Christina's Ghost (3 page)

As soon as she'd finished her cereal and orange juice, Chris scooted back upstairs to her bedroom. She'd chosen it the night before, after opening several doors of rooms full of heavy furniture, thick, musty carpets, and velvet draperies. This room must have been the housekeeper's. It looked more like home, with simple, white-painted furniture and a faded rag rug.

Hurriedly, Chris smoothed her sheets and blanket and arranged the white spread with as few wrinkles as possible. The contents of her duffel bag were on the dresser top and the floor. She gathered things in armfuls
and dumped them into the dresser drawers.
There
, she thought.
Let him come poking around
. He'd see that she could be as neat as anybody else when she chose to be.

She heard Uncle Ralph cross the foyer and go to his study. As soon as the door closed, she ran downstairs to the kitchen. The house keys were hanging on a hook next to the back door.

The night before, Chris had discovered one locked door among those she'd tried. It might be nothing but a storage closet, she supposed, but then why lock it? A good explorer would find out.

The locked room was next to her own. Chris shivered as she tried one key and then another; the hallway was chilly and damp. At last a key turned in the lock, and the door swung open.

She stepped into a room so different that it seemed part of another world. The floor was covered with a bright red carpet. Most of the furniture was maple and child-sized. Huge posters of real animals and of Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck covered the walls, except where floor-to-ceiling shelves were crowded with picture books, toy cars, and game boxes.

It was a wonderfully happy room—the only happy room Chris had found.

She tiptoed across the carpet to the little bed. The covers were neatly folded back, as if waiting for someone.
The sheets and pillowcases were yellowed with age.

She went to the closet. A low rod held shorts and shirts and a shiny rain slicker. Chris pushed back some of the clothes and pulled out a pale blue sailor suit. She stared at it, trembling, and then thrust it back on the rack.

A sailor suit was what the little boy had been wearing last night.
Just like this one
, Chris thought, and for a moment she let herself believe the impossible. This was the little boy's room. Long ago, he'd lived in this house. He was still here, somewhere, watching!

She slammed the closet door. It couldn't be true. She was “getting things into a muddle,” just as Uncle Ralph had said on their way to Grandma's house.

She moved to the book-and-toy shelf. Most of the books and games were too babyish to interest her, but on the bottom shelf she discovered a stack of comic books. Just what she liked! She picked up the top one and thumbed through it, looking for a Jokes and Riddles page.

“What did the monkey say when he caught his tail in the lawn mower?” Her voice was loud in the silent room. Quickly, she turned the book upside down to find the answer at the bottom.

“It won't be long now.” She giggled. A small sound, like a sigh, made her turn to the door. The little boy
stood there, smiling wistfully.

Chris couldn't believe it. Where had he come from? How could he have gotten in without making a sound? She tried to say hello, but the word came out in a froggy croak.

The little boy vanished.

Chris darted to the door. “Come back, boy,” she called. “You don't have to be afraid.” She ran down the hall, stopping to open each closed door. The rooms were empty.

At the end of the hall was a door she hadn't tried the night before. She ran to it now and threw it open. Stairs led upward into attic shadows. A blast of icy air struck her as she mounted the first step.

Go! Go away!
The words thundered around Chris, a terrible rush and roar that was partly sound, partly frigid cold. She leaped back into the hall and slammed the door with all her strength. In the quiet that followed, she could hear her heart thudding.

She leaned against the wall. At the other end of the hall, her bedroom door stood open, offering safety, but her legs wouldn't carry her there.
What had happened?
she wondered numbly. What was there, on the other side of the attic door? She'd felt as if she were drowning in that avalanche of sound and chilling wind.

She took a shaky step, then raced to the stairs and down to the front door, her feet pounding furiously.

“What's all the racket?” Uncle Ralph shouted from his study, but she kept on running, letting the door slam behind her.
Go away!
the voice from the attic had told her, and that was what she wanted to do.

The trouble was, she realized when she reached the end of the pier, there was no place to hide when she stopped running.

Chris sat on the pier for a long time, watching the raindrops hit the lake in overlapping ripples. The air was warm, and the rain soothed her. By the time it had slowed to a drizzle, she felt oddly comforted. The lake, the gentle rain, the line of still, green pines edging the water were more real than anything that had happened in the old house.

Maybe nothing did happen
, she told herself. A cold wind—was that so scary? And had she really heard a voice telling her to go away? She couldn't be sure.
Maybe I even made up the little boy
, she thought, trying hard to believe it was true.
When people are lonesome, they sometimes make up a friend
.

True or not, she didn't want to go back to the house, at least until Uncle Ralph finished working and came out of his study. Even his disapproving company would be better than none.

Find something interesting to do—that's the answer. Find a project
. Chris sat up straight. That was what her mother had told her on the telephone, and Chris had agreed, planning then to find out more about the little boy. Now she decided she wanted to forget him. She'd find another project.
Don't sit around and mope
, was what her mother always advised.
Get going!

Chris narrowed her eyes and looked out over the gray water. What could she do? What would keep her busy during the long hours while Uncle Ralph was working? What would keep her out of that house?

Suddenly she had the answer. She would teach herself how to swim.

Chris had taken lessons at the YWCA at home, and she could paddle around a little, but she'd never been able to build up to real distances. Now was the perfect time to learn. If she stayed in shallow water all the time, Uncle Ralph couldn't object. And by the time her parents came home, she'd be an expert. She might even be a lifeguard some day.

She kicked off her sneakers and slid into the clear brown water. It barely reached her shorts. Carefully,
she waded across the sandy bottom, heading toward the little point of land that marked the end of the lawn. The water was waist-deep; she could see the bottom all the way, and there were no holes or drop-offs to worry about. This would be her practice course every day.

That afternoon, and for the two days following, Chris worked hard, with disappointing results. She could swim barely half the distance from the pier to the point without standing up. Over and over she tried, until her arms and legs ached and she puffed like a steam engine. At night she could hardly stay awake through supper, and afterward she dozed in a chair while Uncle Ralph read.

“What's the matter with you?” he asked toward the end of the week, when she yawned noisily at the table. “I thought you were the top that never stopped turning.”

“I'm learning to swim,” Chris told him. “In very shallow water.” She wanted to reassure him right away so he wouldn't object. She needed this project. Swimming tired her out. She didn't lie awake at night listening for noises in the attic, and she had less time to watch for the little boy.

The next morning, a remarkable thing happened. From the moment Chris slid off the end of the pier, she felt confident. Her arms and legs moved, smoothly, crisply, through the water. She raised her head to gulp
air in an easy rhythm. Almost before she knew it, she was at the point and scrambling up on the beach.

I did it!
She rolled over and lay back, exultant.
I wish Jenny was here
. She wanted someone to share this good moment.

When she sat up, the little boy was standing at the end of the pier. The pale blue sailor suit was the color of the sky. As she stared, he raised a hand in greeting.

He was there! She hadn't made him up, after all. He was there, and he'd watched her as she swam.

“Hi!” Chris shouted. “Wait there. Please! I'm coming back.”

She jumped up and waded into the water, her eyes on the little figure. “Watch this!” she shouted and plunged forward to show him how well she could do.

When she stood up again, seconds later, the pier was empty.

A cloud passed over the sun. Chris's legs buckled, and she sat down on the sandy bottom, shivering. He couldn't have run away that fast. It wasn't possible. The pier was too long, and beyond it lay an expanse of lawn with no place to hide. Maybe he'd fallen into the water on the other side. Panicked, she began swimming again, moving faster than she would have thought possible. On the far side of the pier, she stood up and waded quickly through the shallow water.

He wasn't there.

When she reached the shore, she looked up and down the beach one more time, then sat down on the narrow strip of sand. A sun-warmed breeze dried her, and the goose bumps gradually faded from her arms. Still, she couldn't stop shaking.

Think good thoughts!
she ordered herself. Think about her bedroom at home with its cheerful clutter. Think about her last birthday, when her mother had invited three friends for a surprise sleep-over party. Think about . . . but it was no use. All she could think about was the little boy.

I've seen a ghost
. The wonder of that was almost too much to bear. She'd seen a ghost, and the ghost looked like somebody's nice little brother. Then why was she afraid? He was just a little kid, and he was lonesome—she was sure of that. Surely he hadn't come to frighten her; he'd come because he wanted a friend.

Gradually the shivering stopped, and she began to feel more excited than scared. This was an adventure. She pictured the little boy standing out on the pier, his hand raised, as if to congratulate her on how well she'd swum. And suddenly she knew she had to see him again. She wanted to help him.

How could she bring him back?

Chris thought about it all the rest of the day. She swiveled her head around so often, looking for the boy, that Uncle Ralph asked her if there was something the
matter with her neck.

The next morning she was up early and outside, wandering restlessly around the yard. She walked along the shore, and all around the edge of the lawn, peering into the woods. When she reached the big garage behind the house, she hesitated, then tried the door. It opened into shadowy depths.

In the light from the tiny windows the garage loomed as large as a church. Some folding chairs hung from the walls, and on the far side a small boat was balanced on the rafters.

Chris started to back out before she noticed a board propped against one wall. It took a minute for her to realize it was a swing. The seat was sanded, and the heavy ropes were firmly tied.

Someone must have made it for the little boy but hadn't put it up.
Why not?
Chris wondered. She tugged the swing out into the sunshine, feeling as if she'd found what she'd been looking for.

Once again she circled the yard, this time searching for a tree with straight, sturdy branches. The best one was close to the shore. She hurried back to the garage and found a ladder to help her into the tree's lower branches. Then she pulled up the swing and tied it to the biggest branch, using knots her father had taught her.

The seat of the swing hung high, so she had to stand
on tiptoe to hitch herself onto it. Cautiously at first, to test the knots, then higher and higher she flew. With blue sky above her, sparkling water below, she felt as free as the eagle that sometimes soared over the lake in wide circles.

When the swing slowed to a stop, she was hardly surprised to see the little boy watching. He was at the edge of the woods, and his shy smile made her long to comfort him.
It's his swing
, she thought,
and I'm the one who's riding on it
. She smiled at him encouragingly, till he faded back into the shadows and was gone.

“You looked as if you were having a good time this morning,” Uncle Ralph commented at lunch.

Chris glanced up, surprised. Most of the time she paged through comic books while she ate, because Uncle Ralph always brought a book to the table and seldom spoke.

“I saw you swinging,” he explained. “I've been coming out occasionally to see how the swimming was going, but I got involved in something and I didn't see you put up the swing. You should have let me help you. Are you sure it's safe?”

“I know how to do stuff like that,” Chris told him.

“Hmm.” He looked at her, hard. “Still, I think I'll check after lunch.”

Chris shrugged, annoyed.
I thought you didn't want
to be bothered
. She swallowed the words. After all, it was kind of nice to have him talk to her, since there was no one else around.

After lunch, she rinsed the dishes while Uncle Ralph went outside. When her work was finished, she dashed upstairs and peeked out of her bedroom window. Uncle Ralph was down at the lake front, straddling the branch that held the swing. One hand fingered the knots and tugged at the ropes; the other hand clutched a smaller branch overhead. When he was satisfied, he began edging backward, very slowly.

He's scared!
Chris realized. Imagine a grown man afraid to climb out on a branch as sturdy as that one! She ducked back from the window and waited till she heard her uncle come in and return to his study.