The Old Willis Place (2 page)

Chapter 2

When it was almost dark, Georgie and I sneaked back to the trailer. No matter how risky it was, we couldn't stay away. This time it was the smell of food cooking that drew us to the edge of the woods.

Lissa and her father were sitting at a sagging old picnic table that had been in the yard as long as the trailer. The wood was silver gray with age. Every caretaker who'd lived on the farm had carved his initials in the top. Georgie and I had carved ours more than once, using a jackknife we'd stolen from Mr. Wagner, one of the first caretakers. As Georgie had said, the old man could always get another one.

While hamburgers sizzled on a grill, Lissa sliced tomatoes. MacDuff watched eagerly, hoping a burger would come his way. Barely containing his appetite, he inched forward, making a little squeaky crying sound.

"Get back, MacDuff," Lissa's dad said.

MacDuff cried a little harder but backed off.

"Lie down, boy."

MacDuff obeyed, but he never took his eyes off those burgers.

Neither did Georgie.

With watering mouths, we watched Lissa and her father eat their dinner. I was glad to see they gave MacDuff his very own burger. But I wished, oh, how I wished, they'd give Georgie and me one, too. It would be so lovely to sink our teeth into hot juicy food again.

But the rules were the rules. They had to be obeyed. No burgers for us. Not tonight, not ever.

Heron Man smiled at Lissa. "Well, what do you think of our new home?"

"It's kind of spooky," she said slowly. "We've never lived in a place like this. No neighbors. Just woods and fields and that scary old house. I don't know if I'm going to like it or not.

"It will be a great place to write, though," her father said. "I might actually finish my novel here."

Lissa frowned. "What am I supposed to do while you sit at your computer?"

"You'll have your schoolwork," he said. "And three hundred acres of land to explore. You and MacDuff will have a lovely time."

"How about friends? I'll never meet anybody way out here." She leaned across the table. "If I could go to school, real school, I'd—"

Heron Man shook his head. "You'll get a much better education at home. School grinds kids down, destroys their minds and their imaginations. Makes them into conformists, unable to think for themselves—"

"Okay, okay!" Lissa got to her feet. "I've heard it all before." Gathering her plate and glass, she went inside.
Bang!
went the door.

Heron Man sat at the table for a while. By now it was too dark to see his face, just the sharp outline of his nose and his crest of hair. In the kitchen, Lissa ran water in the sink and began washing dishes with a lot of clattering.

Georgie nudged me. "What's wrong with her? She should be happy she doesn't have to go to school."

I sighed, too embarrassed to tell him how much I missed school myself—not arithmetic or geography or social studies, but reading and drawing and playing with my friends at recess. I missed my favorite teacher, Miss Perry, and my best friend, Jane, and a red-haired boy named Stephen. I missed jump rope and dodge ball and field trips. I even missed the cafeteria food.

Heron Man gathered his dishes and went inside. Through the kitchen window, I saw him give Lissa a kiss on the cheek. "There's a YMCA not far from here," he said. "I'll sign you up for gymnastics. Would you like that?"

Lissa gave him a hug, and they finished the dishes together. When they'd dried the last fork, Heron Man said, "Shall we see if the television works?"

"TV," Georgie whispered, "oh, let them watch TV. I've missed it since Mr. Potter left. He kept the TV on all night long. Remember? We could see and hear everything."

I smiled, remembering the fun we'd had watching TV through the window while Mr. Potter dozed in his armchair. Sometimes Georgie sneaked inside and changed channels with the remote. Mr. Potter snored away, never suspecting a thing. Finally, Georgie decided to steal the remote to save himself the trouble of climbing through the window every night.

When he woke up, Mr. Potter noticed the remote's disappearance and wasted hours searching for it, cursing up a storm the whole time. Then Georgie got the bright idea to change channels while Mr. Potter was awake. Sometimes he turned the volume up; sometimes he turned it down; sometimes he'd switch the TV off, then back on. I couldn't help feeling a little sorry for Mr. Potter.

Not too long after Georgie stole the remote, Mr. Potter quit. We heard him tell the property manager the solitude was driving him insane. He was going to stop drinking, he said, and straighten his life out. Georgie and I felt good about helping Mr. Potter reform.

Lissa's answer disappointed Georgie. "I think I'll just go to bed and read for a while," she said. "I'm tired, Daddy."

He yawned. "I'm pretty done in myself. We've had a big day."

The kitchen light went off and the bathroom light came on. In a few moments, the light in the small bedroom came on, too.

Without a word, Georgie and I sneaked across the yard to Lissa's room. We'd peeked in the windows many times before, often with pranks in mind. To make things easier, we'd hidden cinder blocks in strategic places. Standing on them, we could look in any window except the one in the bathroom, which was higher than the others. Of course, we wouldn't have looked in the bathroom even if we could have. People deserve some privacy.

Lissa was already in bed. The grumpy old men caretakers had used her room for storage, but now it was clean and neat. A green and yellow rag rug covered most of the old linoleum tile. A small desk, a narrow bookcase, and a white dresser with a mirror were crammed into the tiny space, along with Lissa's bed, painted white to match the dresser. She'd made a little nest of pillows and quilts and stuffed animals, and she looked cozy and comfortable snuggled into it, a book propped up on her knees.

After a while, Georgie nudged me. "Let's go for a ride on her bike."

We climbed down quietly from the cinder block and ran silently across the yard to the shed. The bike leaned against the wall, its chrome handlebars bright in the moonlight.

"Do you remember how to ride?" Georgie whispered.

"Of course." I walked the bike to the long dirt driveway leading away from the house. "Wait here. I'll go first."

"It was my idea," Georgie said. "I should go first."

"This bike is different from your old Schwinn. It has gears and hand brakes like the Raleigh I used to have. Let me try it first and then I can show you how everything works."

Georgie scowled and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "It's not fair. You aren't the queen of the world."

"No, not of the whole world." I straddled Lissa's bike. "Just the queen of Oak Hill Manor."

With that I pushed off and left Georgie behind. Ahead of me, the drive tunneled between massive oaks, dark with shadows, but lit here and there with patches of moonlight. The bike bounced over ruts. The cool night breeze blew in my face, bringing with it the smells of damp earth and fallen leaves. Exhilarated by speed, I hunched over the handlebars and pedaled hard. I imagined myself riding around the world, flying to the moon, coasting down the Milky Way. Like Georgie, I yearned to escape—to leave Oak Hill Manor forever.

Five deer surprised me. They stood in the middle of the drive, their eyes on me, unsure what to do. I swerved around them as they dashed into the woods, graceful as gazelles. Somehow I managed to control the bike, but my dream of flying vanished into the shadows with the deer.

The drive emerged from the trees into a grassy area. Just ahead was the locked gate and its "No Trespassing," "Private Property""Keep Out" signs. Beyond was the road—and the rest of the world.

I laid the bike down in the weeds and went to the fence. Hidden in the underbrush, I watched the cars speed by, their headlights sweeping over me. Every year there was more traffic, more people, more houses. Where fields and woods had once been, homes had sprung up. I could see their lights across the highway.

Suddenly, Georgie was beside me. "You said you'd come right back!"

I turned to him. "Don't you wonder where all those people are going? Look at them, just driving and driving."

"I wish we were in one of those cars, going far, far away," Georgie said. "To California, maybe. Wouldn't you love to see the Pacific Ocean?"

I patted his shoulder. "Yes, but—"

Georgie's smile faded and he leaned against the fence, watching the headlights go by. "Don't say it," he said sadly. "I know, I know."

"Hey," I said, "it's your turn to ride the bike."

Turning my back to the road and the cars, I picked up the bike and held it steady for Georgie. His legs weren't quite long enough, so he had to stand up to pedal.

"Don't shift the gears," I told him. "They work fine just the way they are. If you need the brakes, squeeze these." I put his hands on the levers. "But don't squeeze hard. If you stop too fast, you'll go right over the handlebars."

As he started to pedal back toward the house, I called after him, "Go slow at first. Get used to the feel of it. Your Schwinn was much heavier."

"Don't boss me," Georgie said. "I know how to ride a bike."

"And watch out for deer," I added. "I almost hit one."

This time he ignored me. Wobbling from side to side, he pedaled into the dark tunnel of trees. I ran after him, but he was soon out of sight. A few seconds later, I heard the bike's bell, followed by a loud crash and my brother's cry.

By the time I found Georgie, he'd righted the bicycle. "There was a fox in the drive," he said tearfully. "I missed him, but I smashed into that tree."

Georgie hadn't hurt himself, but the bike's front wheel was twisted and the tire was flat. "Nobody can ride it now." He gave the bike a kick. "Flimsy old thing."

If he hadn't looked so upset, I would have pinched him for ruining our moonlight bike rides when they'd barely begun. "Why couldn't you have been more careful?"

"I'm sorry,"he mumbled.

I yanked the bike away from him. "Now what do we do?"

"Put it back where it was," he suggested. "Maybe they won't notice right away."

I shook my head. "We'll hide it. They'll think someone stole it."

Georgie brightened. "Maybe Lissa's dad will buy her a new one."

"Maybe." Pushing the bike ahead of me, I followed a deer trail deep into the woods. When I came to the creek, I shoved the bike down the bank and watched it splash into the water. It came to rest behind a clump of pokeberries. No one would find it there.

Without another word, we left the bike where it had fallen and headed for home.

T
HE
D
IARY OF
L
ISSA
M
ORRISON

Dear Diary,

Is this how you start? I never kept a diary before, so I'm not sure. Up till now I thought my life was too boring to think about, let alone write about, but that's changing. This is the second day Dad and I have spent here, and already strange things are happening.

First of all, the old Willis house is the creepiest place you ever saw. It's got to be haunted. Dad says the old lady who owned it was really eccentric, maybe even crazy. Anyway, she died in the house—in the front parlor, where she slept because she got too old to climb the steps to her bedroom. She lay there dead for a week before anyone found her. Ugh.

It seems like the perfect setup for a ghost, don't you think? She died there—all alone. Think about it. I can almost see her, can't you? A weird old lady, white hair, scary face, roaming aroundfrom room to room, up and down the steps, watching, waiting—oooh, I'm scaring myself.

Do you believe in ghosts, Dear Diary? Dad definitely doesn't.
I
talked to him after dinner about Miss Willis—that's the old lady's name—and I asked him if he thought she haunted the house. He laughed.
I
hate it when he laughs at me. Like he thinks I'm silly. Or dumb maybe.

If my mother was here, I know she wouldn't laugh—but she died when I was so little I can hardly remember her. Someday I'll write more about how much I miss her, but I don't want to make myself feel sad. So I will just say I wish she was here right now and we were sitting close together reading a book or something.

I know this sounds odd, Dear Diary, so don't tell anyone, but I'd love to see a ghost—just to know for sure they exist. I wouldn't be scared. At least, I don't think I'd be. How could a ghost actually hurt you? They're just ectoplasm or something, not solid.

Maybe it's because of my mother; maybe that's why I wonder so much about what happens when you die and where you go and if you can stay on earth for a while. I'd really like to know.

Now here's something else to tell you, something different. Not supernatural but scarier in a way because it's real. The first day we came to the farm, there was someone in the woods spying on us. Kids maybe. I'm sure of it. I could feel them watching me. I swear my scalp prickled. I had the same feeling while we were eating dinner last night—they were back, spying again.

I told Dad, but he says it's my imagination. I'm in a new place, I'm not used to woods all around, I hear birds and squirrels and think they're people. The way he talks,you'd think I didn't have an ounce of sense.

Maybe I should give Dad some of my spare imagination. It might help him finish that book so he can get a better job and we can live in a house with a yard and neighbors and I can go to school and have friends—instead of spies in the woods.

But that's not all—someone stole my bike last night. Dad can't blame that on birds or squirrels! We searched all over, but there's not a sign of it. My beautiful new blue bike is really and truly gone.