The book I was holding was so old it was falling apart. The title was written in gold, but the gold had mostly rubbed off. The binding was peeling away, and two of the corners of the cover had cracked off. Gingerly, I opened the book to the first page. A History of Stoneybrooke, it said again. By Enos Cotterling. Copyright MDCCCLXXII. I dredged up an old arithmetic lesson (where was Stacey’s math brain when I needed it?), and decided the book had been published in 1872. Over a hundred years ago! Stoneybrooke … was that our town — Stoneybrook? When had the e been dropped? A line of teeny-tiny print said that the book had been published by Tynedale Press, right here in town.
I forgot all about Mom’s purse and wandered back to the couch, turning pages as I went. The table of contents looked pretty boring — taxation, imports and exports, trade, growth of town, property laws. But the very last chapter sounded interesting. It was called, simply, Legends.
I turned carefully to the back of the book. Two pages fell out, and I replaced them guiltily, even though I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong.
“Like most New En gland towns,” the chapter began, “Stoneybrooke is replete with Indian myths and legends. But one local legend, not to be discounted lightly, is the unsolved mystery of Mister Jared Mullray.” That did it. I was hooked. I started reading in earnest.
It seemed that long before Enos Cotterling had written his history, around the year 1810, a family in Stoneybrooke, the Mullrays, had fallen into financial trouble. They were deeply in debt to a banker named Mathias Bradford and couldn’t pay their bills. The only things they owned that were worth much at all were their home, “a clapboard structure out past the Smythe property,” and their small farm, Wood Acres. In order to pay off their debts, the Mullrays were forced to sell both, including their furniture and many of their belongings.
Old Man Mullray wanted to move up to Peacham, a tiny, young town in Vermont, and he convinced his wife, his daughter, his son-in-law, and their three children to move with him. There, he said, they could start over. But he could not convince his younger son, thirty-year-old Jared, to go with them. Jared, the author wrote, had never been “quite right in the head.” He loved Wood Acres — a little too much.
Early on a Monday morning, the Mullrays packed a few personal belongings onto a cart, saddled up one of their horses, and prepared to leave. Mathias Bradford, who was going to sell off the farm, arrived with some men from the bank just as the Mullrays were tossing their last bag onto the cart.
“Jared!” shouted Old Man Mullray.
“I ain’t leaving!” was the reply everyone heard. But Mr. Bradford was to say later that it didn’t sound as if his voice was coming from the house or the barn — sort of somewhere in between, although no one could see him anywhere.
(A clap of thunder sounded, and I shivered, pulling my blanket more tightly around me.)
Old Man Mullray glanced at this wife, who shrugged sadly. Then he flicked the reins, and the horse plodded down the lane. The Mullrays left Wood Acres behind forever.
Now, Mathias Bradford and four other men (one of whom was the head of the town council) had watched the Mullrays drive off without Jared. And they had heard his disembodied voice say that he wasn’t leaving. But although the house and barn were searched thoroughly as every last stick of furniture and every last harness were sold off, no one ever saw Jared again. He simply disappeared.
A few people said he had packed up and moved to Alaska, but Mr. Bradford didn’t believe that. He had heard Jared and was convinced he’d never leave. The only question was — where was he? Soon another rumor began to circulate about Jared, and the people of Stoneybrooke were more inclined to believe this one. They thought that Jared, who couldn’t bear to leave Wood Acres, was still there … somewhere. They thought he must know about some secret hiding place, and that he stayed there by day and scavenged for food at night.
Decades passed. By the time Enos Cotterling was writing his history, he presumed that Jared was dead. In fact, the story about Jared had become a ghost story. Jared, people said, had died in his secret hiding place, but his spirit remained. Wood Acres (which had been swallowed up by another, larger, farm and was no longer called Wood Acres) was haunted by Jared, who was always on the prowl not only for food, but for trinkets and things that he could sell in order to try to pay back Mr. Bradford.
I put the book down thoughtfully. Wood Acres, a ghost, a secret hiding pl … A secret hiding place! Suddenly, my arms broke out in crawly gooseflesh. I shivered so hard my teeth chattered.
It fit! Everything fit! Enos Cotterling hadn’t described where Wood Acres was, but it must be my house and my barn! The house was old enough, it had once been part of a farm, and there certainly was a good hiding place on the property … a place you could yell from and sound as if you were between the house and the barn, yet not be seen.
There really was a ghost in our secret passage, and that ghost was crazy Jared Mullray!
Sunday
There are times when I think babysitting is the hardest thing in th world. Last nigt was one those times. I was baby siting for Jamie Newton. And lucy. Lucy was an angle, but Jamie wasn’t. Boy! I have never seen him like that. All I was trying to do was put him to bed. That’s all. I didn’t have to give him diner or anything. I just had to get him to sleep. And I really wanted to too. Because there was this good program on tv I wanted to see it but Jamie WOULD NOT GO TO SLEEP!
It was eight o’clock when Claudia reached the Newtons’. Her job that night really should have been one of the easiest in baby-sitting history. Lucy was already in her crib and sound asleep. Jamie had already eaten dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Newton were only going to be gone for two hours. All Claudia had to do was put Jamie to bed — and the evening was hers.
That’s how the evening should have gone. There was just one problem: Jamie didn’t want to go to bed. I mean, he really didn’t want to go to bed.
When Claudia rang the Newtons’ doorbell that night, Jamie answered it. Right away, Claudia could tell he was wound up.
“Hi-hi! Hi-hi! Hi-hi!” he greeted her.
“Hi-hi, Jamie,” said Claud.
Jamie was jumping up and down, up and down, like a yo-yo in blue jeans. “I learned a new song!” he exclaimed. “Listen to this: I’m in love with a big blue frog. A big blue frog loves me. It’s not as bad as it may seem. He wears glasses and he’s six foot three. Oh —”
Jamie’s song was interrupted by his father. Mr. Newton rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry I taught him that,” he said. “He’s been singing it all day. And there are several more verses.”
Claudia laughed. “I think it’s funny,” she said.
“Only the first seventy-five times,” replied Mr. Newton, but he was smiling.
Mrs. Newton came down the stairs as Claudia stepped inside. “‘Hi, honey,” she said. “Well, the baby’s asleep, and Jamie has eaten. I don’t think he needs a bath tonight —”
“Yea!” interrupted Jamie.
“So just put his pj’s on him. He’s had a long day and should go to bed —” (she glanced at Jamie, who was listening intently) “— s-o-o-n,” she spelled out.
“No fair spelling, Mommy!” Jamie protested.
“Okay,” Claudia said to Mrs. Newton. Then she added, “Don’t worry, Jamie. We’ll have fun tonight before you go to bed.”
“Goody.”
The Newtons left then, and Jamie began hopping up and down again.
“Okay, Jamie. Time to put your pj’s on,” said Claudia.
“Already?” he whined.
“Yup. It’s almost bedtime. Come on upstairs.”
“Just let me show you this one thing first…. Okay?”
“Okay,” Claudia relented. “Just one thing.”
“It’s down in the playroom.” Jamie took Claudia by the hand and led her down a flight of stairs to the Newtons’ rec room. He stood in the middle of the room and looked around.
“What is it?” asked Claudia.
“It’s, um …” Jamie
put his finger in his mouth. “It’s this!” He darted over to a beat-up dump truck. “Look at it,” he said.
“Your old truck?” asked Claudia, puzzled.
Jamie paused. “Oh, no. That wasn’t it. I meant …” He picked up a little wooden cow that was lying next to the truck. “I meant my cow.”
“Jamie,” said Claudia, growing suspicious.
“No, I meant my — my Beary Bear,” he said, snatching up a stuffed animal.
“That was three things, Jame-o,” Claudia pointed out gently. “Time to go upstairs now.”
“Can I wear my Paddington Bear pajamas, Claudy?” asked Jamie.
“Sure,” replied Claudia, glad he was actually thinking about bed.
“Good,” said Jamie, “‘Cause they’re in the wash.”
“Then I’m afraid you can’t wear them.” Claudia led Jamie back upstairs.
“But you just said I could.”
“I didn’t know they were in the wash when I said that. You can’t wear them if they’re dirty.”
“Let’s wash them,” suggested Jamie.
“Sorry. That’ll take too much time. We’d have to dry them, too.”
“How long would it take?”
“Too long.”
“How many minutes?”
“Twelve hundred and forty-nine,” replied Claudia.
“Wow,” said Jamie.
Claudia and Jamie tiptoed past Lucy’s room and into Jamie’s. Claudia pointed to his bed. “Look,” she said. “Mommy laid out your farm pajamas.”
Jamie made a face. “I don’t want to wear them. They’re for babies. They have baby stuff all over them.”
Claudia looked at them. They were sort of babyish. “Let’s choose a different pair, then.” She opened his bureau and brought out two more pairs. “Which ones?” she asked. (She was careful not to say, “Do you want to wear either of these?” Jamie might have said “No.”)
Jamie pointed to one pair.
“Great,” said Claud. “Okay, off with your shirt.” She waited for Jamie to raise his arms so she could slip his shirt off.
“I’ll do it myself,” said Jamie. “You leave.”
“Leave!” exclaimed Claudia. Jamie was too young to be getting modest. “How about if I turn my back?”
Jamie considered the offer. “Okay,” he said at last. “But don’t peek.”
Claudia sat cross-legged on Jamie’s bed, facing the wall. The room grew very quiet. Claudia studied the pattern of the wallpaper. “Jamie?” she asked after a minute or two had gone by.
No answer.
“Is it all right if I turn around to see how you’re doing?”
Silence.
Very slowly, Claudia swiveled around. Jamie was gone.
“Jamie!” Claudia cried as loudly as she dared. (She didn’t want to wake Lucy.)
Claudia ran through the hallway, pausing to peek into the bathroom. No Jamie. She ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. No Jamie. She ran down the last flight of steps and into the playroom.
“Hi-hi!” said Jamie brightly, but he looked a bit sheepish. He was riding a toy car and was still fully dressed.
“James Anderson Newton. You were supposed to put your pj’s on,” said Claudia. “I’m beginning to lose my patience. Now go back to your room, please. And this time I’m not going to turn my back.”
Jamie scowled, but he did as Claudia said. When he was finally in his pajamas, Claudia tucked him in bed.
“Oops,” he said. “I forgot to brush my teeth. And I ate cookies after dinner. Cookies have sugar, and sugar makes calories in your teeth.”
Claudia had to smile. “Cavities,” she told him. “All right. Into the bathroom.”
Jamie scampered down the hall. (Claudia had the sense to follow him.) Standing at the sink, he squeezed about a yard of toothpaste onto his brush and worked it around in his mouth, creating a great amount of foam. He rinsed and spat six times. Claudia waited patiently.
When he was done, he dashed down the hall and leaped into his bed.
“How about a story?” asked Claudia.
“Oops,” said Jamie. “I forgot to go to the bathroom.” He ran down the hall again, and returned a few minutes later.
“Now,” said Claudia. “How about a story?”
“Oops,” said Jamie. “I forgot to get a drink of water.”
“I’ll get it,” said Claudia. “You stay right here. Don’t move a muscle.”
Claudia filled a paper cup with water and brought it to Jamie. He was sitting in exactly the same position as he’d been in when she’d left the room. She handed the cup to him.
Jamie didn’t reach for it.
“Here you go,” said Claudia.
“An I oove?” asked Jamie, barely moving his lips.
“What?”
“An I oove?”
“Can you move?”
“Yeh.”
“Of course you can move.”
“But you said ‘don’t move a muscle.’”
“Claudia sighed. “I just meant don’t go anywhere. And you didn’t. Here. Drink your water.”
Jamie took the cup and drank.
“All right,” said Claudia. She pulled a book off his shelf. “Let’s read Harold and the Purple Crayon.”
Claudia read the story to Jamie. When she was finished he said, “Now can we read Make Way for Ducklings?”
“Oh, Jame-o,” said Claud. “I’m sorry, but that one’s too long.”
“Please, please, please? Pretty puh-lease with a cherry on top?”
Against her better judgment, Claudia gave in. It took nearly a half an hour to read the story because Jamie kept interrupting her to ask questions.
“But,” he said, as Claudia was closing the book, “why did Mr. Mallard leave Mrs. Mallard and the ducklings all alone?”
“He was waiting for them at their new home.”
“Oh. How come Michael called all the policemen?”
“Because,” replied Claud, “the duck family needed help. Now into bed.”
Jamie crawled under the covers. He asked for another drink of water … and another. Finally, he seemed sleepy.
Claudia tiptoed downstairs and settled herself in front of the TV. She’d been watching for about five minutes when she heard a voice behind her say, “But how come Mr. Mallard just waited on the island? And can I have another drink of water?”
“You know what I think?” asked Mary Anne dreamily.
“What?” I replied.
The two of us were lying on our backs in the hayloft in the barn. The day was stickily warm and sunny, and I could see particles of dust floating through the sunshine that streamed through the cracks in the walls. It was only the third time Mary Anne had ever been in the barn. She’s such a ‘fraidy cat. Just because the barn is a little rickety.
As if reading my thoughts, she went on, “I think I’m too afraid of things.”
I couldn’t disagree with her.
“And being afraid always makes things worse than they really are. I was afraid of boys before Stacey and I went to Sea City. I was afraid of making new friends before I met you.”
“You were afraid of the barn,” I pointed out.
“Yup,” Mary Anne glanced through the copy of Sixteen magazine that was lying between us.
“Are you feeling braver now?” I asked her.
“Sure,” she said absentmindedly. “Gosh, look at this kid Cam Geary. Isn’t he adorable?”
“Yeah … How brave are you feeling?”
“Pretty brave. I wish Cam lived here in Stoneybrook.”
“How’d you like to prove to me just how brave you’ve become?”
“Huh?” Mary Anne finally dragged her eyeballs away from Cam Geary.
“I said, ‘How’d you like to prove how brave you’ve become?’”
“What do you mean?” asked Mary Anne suspiciously.
“I’ve got a great secret to show you.”
“You do?”
“Yes. But you’
re going to have to be very, very brave. Come on!” I jumped up. “Come in the house with me and we’ll get flashlights.”
“Flashlights?” repeated Mary Anne. “Whatever this is — I guess it has to do with the dark?”
“Right. But you’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”
“No. I’m afraid of all the things I can’t see that the dark is hiding.”
“Oh, Mary Anne. I thought you said you were getting so brave.”
“Yeah, well …”
I couldn’t admit that I wasn’t feeling particularly brave myself. What I wanted to do, of course, was show Mary Anne the secret passage. I hadn’t had the nerve to go in it, let alone talk about it, since the night I’d read about Jared Mullray. I wanted someone to come with me. I also wanted someone to be able to share the amazing secret.
I got to my feet and picked up the magazine. “Let’s go,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “You are in for the surprise of your life.”
Mary Anne and I climbed out of the hayloft. We went into our house and found a couple of flashlights. Then I led Mary Anne to my bedroom.
I had decided to enter the passage from the house instead of the barn. For one thing, seeing my wall swing open was a lot more dramatic than shoving in the dusty old trapdoor. For another, it was a lot less scary. And if we left the wall open, it would let some light into the passage.
“Okay. Get ready,” I said. I pressed the molding and the wall began to open up. I turned around to watch Mary Anne’s reaction.
It was worth it. All she was able to do was let her mouth drop open, cover it with both hands, and stare.
“I found it,” I said unnecessarily. “A secret passage.”
“Oh, wow. I don’t believe it.” Mary Anne’s voice was little more than a whisper. “How — how did you find it?”
I told her the story, but I left out all the stuff about the buckle and the nickel and Jared Mullray. I’m no fool. If Mary Anne knew those things, she’d probably never get within a mile of my house again.
The Ghost at Dawn's House Page 6
