We Hear the Dead (2 page)

Maggie

We arrived home from school one afternoon that week to find Lizzie Fish sitting on our bed and mending a skirt from the pile of sewing I was supposed to have done but hadn't.

“Good afternoon, Aunt Margaretta! And to you, Aunt Catherine!” Lizzie pursed her lips in amusement at her own joke. Kate and I used to laugh at being addressed as old aunties by our niece when we were perhaps five years old, but the joke had long since worn as thin as the hem Lizzie was mending.

“Hello, Lizzie,” I replied.

“Come here and give me a hug, Kate,” she said, laying aside the skirt. “Look at your hair, all coming loose. Have you been running in the schoolyard like a boy again? And, Maggie, how about a greeting for your niece? I see you've torn this skirt as well. I'll be working my fingers to the bone, I can tell!”

Lizzie at seventeen was taller than my father and large boned, like a man. She didn't have her mother's pretty, plump face or dark hair and eyes. She was a washed-out beige all over, like clothing left out too long on the clothesline.

We dutifully greeted her, content for the moment to mind our manners. I did not comment on her making my uncompleted chores obvious by overtaking them herself, and although we noticed she had rearranged our meager belongings, we said nothing. Our family was of modest means. Kate and I owned little for ourselves, and most of what we had was in storage in the attic anyway.

Lizzie was full of news from Rochester, but our initial excitement ebbed away when we realized that it wasn't any news that interested us. She could tell us nothing of the handsome boy who had lived across the street, for instance, but knew all about his grandmother's infected finger. She knew who had died but not who had married. She had not seen any plays or stage shows, because she couldn't bear the thought of attending the theater without a gentleman to accompany her. As if any gentleman would be interested in a damp mop like Lizzie!

“What word of Mr. and Mrs. Post's efforts against slavery?” asked Kate. Our family had boarded for two years with the Posts, a Quaker couple active in the abolitionist cause. It was their sudden move to another house that had caused our own premature departure and led indirectly to our renting of this abysmal house. Kate and I had speculated that the Posts' new house was meant to be an active station on the “railroad” that conducted slaves to the safety of Canada, and we had spent long hours imagining their adventures and dangers.

“I am sure I would not know,” Lizzie stated stiffly. “As much as I sympathize with the plight of the poor, downtrodden Negro, I cannot presume to know anything about the traffic in fugitive slaves.”

It was a most disagreeable afternoon in which Kate and I grew more determined about our course of action. We consulted again that evening when we volunteered to wash the dishes from the evening meal, freeing Mother and Lizzie to join Father upon their knees in the parlor, engaged in prayer.

Never once did we imagine that we were commencing an enterprise that would change the course of our lives.

***

Lizzie took the middle of the bed, all knees and elbows, while we balanced on either edge beside her. Darkness still came early, for it was late in March. Mother and Father had not yet retired and were still sitting in the parlor.

Suddenly Lizzie sat upright in bed. “Did you hear that sound?” she asked.

“What?” I yawned sleepily.

“Yes,” Kate whispered urgently. “I heard it. I've heard it every night since we moved here.”

“What is it?” Lizzie sat still, listening. Only a moment later, there was a sharp cracking sound.

I sat up. “Where is it coming from?'

“It's in the room with us,” Kate stated.

Again we heard the sound, but this time twice in quick succession. Lizzie leaned across me and fumbled for the tinderbox on the table beside the bed. It took a few moments to get a light, for another loud rap caused her to flinch and lose the flame. Once she had the lamp lit, however, she quickly slid past me to the edge of the bed. She cast the light at the floor first, searching for mice, I suppose. Then she eased from the bed and began to look around the bedroom. Our parents' bed was still empty. There was a trunk and a chest of drawers. That was all.

Cautiously, Lizzie walked over to the one small window in the bedroom and, holding high the lantern, leaned close to peer outside.

Crack!
Lizzie jumped back.

“Did you see something?” I hissed.

She did not reply but strode swiftly across the floor, opened the door, and left the room. Kate and I turned to each other in the dark and linked hands.

Soon Lizzie returned with our mother, and together they cast the light of the lantern around the room. A few moments later, a light bobbed up and down outside our window, and we could clearly see Father looking around. While he was visible, another volley of raps sounded inside the room. Mother jumped nervously, and Kate and I huddled close in the bed, but it was obvious that Father had heard nothing outside.

Eventually he came back into the house and joined Mother and Lizzie. A whispered conversation followed, and Father seemed doubtful about their story. We all listened for a while, but no more noises were heard.

Sleep came slowly and uneasily that night for everyone.

***

We all heard it again the next night, even Father. Of us all, he turned out to be the most disturbed, because he could not find the cause. On the third night, he searched every room in the house, ascending to the storage attic and descending to the cellar. My mother wrung her hands in nervousness, and Lizzie huddled on the bed with her arms around us.

“You should leave this place,” Kate whispered into Lizzie's ear. “You don't have to suffer this haunting like the rest of us. You can go back to your mother's house in Rochester and forget all about these nighttime rappings!”

“As if I would leave you!” Lizzie replied indignantly. “Grandfather will soon discover how these noises are made, and then we'll laugh at our own foolishness! I don't believe in ghosts at all.”

“You would if they spoke to you,” I said tartly, because I was weary from lack of sleep and wished Lizzie would leave and end it all. Kate gazed at me thoughtfully, and suddenly I regretted my words. I knew my sister well and was fearful of what new mischief she was going to contrive.

As with the first two nights, the knockings eventually subsided, and all of us laid down to a sleep that did not seem to refresh us. On the next morning, which was the thirty-first of March, our rest had been broken for so many days that we were nearly sick. Kate lay in bed most of the day on the verge of one of her headaches. Mother and Lizzie were bedraggled and pale, but together they made broth for Kate and a thin chicken stew for the rest of us. Mother told me I could stay home from school, and Father, instead of going out to work on our new house, spent most of the day in prayer.

In the afternoon, my brother, David, came by in his wagon to find out why Father had not been to the new house that day. Mother and Lizzie explained all about our problem while Father sat silently by.

For just a moment, David's eyes flicked over at me. I believe I met them steadily, because then he turned to Mother and said, “If you search, I am sure you will find a cause for it, as it must be something about the house.”

“I
have
searched,” Father said gruffly, almost his first words to us all day.

David paused, then said smoothly, “All the more reason to be out of this place as soon as possible. Can I expect to see you tomorrow at the building site?”

“Yes, of course,” Father murmured, looking cross.

“If the rapping comes tonight,” said Mother with a false brightness, “we will not mind it but try and get a good night's rest. You are right, David. We have wasted too much effort on what is surely the normal creaking and groaning of a poorly constructed house. We will look forward to a more
silent
home in the future!”

David departed, and we took our evening meal. The sky had hardly turned dark before Mother was urging us all to sleep. Kate had just ventured out of bed when she was suddenly ushered back into it. After sleeping away the day, Kate was the only one of us who had truly rested, and she complained bitterly about being turned back to bed. I should have known that lively events were bound to occur that night!

The raps commenced as usual, when we had all lain down. Lizzie moaned and threw her arms over her head. “'Tis the devil!” she whispered loudly in consternation.

Kate suddenly sat up. “If it is the devil, then let us see his tricks.” Speaking loudly, so that our parents in the next bed would not miss it, she said, “Here, Mr. Splitfoot, do as I do!” And then she snapped her fingers four times.

Four raps immediately followed.

“John!” Mother gasped. “John, wake up!”

“Oh, you can hear me, can you?” said Kate, speaking to the air. “Can you see me as well? How many fingers am I showing?”

Three sharp raps startled us all from any chance of sleep. Lizzie squeaked in fear, and we all felt a shiver of cold upon our skin. It was too dark to see Kate, but we did not have any doubt that she was holding up three fingers.

“Count to ten!” I was startled to hear my mother give this command. She was lighting the lantern by then, and she had a shaky but determined timbre to her voice.

By now, nobody was surprised to hear a slow, labored sequence of ten raps. We were too exhausted to be fearful, but there was a strange feeling of being separate from reality. It was as if we were all sharing the same dream, and because it was a dream, there was no reason to be afraid.

“Are you a human being?” my mother asked. When there was no immediate response, she cried, “Are you a spirit?”

“Margaret!” my father protested, taking her shoulder. But she shrugged his hand off and turned her back on him.

“If you are a spirit, give me two sounds,” she said, and there came a reply of two sounds almost before she had finished speaking.

“Are you an injured spirit?” Two raps.

“Were you injured in this house?” Two raps.

By this time, Father had moved to the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. He sat with his back to us, as if trying to separate himself.

Lizzie, meanwhile, was gripping my arm so tightly that it was starting to go numb, and Mother was pacing the bedroom excitedly with her lantern. “Spirit,” she asked, “give me one sound for no and two sounds for yes. Did you die of natural cause?”

One rap.

“Were you murdered?” Two raps.

“In this house?” Two raps.

“Is the person who murdered you still living?” Two raps.

“Are your remains still present in this house?” Two raps.

Lizzie wailed, “Grandmother, stop!” My mother turned around, suddenly becoming aware that there were terrified children in the room.

“Oh, girls!” she cried, repentant. She rushed to the bed and sheltered us with her arms. “Spirit, do you mean us any harm?”

One rap.

“Will you make these sounds before other people if we bring them here as witness?”

A long pause followed, and I had almost started to relax when two sharp raps answered the question. I could hardly believe my ears. Was Mr. Splitfoot, our devil or spirit or whatever he was, going to perform now for people outside the family?

“John!” Mother rushed back to the other bed. “Get dressed quickly and fetch the Redfields. They must witness this testimony.”

“Are you mad?” my father whispered harshly, without removing his hands from his face.

“No, I don't believe I am,” Mother said indignantly. “And if the Redfields hear this spirit also, then I will know that I am not.”

“It is too late.” This was a feeble protest, and my father knew it, because he was already on his feet and pulling on his overalls.

“It is barely eight o'clock. While you are out, you can see if the Dueslers are home and bring them, too!”

My mother outweighed my father in bulk and character, and so he was swiftly bundled off to bid our neighbors come visit with our ghost. While he was gone, I contemplated my course of action. Truthfully, I nearly spoke out then and there. I do not know what held my tongue, unless it was Kate's force of will or simply my own destiny. When I heard the front door open and voices in the parlor, the time to confess had passed and I was trapped in the deception.

“Now, what kind of tomfoolery is going on in here?” boomed the voice of Mrs. Redfield, a neighbor from across the street. She bustled into the bedroom, stout and brisk, dressed in what passed for a good cloak and hat in this tiny hamlet of Hydesville. Her commonplace appearance reminded us suddenly that we were all in our bedclothes and that we had invited this woman into our sleeping chamber, where she could see the intimate details of our threadbare lives. I retreated like a turtle into the bedcoverings, and Mother put one hand self-consciously to her hair, which was plaited and hanging down across her bosom.

Then Mother drew her dignity to herself as if it were a cloak much fancier than Mrs. Redfield's and said, “Thank you for coming, Mary. We greatly appreciate your good judgment and wise counsel. Has John told you what happened here tonight?”

Mrs. Redfield drew off her gloves, looking curiously around the room. “He has told me some tale of injured spirits and ghostly knockings. My husband refused to come for what is surely an early Fools' Day prank by some persons who should know better.” Her eyes alighted on Lizzie and me. I imagine that I looked very guilty, but Lizzie's surprise was genuine and indignant. Kate was ignored by all. She was eleven years old but gave the appearance of being much younger.

“Spirit,” my mother called out, addressing the air like a madwoman, “is our good neighbor right? Are you a manifestation of an April Fools' Day prank? Rap once for no and twice for yes.”