The Pike River Phantom (8 page)

“Why don't you like your dad, Charlie?” The unexpected question blew away Charlie's thoughts about turning back.

“Who said I don't like him?” he retorted gruffly. “That's a dumb thing to say.”

“No, it isn't. You always look angry when he talks. And when he plays his guitar, too.”

“I don't!”

“You do. You don't say anything to him either. I'd talk to my folks all day long if they were here instead of in Africa.”

She would, too, Charlie thought. She never knew when to be quiet.

“Is it because he was in prison? I
like
Uncle John. He's fun. Like a big kid.”

“Yeah,” Charlie muttered, “like a big kid.” To his relief, a familiar mailbox appeared on the edge of the highway ahead of them. “There it is,” he pointed. “That's where we turn in. Let's eat the sandwiches first, okay?”

They settled in the grass next to the mailbox and opened the brown paper bag filled with peanut-butter sandwiches and pears. Rachel didn't say anything more about his father while they ate, or later while they walked through the woods, but she looked as if she were thinking hard. Charlie supposed she was lining up more nosy questions.

“There it is,” he said loudly as they stepped out into the sunlit clearing. “Spooky, huh?”

“It
looks
haunted,” Rachel commented. “It looks as if nobody could possibly be living there. I can't see why you even bothered to knock on the door that first time. I wouldn't have.”

Charlie considered the dusty windows, the crooked shutters, the tangle of garden. She was right. What had made him approach the decaying old place? He didn't remember that it had looked so uncared for that first time.

“I guess I just thought I'd give it a try,” he said. “Or maybe the ghost wanted me to come in. Maybe she wanted to talk to somebody from Pike River.”

Rachel nodded as if this were a reasonable explanation. She pushed open the gate, and they made their way through the garden and up the steps to the front door.

Charlie lifted the bulldog knocker and let it drop. Then he put a hand on the doorknob. “If it's locked, we leave,” he reminded her. “No breaking in.”

“Turn it,” Rachel urged. “What are you waiting for?”

When the door swung open at his touch, Charlie didn't know whether he was glad or sorry. He led the way into the entrance hall and looked around, hoping the phantom wouldn't make him search for her again, room by room.

Rachel gripped his arm and pointed toward the back of the house. “The sun porch,” she mouthed. “Let's go.” She was very pale in the dim light of the hall.

A floorboard creaked sharply over their heads. Charlie whirled to face the stairs. “I've never heard that before,” he whispered. “I bet she's up there.”

“Then let's go up. We want to find her, don't we?”

They climbed the stairs side by side, stopping at each step to listen. The floorboards creaked again. Then Charlie heard a faint humming—breathless, delicate, and as frightening as any sound would be in a supposedly deserted house.

There's nothing to be scared of
, he told himself wryly.
A ghost is humming, that's all
. He shot a sideways glance at Rachel.

“I hear it,” she whispered, without taking her eyes away from the top of the stairs. “It's weird—like an echo from someplace else.”

That was exactly what the humming sounded like.
Some other place, or some other time
, Charlie thought. The sound made him feel as if he were drifting backward through endless years.

They reached the upstairs hallway and faced a row of doors, all of them closed but one. That one was open just a crack; the opening was marked by a narrow band of sunlight across the hall floor.

Rachel knelt at the crack to peer inside, and Charlie peeked over her head. At first he could see no one, though the humming was louder. Then the graceful figure of a girl spun lightly across the room. She whirled, long black hair fanning out over her shoulders. Charlie leaned forward, trying to see the girl's face as she dipped and turned. This couldn't be the old woman, or even the middle-aged woman he'd talked to on the sun porch. And yet—she danced on tiptoes toward the door—yet it
was
the same person. She was no more than seventeen or eighteen now, and as lovely as a Gypsy princess. He couldn't mistake those glittering eyes.

“You said she was old,” Rachel whispered. “She's not much older than we are, Charlie.”

“She was old the last time I saw her,” Charlie retorted. “Can I help it if she keeps changing!”

“She's so pretty! You never said—” Rachel shifted from one knee to the other and lost her balance. She fell heavily against Charlie, who stumbled backward against the opposite wall.

The humming stopped. For a moment there was silence, and then a shriek of rage that made Charlie gasp. Rachel collapsed on the floor, and the girl towered over them, her face contorted.

“What are
you
doing here?” she screamed. Charlie saw that she was glaring at Rachel, not at him. “How dare you come here? Don't you have any shame? Wicked! Wicked!”

Rachel gave a squawk of pure terror as the girl raised her arm. Charlie dragged his cousin to her feet.

“Get out!” the phantom screamed. “Get out of my house!” She took another step toward them, and Charlie and Rachel retreated, half-running, half-falling down the steps. The ghost-girl followed, arms outstretched. Her fury was like a wall pushing them downstairs, across the hall, and out the front door.

“Go away!” she screamed. “Oh, you're going to be sorry for what you've done. You'll be sorry for everything! I'll see to that!”

Charlie slammed the door behind them, and they raced down the porch steps and through the garden. He looked back only once, certain that if the ghost pursued them out of the house, he'd fall over and die of fright on the spot. But the heavy door remained shut, the windows blank and staring.

It looks like an empty house
, he thought.
We're running away from an empty house
, and he ran faster than ever.

“Have to stop!” Rachel hiccuped. They dived into the shelter of the trees, gasping for breath. Charlie glanced at her, then looked away quickly, pretending not to see the tears that streaked her face.

“That—that girl—” she hiccuped again, “she hates me!” Her voice shook. “Why should she hate
me
? What did I ever do to her?”

Charlie didn't know the answer, but he was sure his cousin was right. It was seeing Rachel that had set off that frenzy of rage.

“I think she's crazy!” Rachel exclaimed. “Really insane.” She shuddered and walked on ahead along the narrow road. “Did you see the look in her eyes? She's not
normal
, Charlie!”

Charlie might have laughed, but his knees were still shaking, and he didn't want Rachel more upset than she was already. Still, it was pretty funny to talk about a phantom being normal or not normal.

“I don't see how a ghost can be insane,” he said. “You're not changing your mind, are you? About whether she's a ghost or not?”

“Of course she's a ghost.” They emerged onto the highway and stood for a minute watching a tractor crawling across a field. It was a peaceful sight, comforting to look at after what had just happened. “She's a ghost, all right. And not just because you say so, Charlie.”

He waited, knowing there was more to come.

“Didn't you notice the floor?”

That superior tone again. “What do you mean?”

“The bedroom floor, silly. Where the ghost was. There she was, dancing and bowing and having a great time all by herself and
never leaving a single mark in the dust on the floor
. The dust was
thick
, Charlie. And there wasn't one mark in it.”

Charlie was impressed in spite of himself. Rachel made a good detective.

“And that's not all,” she went on. “I'll tell you something that's just as weird. Remember the dress she was wearing?”

It was brown, Charlie recalled. Long. Like a pioneer girl might wear. It had a white collar and neat white cuffs.

“What about it?”

“The library has pictures of all the Sunbonnet Queens on display this month,” Rachel said, “going back for years and years. And they're all wearing that same kind of dress. Long. A grayish or brownish color. Or maybe blue—I don't know. The older pictures are black and white. But every single one of them has a white collar and cuffs. Grandma says the Parade Committee has two or three of them in different sizes. It's the official Sunbonnet Queen costume, Charlie. And the ghost was wearing it!”

CHAPTER 11

“I can tell you're fretting about the Sunbonnet Queen contest,” Grandma Lou said. “But you mustn't, Rachel dear. The committee never announces their choice till the day before the parade, so you might as well put it right out of your mind. Keep busy with something else.”

“I'm not fretting,” Rachel said, “and I don't feel like keeping busy, Grandma.” She was slumped in a lawn chair, staring at the side of the garage. Charlie had been watching her ever since it became too dark to read his mystery. She looked dazed, he thought. She looked the same way he felt.

“Of course you're fretting,” Grandma insisted. “I remember how I felt when I was a girl. I guess I didn't have to be concerned,” she went on, and a shadow crossed her face. “I told you about all the help I was given. Still … Would you like to make some cookies, Rachel? Edie Koch gave me a recipe I want to try.”

“No, thanks, Grandma.” Rachel gave Charlie a desperate glance, but he didn't know how to help. The memory of the ghost-girl's furious attack, and the sound of her screams, had come between him and his book all afternoon.

The back door opened, and Grandpa Will and Charlie's father came out on the patio.

“Hi, kid.” John tapped Charlie lightly on the head. “What's going on?”

“Nothing's going on,” Grandma answered for him. “We've got two young people with everything to be happy about, and they sit here looking as if the world is about to end.” A thought struck her. “Charlie, do you still have a headache? I think you should have stayed in bed this morning instead of traipsing off on a hike.”

“I'm fine,” Charlie told her.

“Well, then I'm sure I don't know what's wrong,” Grandma said. “When I was your age—”

“How about a trip to the Chocolate Palace for some triple-dippers?” Grandpa suggested hurriedly. “My treat.”

“Great idea!” John exclaimed. “I'm ready if everybody else is.”

Grandma Lou said she was dieting and wanted to stay away from temptation, but Charlie and Rachel followed the two men out to the car. Grandma was wrong, Charlie thought. He wasn't moping and he wasn't sick. He was scared. Over and over again he reviewed what had happened at the old house, looking for an explanation. He longed to talk to Rachel, but when he'd knocked on her bedroom door earlier in the afternoon, she'd told him to please go away and leave her alone. Since then, there had always been someone else around.

Charlie's father talked all the way downtown. He was still thinking about becoming a salesman, but now he directed his enthusiasm at Grandpa.

“I'll apply in every town within fifty miles of here,” he said. “I'll have to buy a car, but then, I'll have to do that anyway, once I find what I want.”

Grandpa Will didn't say “Good for you!” but he didn't say anything discouraging either. He even offered the use of his car for a few days. Charlie squirmed, recalling his own response when his father had tried to tell him about his job-hunting plans.
It's just that he's always kidding himself about the great things that are going to happen
, he thought.
And they never do
.

The Chocolate Palace parking lot was crowded. Swarms of insects danced around the overhead lights, and a loudspeaker blared country-and-western music. Grandpa took their orders and insisted on going to the window for their ice cream himself. Charlie noticed people calling out to him from other cars as he went up to the window—mostly high-school kids. You could tell how much they liked him.

Charlie's father noticed, too. “When I was a kid I was jealous of all the attention he gave other kids,” he said thoughtfully. “Later on, I found out they were jealous of me.” He seemed to be talking to himself, but Rachel, roused briefly from her gloom, smiled at him.

A car pulled in beside them, and John gave a little groan.

Rachel dug a sharp elbow into Charlie's, ribs. “Here comes trouble,” she whispered. “That's Mr. Mason—the one who fired Uncle John.”

The big man started to get out of his car, but when he saw who was parked next to him he sank back. For a moment or two he stared straight ahead, then he opened the door again and stepped out.

“You'd better get Grandpa,” Rachel whispered. “Mr. Mason looks as if he's still mad. I bet he didn't want to take Uncle John back, even if Grandpa's a good persuader.”

Charlie was reaching for the door handle when his father suddenly leaned out of the front-seat window. “Hiya, Frank,” he said, “how's it going?”

The big man hesitated. “Okay, I guess,” he said finally. “How about you, Hocking?”

“Everything's terrific here.”

Frank Mason looked over the top of their car. He looked up at the floodlights. “About that paint,” he growled.

Rachel squeezed Charlie's arm so hard it hurt.

“I have to tell you, I checked it out. You were right—inferior stuff—not what was ordered at all.” Mason's heavy features reddened, as if he were working very hard. “You did us a favor by mentioning it, and I overreacted. I apologize. But next time don't check in at the top of your lungs, man. Don't act as if you're the only person in town who wants to do the right thing.”