Wicked Cruel (19 page)

Owen took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He pondered his hand, turning it over and spreading his fingers. “Once in a while the energy rebuilds enough that the scene is re-created,” he continued. “Like tonight. Who knows why? Electric currents or deep emotions or some other catalyst. And if someone is there at just the right time, they catch a glimpse of that ghost in action again, like you’re watching a movie of it. The same moment that happened a hundred years ago, or a thousand.”

Mason nodded. “Okay. We’ve all heard of that.”

“Right. So this other form—like Charity the other night at the dance—is this thinking, breathing,
conscious
presence. A ‘real’ person who’s stuck at the age she was back then, right before she died. Not like an image on a film. Not something you just observe, like that woman in the barn tonight. But someone you can actually talk to.”

Mason sipped his chocolate and narrowed his eyes. “But
how could Charity be both? She wasn’t anything more than an image tonight.”

Owen fidgeted and put his foot on the table. “I don’t know,” he said quickly. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe when she’s with another ghost, she looks like one, too,” Mason said. “But she’s got enough energy left that she can seem real when she wants to. Like when she wanted to teach you to dance.”

Owen sat back and shut his eyes. He felt sorry for Charity. Did she spend her nights trying to calm her grieving mother? Avoiding her horrible father? Had that three-minute dance with Owen been the only bright spot since her death?

He’d go back. Tomorrow night. But not with Mason. Maybe Sophie would sneak back in with him. Sophie understood.

A pack of college students barged through the doors, laughing and talking loudly as they headed to the snack bar. A young woman smiled at Owen as she caught his eye. Her jacket said
CHESHIRE NOTCH LACROSSE
.

“So, I’m thinking of taking Darla to the movies next Friday,” Mason said.

Owen turned and stared at Mason in disbelief. How could he be thinking about something like that? They’d just seen two ghosts!

“You should take Sophie,” Mason said.

“You have to
ask
, you know. You don’t just decide to take somebody out.”

“Yeah,” Mason said. “I guess so.”

“Shut up about that,” Owen said. “Help me think this through. Could what’s left of someone be split like that? One repeating image that’s separate and stuck, and a real ghost that’s … aware? And they’re independent of each other. It’s
the same idea that there can be hundreds of photographs or videos of you or me or anybody else, but they aren’t really
us
anymore. Just tricks of light and pixels that are left behind while we go forward with our lives.”

“Why not?” Mason said.

“Yeah,” Owen answered. “Why not?”

He hadn’t showered on Saturday, so Owen shouldn’t have been surprised that his armpits smelled when he woke up. There’d been a lot of nervous sweat the night before. But he’d never smelled like this before. More like a man than a boy.

He locked the bathroom door and pulled off his T-shirt and leaned close to the mirror with his arms up. Hair.

He’d known it would be growing soon—at least he knew it had better. Mason had hair all over, and some of the kids at school even had the beginning wisps of mustaches. But Owen was skinny and short and didn’t look much different than he had in fifth grade. So seeing the armpit hair was a relief. There were only six soft, dark hairs in one pit and four in the other, plus a little more fuzz than he remembered.

He brushed his teeth. His nose looked oily and there was a tiny pink zit under one nostril. He scrubbed his face and toweled dry. Things were changing fast.

His mother wouldn’t be happy if he stayed out late another night, especially since there was school tomorrow. But there was too much ghostly energy at the tavern to stay away. It could be years before the elements were right again, and then it would be far too late.

He’d sneak out. He needed to see Charity tonight, while both of them were still the same age.

*   *   *

Henry Gilman had shown only two true emotions in his life: anger and scorn. But as he stood over Charity’s makeshift grave, he felt strangely different, if only slightly. He was fleeing this place forever, but perhaps he could linger for a moment.

Henry swallowed hard, then dropped to his knees and closed his eyes.

His wife had taken a heavy, rusty ax from the barn’s wall. With four stealthy steps, she silently moved toward her husband, brought back the ax, swung it with all her might, and watched the last of her family drop to the floor, dead.

Within an hour Ida had buried him next to Charity and was on her way. Everyone in Cheshire Notch assumed Henry had fled with his wife. The few in Massachusetts who asked about him were told that he’d gone west by himself to Indiana.

“This is the last time we can sneak in,” Sophie said as they walked along Main Street. “It’s too risky.”

“I know,” Owen said.

But Sophie had been very eager when he’d asked her to come with him. She’d slipped out of her house after ten o’clock, just as Owen had done, hoping his mother would assume he was asleep.

The night had turned bitter cold, and a light, icy snow was blowing in their faces.

“I just want to sit in there for a while,” Owen said. “See if anything happens.”

Sophie smiled. “So, you have a crush on a ghost?”

Owen blushed. “Just curious.”

He left the cellar hatch open this time and they felt their way along the wall to the steps. The tavern was dark and eerily
quiet, just a steady ticking of a grandfather clock in the parlor where he’d danced with Charity.

They sat on the floor with their backs against the sofa. The tavern wasn’t heated, but it wasn’t too cold. Every sound and shadow seemed magnified in the gloom.

The tavern’s walls were not insulated. Very light cool breezes came from several directions as the wind found its way in.

“Want to go up?” Sophie whispered.

Owen nodded, and they slowly climbed the stairs, stopping to listen at every step.

They sat in the other front bedroom, with its old quilts and rugs and ancient furniture. The fireplace tools glistened in the partial light from the street.

Did a door open and close downstairs? Did Owen hear footsteps? He swallowed hard and felt his skin crawl. His heart was beginning to race.

Then he heard what sounded like gentle humming, like a lilting tune from far away.

“Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Hear what?”

“Nothing.” Owen squinted and turned his head to try to hear better.

“Have you ever been upstairs?” Sophie asked.

“We
are
upstairs.”

“I mean, way upstairs, in the attic.”

“I didn’t know there was one.”

“It’s the spookiest spot in the building,” Sophie whispered. “You go up this little staircase, and you’re right up there below the roof. It’s mostly open space, but there are two rooms that must have been bedrooms way, way back. They’re walled off from the rest of the attic. It’s incredibly scary up there; I can’t
imagine sleeping in a spot like that in an old wooden building like this. I mean, if the place caught on fire, you’d have no escape unless you jumped out a window. And it’s a long way down.”

They sat in silence for several minutes. Owen heard the soft humming again, coming from above. It sent a chill through his chest. “I think she’s up there,” he squeaked.

Sophie’s voice was barely louder than a breath. “She might be.”

“Will you go up with me?”

Sophie gave a nervous laugh. “Not at night.”

Owen let out his breath; he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it. He felt a few drops of cold sweat drip down his armpits.

“I’m going,” he whispered.

Sophie raised her eyebrows. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

The attic stairs were off a narrow passage between the two back bedrooms. Owen carefully opened the door and shined his flashlight into the space. A dozen wooden steps led to an opening in the floor.

The light caught cobwebs and some broken boards, but the space was dry and musty. Two doors were halfway open. Owen stepped through the doorway to the left and curved his light around the room. He took care not to illuminate the only window, which was the same twelve-paned style as those downstairs.

The space was triangular, as the sloped ceiling followed the sharp angle of the roof and met the floor at the far edge. The wide ceiling boards had been whitewashed but were peeling and looked brittle.

To the side of the window, a simple desktop was attached to the wall—just a thin plank that jutted into the room. A wooden chair sat in front. Among the must and the dust was a very faint aroma of roses.

On the desk was an open diary.

The entry ended in midsentence. Owen reached to turn back to a previous page.

More words suddenly appeared, completing the sentence: we are in danger.

Owen jumped back. And as he did, a startled Charity began to take shape, turning toward him.

In a few seconds she seemed as alive as she had at the dance.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

Owen stared at the ghost and took another step back. “I’m … I wanted to see you,” he stammered.

“My father would kill you if he found you here.”

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

Charity nodded. “Of course, Owen.”

“We danced.”

“I remember.”

“Are you …” Owen hesitated. How do you ask someone if she knows that she’s dead? “How long have you lived here?”

“My entire life,” Charity replied.

“Right,” Owen said. “How long is that?”

“I’m thirteen.”

There was a knock on the attic door. “Charity?” came a man’s voice.

“Hide!” she whispered.

Owen looked around, frantic. He darted into a dark, dusty alcove, up against the brick chimney. A second later, he heard the man walking up the stairs.

“To whom were you speaking?” the man asked as he entered the room. He sounded annoyed.

“No one, Father,” Charity said. “I was just going over my lessons for school.”

“You should be asleep,” he said. “Come downstairs and go to bed.”

“I’ll be just a minute,” Charity replied. “Let me straighten up my schoolwork.”

The man plodded down the stairs without another word.

Charity waited until he was out of earshot. “My father isn’t stable,” she whispered. “Wait until the house is quiet, then leave without a sound.”

Owen crawled out from the alcove. He studied Charity for a moment, fixing her image in his mind. She gave him a puzzled look. “He would throw you through that window without hesitation,” she said. Then she turned to leave.

“Charity?” Owen said.

She glanced back.

“Be careful,” Owen said, but he knew he couldn’t save her. Her death had been many years before.

Owen sat on the floor in the dark. How long should he wait? Was Sophie safe downstairs?

Five minutes, he decided. He let out his breath and tried to calm down.

Owen rubbed his hands together. It was colder up here; the wind found its way with more power through cracks in the boards. He could see his breath in ghostly little wisps. His teeth began to chatter.

He stood and took a tentative step toward the door. And then he heard the attic door open.

The wind
, he hoped.

He swallowed hard and took another step.

A stair creaked loudly.

Owen backed into the alcove again and hugged his knees to his chest.

A second stair creaked.

Owen looked around for a weapon, but he saw nothing of use. And he knew he couldn’t harm a ghost.

He gripped his flashlight hard.

Another stair creaked. Owen stood and backed tight against the wall.

Perhaps it was Charity, making sure he was all right. But why would she climb so slowly?

He heard soft shuffling in the attic, just outside the room, as if someone in socks was stepping carefully on the floorboards.

He could see the window from the alcove. The ground was far below.

When the door swung open, Owen felt a surge of energy. “Who’s there?” he said firmly.

Henry Gilman appeared again, faint and transparent and glowing only slightly. He smelled of smoke and sweat. Owen flicked on the flashlight and shined it at him. The ghost froze.

“Let me out,” Owen said.

The ghost looked puzzled by the beam of light, and did not seem to hear what Owen said. In fact, he did not seem aware of Owen at all.

Henry drifted to the window and gazed out. Owen walked slowly toward the door, never turning away from the ghost. He kept the flashlight beam trained on him, too, and waited until Henry faded away in what seemed like a cloud of smoke.

Owen shined the light into every corner of the room. “I know it’s too late,” he said, “but leave your kids alone.”

He walked carefully down the stairs and through the bedrooms.

“Sophie?” he called.

“I’m here.”

They hustled down to the main floor, then left through the cellar and shut the hatch tight.

“I need to sit down,” Owen said. He plopped onto the brick steps that led up to the kitchen. The porch roof had kept the steps mostly dry.

Sophie sat next to him. Owen shut his eyes and shook his head. “Give me a minute,” he murmured. He put his hands to his forehead and pressed.

“You’re brave,” Sophie said. “I hope it was worth it.” She patted Owen’s arm.

“What did you see?” she asked when they reached the street. There was just enough snow to see their footprints, like a dusting of flour on the sidewalk.

“A lot.”

“Like what?”

He told her about the two ghosts and what Charity had been writing in her diary. “I know she’s been dead for more than a century, but I hate that she’ll probably die again soon.”