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Authors: Charis Cotter

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BOOK: The Swallow
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Right at that moment was when it happened. Someone—or some
THING
—started humming a tune, right in my ear!

I dropped the book and nearly dropped the flashlight. The light swung wildly. Trying to hold my shaking hands steady, I shone it around the attic. It was still empty, and the humming was getting louder.

I couldn’t believing this was happening. I felt just like Amanda must have felt by the garden gate—unable to move or even squeak.

Then the humming turned into words, sung clearly in a sweet, high voice:

She’s like the swallow that flies so high

She’s like the river that never runs dry

She’s like the sunshine on the lee shore

She lost her love so she’ll love no more
.

The tune was lilting and sad, like an old folk song. A girl was singing softly to herself, right beside me. But there was no one there. It had to be a ghost.

Rose

I finally found a place in this house that’s my very own. I discovered it the week after I came back from the hospital.

I drifted into my grandmother’s room one day, looking for the sewing basket so I could sew a button on my blue cardigan. Nothing had changed in there since she’d died in the spring.

Her bottle of Yardley’s English Rose perfume stood on her dressing table. I untwisted the top and dabbed some on my wrists, then breathed it in. As the sweet, sad smell of roses flooded over me I wondered, for a moment, whether my grandmother would appear. She didn’t. I thought I heard a sigh, but that was all.

Not seeing the sewing basket anywhere, I opened the closet door. I turned on the light, pushed some clothes to one side to search and then stopped. A ladder built flat against the wall led up to a trapdoor in the ceiling.

An attic. I hadn’t even known the house had an attic, but when I pushed open the trapdoor and climbed in, it all seemed oddly familiar. The faded red-and-green cardboard boxes with “Christmas” written on the side, the ancient trunks shoved up against the wall, the discarded lamps, the broken chairs. Maybe I had come up here when I was little? I couldn’t remember.

All that mattered was it felt safe. It felt like home. I started sneaking up there whenever I had the chance.

There was a stuffed chair in the corner and crates full of dusty old books. One box held what looked like every book L.M. Montgomery ever wrote. Another was full of ghost stories and books about ghosts.

I was especially interested in those. Over the years, I have quietly read everything I can about ghosts, trying to find something to help me ward them off. But I’d never seen books quite this old. Some of them were printed in the nineteenth century, with black leather covers and yellowing pages.

I brought up some cushions and a blanket to make a warm little nest in the chair. Then I stayed in the attic for hours, reading about ghosts by candlelight. I found it strangely comforting to sit in that silent, forgotten corner of the house, reading about other people besides me who saw ghosts. It made me feel that perhaps I wasn’t completely crazy after all.

Sometimes I sang to myself. No one could hear me. At least, that’s what I thought.

CONTACT

Polly

I felt a kind of pit opening up in my stomach like I was going to throw up. My body started tingling all over, like a really bad case of pins and needles.

“Who are you?” I croaked. But the singing went on, lilting and mournful.

’Twas down in the garden this fair maid did go

A-plucking the beautiful—something rose
.

Then it stopped and a girl’s voice said, “Darn it. What kind of rose? I can never remember what kind of rose.”

Then the singing started again.

’Twas down in the garden this fair maid did go

A-plucking the beautiful—blah blah rose
.

“Darn it,” said the voice again.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Who are you?” I said as loudly as possible.

The singing stopped. Silence.

“I know you’re a ghost,” I said, trying not to let my voice shake too much. “Stop trying to scare me and tell me who you are.”

Silence. And then, finally, a cross little voice snapped at me out of the darkness.

“I’m not a ghost. Are you a ghost?”

I couldn’t believe it. Here I was, talking to a ghost in my own attic!

“No, I’m not a ghost.
You’re
a ghost. You’re invisible.”

The voice gasped. “I’m not! I can see my hands clearly. You’re the ghost. You’re invisible.”

“I am not!” I replied. “I can see my hands too, but I can’t see you. Where are you?”

“I’m in my attic,” said the voice.

“I’m in
MY
attic,” I said.

“I don’t see you,” said the voice.

“Well, I’m here, and I’d like to know why you’re haunting my attic.”

“I’d like to know why you’re haunting
MY
attic,” gasped the ghost.

This obviously wasn’t getting us anywhere.

Rose

I felt sick to my stomach. I was not used to invisible ghosts. And I certainly was not used to ghosts that talked so much. Especially out loud.

My heart sank. I hadn’t seen one ghost since I’d got home from the hospital, and I had really hoped they were gone forever. And now here was a ghost, right in my attic, in my own special nest. Where one came, the rest would follow, and I just knew I’d go stark raving mad if I couldn’t keep them away from me.

“Tell me,” said the ghost, “did you die a horrible death? Are you doomed to wander the ghostly regions between the land of the living and the life beyond?”

“Stop playing games,” I said. “You know I’m not a ghost. You’re the ghost, and you’re pretending to think I’m a ghost to drive me crazy. It isn’t going to work. Go away. All I want to do is sit in my attic and read my books and sing my songs in peace. Is that too much to ask?”

“Do ghosts read?” asked the ghost. “That’s very interesting. Do you have to turn the pages or can you sort of absorb the story by holding the book and pulling the words into your head?”

“I—am—not—a—ghost!” I said slowly and firmly. “Ghosts don’t read! They’re ethereal. They haunt people. They follow them down the street, they watch them when they’re doing their homework, they lurk behind gravestones, they hide in people’s attics—”

“For someone who says they’re not a ghost, you seem to know an awful lot about them,” said the ghost.

I opened my mouth but no words came out. This was the most infuriating ghost I had ever met.

THE DISEMBODIED VOICE

Polly

It felt so good to have a chance to put my ghost lore to work.

“I can prove you’re a ghost,” I said. “I’ve just experienced four—no, five—classic signs of a ghostly presence. One—it’s freezing cold—”

“We’re in an attic!” said the ghost. “It’s October! Of course it’s cold.”

“Two—I felt a draft but there was nowhere a draft could get in.”

“We’re in an
ATTIC
!” repeated the ghost. “Attics are drafty!”

“Three—I smelled an unusual smell, the smell of fresh roses, and there are no roses in this attic.”

“My grandmother’s perfume,” said the ghost. “I put it on just before I came up here. I’m telling you, I’m not a ghost!”

“Four—I heard ghostly footsteps.” The ghost tried to say something but I hurried on. “And five—I heard a disembodied voice singing a sad song.”

“I am not a disembodied voice!” said the ghost. “I am a live girl, sitting in my attic, minding my own business until some crazy invisible ghost arrived and started tormenting me. You’re
not the first ghost I’ve ever met, you know! I’m not scared of you. Just leave me alone!”

“Look,” I said. “It’s okay. I understand. I’ve read all about this. Maybe you lived here long ago, and you died—and your spirit has been trapped in this attic ever since, and now I’ve been sent here to help you break free, and—”

There was a scrambling noise and then a
THUMP
!
THUMP
! on the wall behind me and the floor began to shake as if someone was stamping their feet.


I

AM

NOT

A

GHOST
!!” yelled the ghost. “
MY NAME IS ROSE MCPHERSON AND I LIVE AT
43
CEMETERY LANE AND I AM TWELVE YEARS OLD AND I AM NOT DEAD
!”

This ghost was angry.

Rose

It felt good to lose my temper. I made a lot of noise, but the ghost didn’t seem at all put out.

“Wait. Where did you say you live?” she asked calmly.

“43
CEMETERY LANE
!” I repeated.

Silence.

“Hit the wall again,” suggested the ghost.

THUMP
.

“Umm … Ghost?” she said.

“My name is Rose!”

“Ummm … Rose?” she said.

“What?”

“I live at 41 Cemetery Lane. Next door.”

It took me a minute to figure it out. “You mean you’re in your own attic? On the other side of this wall?”

“Yes,” replied the ghost. “I guess you’re not a ghost after all.” She sounded disappointed.

“But why is it I can hear you so clearly?” I asked. “As if you were right here beside me?”

“I am right here beside you,” she said, starting to tap against the wall. “This wall must be really thin, not like the brick walls downstairs.”

“That must be it,” I said. A great feeling of relief swept over me and I spoke without thinking. “So you’re not a ghost either. You must be one of the dreadful Lacey children who live next door.”

“Who says we’re dreadful?” asked the girl.

Oops. “Um—my mother.”

“Oh,” said the girl. “Well—she’s right. We are.”

GHOST GIRL

Polly

My mind was ticking over pretty fast. If she really wasn’t a ghost, how come I’d never seen her? How could a girl just my age live next door and me not know about it?

“Hang on … how come I’ve never seen you?” I asked.

“Not this again,” said the ghost.

“It’s a fair question,” I said. “If you’re not a ghost, and you really do live next door, don’t you think I’d know?”

“Not necessarily,” replied the ghost. “I’m an invisible kind of person.”

WOW
. An invisible person. But not a ghost?

“What do you mean, invisible?”

“People don’t notice me. I’m quiet.”

“Quiet is one thing but invisible is something else. I think I’d be the first to know if a girl my age moved in next door.”

The ghost sighed. “I haven’t seen you either, but I’ve seen your brothers and several teenage girls, and your mother, who is always rushing in and out with a small child, and I saw your father when he had the fight with my father.”

“Fight? What fight?”

“The day we moved in. Your father flew into a rage because our moving van was taking up all the parking space and he had to park on the next street.”

“I never heard about that.”

“My father thought your dad was going to hit him. He told me to keep away from your family, and my mother said you were all savages.”

BOOK: The Swallow
7.35Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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