Christina's Ghost (6 page)

To her amazement, Uncle Ralph leaned across the table and patted her arm. “You're a good sport, Christina,” he said. “I'm sorry I laughed. But it
was
funny. The look on your face. . . .”

She could have told him it was worth making the world's worst pancakes if they made him laugh out loud. But she didn't say it. Bringing sunshine into another person's life was tricky enough without that person knowing what you were up to.

A book could change your life, Chris discovered. Of course, Uncle Ralph still groaned every time she opened her paperback, but he listened to the riddles. Once in a while, he even guessed the right answer. Afterward, they talked about other things as well.

“You're a rare one, Christina,” he said one day, but it didn't sound as if he was criticizing her. Actually, Chris thought, it wasn't just the riddles that were making the difference. Uncle Ralph had changed since the great pancake disaster. Chris caught him looking at her with amusement, as if he'd just noticed she was a real person, something more than a tomboy pest.

She could hardly wait to tell Grandma.

One evening, when mist rolled in off the lake and the air turned chilly, Uncle Ralph built a fire in the study fireplace. Chris sat cross-legged on the floor, enjoying the coziness of firelight and crackling logs.

“What kind of train will make you put on your glasses?” she read from her book.

Uncle Ralph scowled. “Ridiculous question.”

“Eyestrain. Get it?” She snickered at his pained expression.

“They're becoming worse every day,” Uncle Ralph said. “How many riddles are there in that blasted book?”

Chris looked at the cover. “Five hundred.”

Uncle Ralph pretended to pull his hair. “I'll never live through them!” he exclaimed. “Five hundred of the most annoying—”

Chris giggled. “Did you buy any cocoa, Uncle Ralph? I could make us some.”

“Certainly I bought cocoa,” Uncle Ralph retorted. He raised an eyebrow at her. “How good are you at cocoa making, compared to pancake making, that is?”

“I'm terrif—” Chris stopped short. Across the study, and well outside the circle of firelight, Russell Charles stood watching.

“Uncle Ralph.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “Uncle Ralph, look over there, in front of the closet door. Please, just look.”

Uncle Ralph looked. For what seemed a very long time, Chris held her breath as they both stared at the little wavering figure. Then a log snapped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.

“Who's there?” Uncle Ralph exploded. He hurtled across the study and threw open the closet door. “Where is he?” he roared. “Where did he go? Christina!” He turned back from the empty closet. “What kind of trick was that?”

“It wasn't a trick,” Chris told him. “It was Russell Charles. He lived in this house a long time ago. I've seen him lots of times.”

Uncle Ralph shook his head as if were trying to wake himself from a dream. “You mean he's a ghost?” he said. “That's what you want me to believe?” He jumped up to look again into the closet. When he came back to the fire, his face was as pale as the little boy's had been.

“I don't
believe
in ghosts, Christina,” he said. “I don't know what that—that thing was standing there, but it wasn't a ghost.”

“Yes, it was,” Chris insisted. “I saw him the very first day we got here, Uncle Ralph. I tried to tell you about him then, remember?”

The words tumbled over each other as she described the other times she'd seen Russell, and how she'd learned he liked being around someone who was cheerful.
“He's lonesome,” she said. “And I think he's scared, too.”

“This is ridiculous.” Uncle Ralph's glance kept returning to the corner where Russell had stood. “Scared of what?”

“Scared of whatever's in the attic,” Chris told him. “There's something really bad up there.”

Uncle Ralph took a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his forehead. “Something bad,” he repeated. And when Chris hesitated, he leaned forward impatiently. “Go
on,”
he said. “You might as well tell me.”

Chris described how the attic door had opened by itself, even with the chest pushed in front of it. She told about the footsteps, and the terrifying cold. And then she repeated what she'd learned in the office of
The Clearwater Journal
. “I think the ghost of the little boy's tutor is up there in the attic,” she said. “His name is Thomas Dixon, and he was an awful person. Russell must be scared of him.” She almost said “scared to death,” but that wouldn't have made much sense.

Uncle Ralph leaned back in his chair and gave her a weak grin. “You really are something,” he murmured. “Worked it all out, haven't you? Do you realize, Christina, that this is exactly how myths and fairy tales began?”

Chris frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that all through the ages people have taken
facts—in this case, the unfortunate murders of two people—and added fantasy to make the facts more interesting. You're doing that now. You've discovered we're living in a house where two murders took place a long time ago, and now you're seeing the ghosts of the victims.”

Chris clenched her teeth. “You saw Russell, too,” she gritted.

“I saw something—a trick of the firelight—”

“A little boy! You saw him!”

“All right, I saw something that looked like a little boy. But there has to be some reasonable explanation—I just haven't thought of it yet. So let's not get into a state, okay?”

“I am not in a state!” Chris jumped up. Just when she was beginning to like Uncle Ralph, he had to act like—like the old Uncle Ralph. “I'm not lying either,” she raged.

Uncle Ralph held up a calming hand. “I'm not calling you a liar,” he said. “I know you
think
you've been seeing a ghost. Or ghosts.” He closed his eyes as if he were suddenly tired of the whole subject. “Let's forget it. Why don't you make that cocoa now?”

“I don't want cocoa,” Chris snapped. “I'm going to bed.”

“No cocoa?” Uncle Ralph shook his head in dismay. For a moment his mock-mournful expression reminded
her of the man in the newspaper office.

“I don't cook, and I'm glad of it,” she announced, her voice squeaking with annoyance. “And you know what else? I'm going to have a career when I grow up.”

Uncle Ralph followed her to the foyer and watched her go up the stairs. “What's that all about?” he asked. He was still standing there when she slammed her bedroom door hard behind her.

Chris lay across her bed and fought back tears. It was too early for sleep—only eight-thirty—but she wasn't going downstairs again. Every time she thought of Uncle Ralph sitting there smiling at her in that superior way, she gritted her teeth.

How could he refuse to believe in Russell Charles when he had seen him? If he wouldn't believe his own eyes, what would convince him? For just a moment, she considered calling him upstairs and then opening the attic door. Maybe if he felt that dead-cold rush of air. . . .

And what if he didn't feel it? What if she dragged him down the hall, threw open the attic door, and
nothing happened? No cold, no wind, no voice warning them to go away. How he'd laugh then! How he'd tease her!

She rolled over on her side and put a pillow over her head.
Think good thoughts. Think about Grandma getting better. Think about being a lifeguard some day. Think about—

The pillow must have kept her from hearing the telephone. Suddenly a shaft of light cut across the room and she sat up. Uncle Ralph was at the door, squinting into the dark.

“On your feet, Christina,” he said. “Telephone call—from Alaska!”

Think about Mom and Dad!
Chris shouted with joy and flew across the room. She nearly knocked Uncle Ralph over in her haste to get down the stairs to the telephone in the hall.

“Chris, dear, are you there?” This time, her mother's voice sounded very far off. “How are you, sweetie? Are you and Uncle Ralph managing all right?”

“Oh, Mom—” Chris didn't know where to begin. It seemed as if her mother must have known, somehow, how much she needed a loving voice right now. “I'm glad you called!”

“We think about you and Jenny so much.” The telephone line crackled fiercely. “You
are
having fun, aren't
you, dear?” There was a pause, while her mother waited for Chris to say something. “Are you there, hon?”

Chris wondered if Uncle Ralph was at the top of the stairs listening to her part of the conversation. She realized that talking about their problems would be like tattling—and what could her folks do if she told them? She couldn't expect them to come racing home just because Chris believed in ghosts and Uncle Ralph didn't.

“I'm fine, Mom,” Chris said. “Are you and Daddy having a good time?”

“Absolutely marvelous. We're taking lots of pictures so we can share it all with you and Jenny. And we're picking up some pretty nice presents, too. . . . What are you doing to enjoy yourself, Chrissy?”

“I'm swimming every day,” Chris said, glad to have something she could talk about freely. “And I'm getting really good. I go exploring. And I'm really tanned.”

There was more crackling on the line, and Chris's father boomed a greeting. “We miss you, Chris,” he said, shouting, as he always did when he talked on the telephone. “Take care of yourself, kiddo. And tell Ralph not to spend all his time with his nose in a book. I hope you're making things lively for him.”

“Sure, Dad.”

Chris wondered if her parents had talked to Uncle Ralph about her before he called her to the phone.
Maybe he'd told them she was making up wild stories. She thought about it and decided that he wouldn't do that. He wouldn't like tattling any more than she did.

They said good-bye, and Chris put the telephone back on the hook. It had been wonderful to talk to them. Now that they were gone, she was more alone than ever, but she no longer felt like crying. Even if they hadn't said it in so many words, her parents had let her know how much they loved her. Just the way she was. If she'd told them about the ghosts, they wouldn't have laughed.

A floorboard creaked behind her, and Chris whirled around. Uncle Ralph was standing on the stairs. His face was a peculiar grayish-white, and as Chris stared, he sat down on a step with a thump. He looked the way Chris's father had looked last summer, after she and Jenny had persuaded him to go with them on the roller coaster. He looked frightened to death.

“Wh-what's the matter?”

He cleared his throat. “Someone—something—in the attic,” he said, in a low voice. “I heard footsteps—while you were talking.”

“Oh,” Chris said. She put her hand on the telephone, as if she could bring her mother and father back again.

“I'd think it was a tramp—someone who sneaked in—except”—he ran his fingers through his gray hair—“except that it's getting very cold upstairs. Colder by
the minute. I don't understand it.”

Chris gulped. “I told you—” she began, but he interrupted irritably.

“Don't say I-told-you-so. It's very rude.” He leaned forward tensely. “We have to do something, I suppose.”

“Do what?”

“Find out what's going on. We'll have to look around up there.”

“Not now!” Chris protested. “Not tonight, Uncle Ralph!”

But he was on his feet again and looking up the stairs. “Now,” he insisted. “You may have nerves of steel, Christina, but I haven't. I can't just go to bed if there's something prowling around overhead or walking up and down outside my bedroom door.”

A wave of relief washed over Chris. “You believe me now,” she said. “You do, don't you?”

Uncle Ralph turned away from her and started up the stairs. “I didn't say that,” he told her tightly.

Chris shivered. She could actually feel fear in the air around her. “Please, let's not go up there,” she begged. “Russell Charles doesn't want us to.” But she might as well have kept still. Uncle Ralph was already at the top of the stairs, and there was nothing to do but follow him.

The air in the upstairs hall was both cold and clammy. Uncle Ralph waited for Chris to catch up with him. Then he strode down the hall.

“Promise me you'll never tell anybody about this—this ghost hunt,” he said. “I can't believe I'm taking it seriously.”

Chris gave his sweater a little tug. “We can wait until tomorrow morning,” she said. “It's okay with me.

“Well, it's not okay with me.” He put his hand on the knob of the attic door. “You can stay down here if you want to,” he said. “I'll just go up and take a quick look—”

He turned the knob. The door flew open and crashed against the wall. An icy blast poured into the hall.

“What's this!” Uncle Ralph staggered backward. Chris flattened herself against the wall, trying to escape the icy fingers that tore at her clothes.

Uncle Ralph grabbed the door frame to steady himself. “Stay where you are, Christina,” he bellowed over the roar of the wind. “I'm going up.”

“Wait for me!” Chris's cry was lost in the gale, but she wasn't going to let Uncle Ralph out of her sight.

As they mounted the first steps, the rush of air grew even stronger. Chris clutched the banister with both hands. Uncle Ralph switched on his flashlight and pointed the beam toward the top of the stairs.

Crouching against the wind, Chris peered around him. At first she saw nothing but leaping shadows. Then the shadows came together into a single gigantic figure—a man looming spread-legged at the top of the stairs.