!"

  Mrs. Brewster shook her head. "Yep, things are stirred up, for sure. Next it'll be the lights and the TV and the plumbing."

  "They'll keep me busy." Mr. Brewster sighed. "Not a moment's peace, that's for certain."

  Mrs. Brewster got to her feet. "Better come with me," she said, "and take a look at the washing machine." Mr. Brewster grunted to himself and laid down his hoe. "Weeds can wait, I reckon."

  Corey and I crept away to the terrace behind the house and sat down at a table almost hidden by wisteria.

  "What were they talking about?" I asked. "Who did we wake up?"

  "They must be nuts or something," Corey said. "Blaming us when all we d
id was play a few pranks."

  "It's not fair. We're not bad." A wasp settled down to explore a smear of jam on the table. I swatted it away absent-mindedly. "They act like it's our fault the washing machine broke."

  The wasp landed on the table again. Corey watched it probe the jam, her forehead wrinkled as if she was memorizing its shape and color, its legs, its wings. It wasn't like my sister to be quiet so long.

  At last, she looked at me, her face full of worry. "Maybe they think we woke up the ghosts. The ones that used to be here."

  I stared at her. "But we faked it."

  Corey shook her head. "We didn't fake what scared Tracy, and we didn't fake what scared you and me. Something's in the grove—and the Brewsters think we stirred it up." She glanced at the wasp. "Like we poked a stick in a hornets' nest, and they all flew out."

  I glanced over my shoulder at the grove and felt the hair on my arms prickle. Part of me wanted to say "Don't be ridiculous," but another part of me was scared she was right.

  Corey clasped her hands, twisting her fingers until her knuckles turned white, a worried frown on her face. "What if we did, Travis?" she asked in a voice so low I had to lean close to hear her. "What if we did?"

  "If we woke something up," I said, "let's hope Chester Coakley and Miss Duvall can put it back to sleep."

  Corey got to her feet. "He should be here by now."

  We came around the corner of the inn just in time to see a dusty black hearse pull into a parking place. KEEP THE DEAD PEACEFUL was painted on its side in large white Gothic letters, and underneath, in smaller letters was:

  CHESTER COAKLEY

  PSYCHIC INVESTIGATOR

  THE MAN TO CALL WHEN THINGS GO BUMP

  The license plate said, I C B-YOND.

  The driver's door swung open, and out stepped a tall, thin man with a long gray ponytail and matching beard. He wore a Grateful Dead baseball cap, black jeans, and black boots. His faded black T-shirt said, I SEE—AND I CATCH—DEAD PEOPLE.