Wait Till Helen Comes

by Mary Downing Hahn

  Shushing me, Michael went toward my bedroom window. “She could have climbed out,” he said, “but she’s too short to get back in that way.”

  “How about this?” I pointed to an old wooden box lying on its side under the window. “She probably stood on it, and it fell over when she got inside.”

  Michael righted the box under the window. “I guess she could have,” he said doubtfully.

  “You’re spying on me again!”

  My scalp prickled at the sound of Heather’s voice. She was standing inside, her face pressed against the window screen.

  “You better leave me alone!” Heather’s voice rose shrilly. “I know what you want to do—you want to make Helen go away, but she won’t, not unless I tell her to. And I never will!”

  I looked at Michael, but he was scowling at Heather. “You can’t scare me,” he said scornfully.

  “She’s going to get you!” Heather’s voice dropped to a hiss. “Just wait and see. It won’t be long now.”

  “Heather?” Dave came into the room. “What’s going on? Where’s Molly?”

  “Out there,” Heather said. “Spying on me.” Her voice quavered. “Her and Michael. They won’t leave me alone.” She was crying now, and I could hear Dave trying to comfort her.

  Climbing up on the box, Michael peered into the room. “She’s lying!”

  Dave came to the window. “How long is this going to go on? Can’t you see what you’re doing to her? What kind of a little monster are you anyway?”

  Michael glared at him. “Why don’t you open your eyes and see what she’s really like?” he yelled.

  “Michael!” Mom took Dave’s place at the window. “You and Molly get in here this minute!”

  “We didn’t do anything to her,” Michael said without moving from the box.

  “I said, come inside!” Mom frowned at us. “What are you doing out there in your pajamas at six o’clock in the morning? Wasn’t last night enough? Do we have to start out today with the same business?”

  Hearing the desperation in her voice, I plucked at Michael’s sleeve. “Do what she says,” I mumbled.

  Shaking his head at the unfairness of it all, Michael jumped down from the box and the two of us walked slowly around the house to the back door. My pajamas were wet with dew from the knees down, and my feet were numb with cold. “Do you believe me now?” I asked Michael as we hesitated on the porch, afraid to go inside and face everybody’s anger.

  “Not about the ghost,” Michael said without looking at me. “But I think she did go outside last night.”

  “And I followed her and I saw Helen.” I tried to make him meet my eyes, but he edged away from me and opened the screen door.

  “You imagined that part,” he insisted. “You heard Heather giving her spiel, pretending to talk to Helen, and you thought you actually saw her. You didn’t see Helen, though, Molly. You didn’t! She doesn’t exist!”

  He walked ahead of me down the hall and went into his room, closing the door behind him. Taking the hint, I went reluctantly to my room. Dave and Heather were gone, but Mom was sitting on my bed waiting for me.

  “Get dressed,” she said, as if the very effort of speaking exhausted her. “You’ll catch your death in those wet pajamas.” She stood up wearily. “I want to talk to you and Michael later. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  What Mom had to say wasn’t very different from what she’d said the night before. “I thought you were going to cooperate,” she said finally. “I hoped you were going to try to be nicer, but what do I wake up to? Heather crying because you and Michael are spying on her. Dave upset and angry. And you two outside in your pajamas. I just don’t see how you could do it, not after the talk we had before you went to bed!”

  “You don’t understand, Mom!” I threw myself at her, trying to climb into her lap. “There’s something awful here, and it’s making everything worse. It’s not Michael and me. It’s not even just Heather. It’s something out there—” I gestured out the door toward the graveyard. “Under the oak tree, a grave.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mom grasped my shoulders and held me away from her, staring into my eyes.

  “It’s Helen,” I screamed. “It’s Helen!” Then I began crying too hard to talk.

  “She thinks Heather has called up a ghost or something,” I heard Michael tell Mom, using his mature, scientific voice. “Heather talks about a girl named Helen all the time, but Helen’s just something she’s dreamed up. You know, to scare us with—not me, actually. Just Molly.”

  “Oh, Molly, Molly.” Mom rocked me, trying to make me stop crying. “Not that ghost business again. If I’d known having a graveyard on our property was going to upset you so much, I’d never have moved us out here.”

  “It’s not my imagination,” I gulped. “I saw Helen.”

  Mom sighed. “Dave says you have a terrible fear of death,” she said, “and it’s manifesting itself in your belief in ghosts.”

  “Why don’t you ask Heather about it?” I pulled away from Mom, angry that she would turn to Dave for an explanation of my behavior and then actually believe him.

  “Ask me what?” Heather and Dave appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  “Tell them about Helen.” I jumped off Mom’s lap and confronted Heather angrily.

  Shrinking back against Dave, the little girl looked up at me, her eyes wide and clear. “Who?”

  “Helen, your great friend. Tell them what she’s going to do when she comes!” I glared at her, furious. “Tell them how you meet her in the graveyard and in the ruins of the Harper House!”

  “Daddy, Daddy, what’s she talking about?” Heather turned away from me and pressed her face against Dave’s side, her arms encircling his waist. “Make her leave me alone. She’s scaring me!”

  “That’s enough, Molly.” Dave gave Heather a hug. “It’s all right, honey.” He and Mom looked at each other as if they were unsure what to make of me. “Are you ready to leave, Jean?” he asked.

  “Leave?” I turned to Mom. “Where are you going?”

  “Oh, we thought we’d take Heather with us when we go shopping. Dave needs to go to the clay supplier, and I’m low on some of my paints.” Mom toyed with her coffee cup as if she were ashamed to meet Michael’s and my stare. “We’ll be back sometime this afternoon.”

  “But what about us?” I asked. “Why can’t we go?”

  “We thought it would be better to separate you two and Heather,” Dave said. “You’re old enough to take care of yourselves.”

  As I started to protest, Michael interrupted. “That sounds like a good idea. Come on, Molly.” He picked up his empty cereal bowl and glass and carried them to the sink. “Have a nice time,” he said to Mom. “With her.”

  He left the room without looking at anybody, obviously expecting me to follow him. I hesitated for a moment, thinking Mom might change her mind and stay home with us, but she stood up and slung her purse over her shoulder.

  “You and Michael behave yourselves,” she said. “We should be home around three.” Giving me a quick hug and kiss, she whispered, “And please, Molly, no more talk about ghosts.” She looked at me as if she were worried about my sanity. “I know you’re a very imaginative girl, but don’t get carried away.”

  I stood in the doorway watching them get into the van. As Dave pulled away, Heather peered out of the back window. When she saw me, she stuck out her tongue.

  “Molly?” Michael came up behind me, carrying his collecting gear. “Want to go down to the swamp with me?”

  Normally I would have said no, but I didn’t want to stay in the house by myself. Not today. Not with Helen so close. So I helped him pack lunches, and we set off for the swamp, following the creek away from Harper House.

  Although I couldn’t help worrying about snakes, Michael assured me we were safe, and slowly I began to relax and enjoy myself. I actually helped him catch a couple of salamanders. He had brought along a plastic bowl which he lined with moss. A
dding a little water and a rock, he put the salamanders into their new home and fed them a few insects.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked me.

  “Sure.” We sat down on a fallen tree and ate our sandwiches. A bullfrog boomed every now and then from somewhere in the swamp, and I watched a snapping turtle hoist himself out of the water to bask in the sunlight. Overhead a bluejay screamed and a crow answered.

  “Do you really think I imagined seeing Helen?” I asked Michael, unable even here to forget what had happened in the graveyard.

  “You must have.” Michael took a big bite of his sandwich and chewed it noisily.

  “Then why do you think she seemed so real?” I watched the turtle flop back into the water. “She was just as real as you are.”

  “Maybe—and, believe me, I hate to say it—Dave is right about your being scared of dying.”

  “But aren’t you scared? Isn’t everybody?”

  Michael poked a stick into the water and watched the long-legged skater bugs skitter away from it. “It’s like nuclear war, Molly. If I think about it, I get really scared, so I don’t let myself. There’s no sense in worrying about things you can’t change.”

  I envied the way my little brother could dismiss scary thoughts. “What do you think happens when people die, though? Do you think part of you lives forever?” I watched him stir the water with his stick, frowning down at our reflections. “Or do you think it’s just like going to sleep and never waking up?” I persisted.

  “I don’t know.” Michael turned to me. “I told you I don’t like to think about things like that.”

  “Then you are scared. Just like me.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t go around claiming I saw a ghost.”

  “No.” I gazed out across the water. “But suppose you did see one, Michael. If Helen is real, it means something. Think what it would be like to be alone for all eternity.” I shivered and drew my knees up to my chest. Hugging them, I realized how unhappy Helen must be. How afraid. How alone.

  “If she’s alone,” I mused more to myself than to Michael, “she must want a friend, someone to keep her company. Those children, the ones Mr. Simmons told us about, suppose Helen lured them into the pond so they’d stay with her forever?”

  Michael took off his glasses and rubbed them on his tee shirt. “You’re really getting morbid, Molly.”

  “Suppose Helen wants Heather to be with her too?” I remembered the struggle she had put up when we dragged her away from the pond. “Heather could be the one who’s in danger, Michael, not us.”

  Michael sighed in exasperation. “If I hear much more about Helen, I’m going to get as crazy as you and Heather are!” Rising to his feet, he picked up the bowl of salamanders. “You’re really a lot of fun,” he added when I started to cry. I just couldn’t help it.

  “Where are you going?” I called as he walked off into the woods.

  “Back to the church,” he said without looking at me.

  11

  AS SOON as I came out of the woods behind the church, I knew something was wrong. The air shimmered with heat, and it was very still. No breeze ruffled the leaves of the maples; no bird sang; no car sped down Clark Road. The clouds in the sky seemed to hover overhead, silent witnesses waiting and watching as I followed Michael toward the back door.

  “Wait,” I called to him. “Wait for me, Michael!” I ran across the grass and caught up with him at the steps. “Don’t go in there!” I grabbed his arm, almost making him drop the bowl of salamanders.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Michael yanked his arm free and stared at me, almost as if he were afraid of me. “Are you going off the deep end or something?”

  “There’s something wrong.” I stared at the back door, my heart pounding wildly and my knees shaking. “There’s something in the house!”

  “Molly, stop it.” Michael’s eyes widened behind his glasses, but he didn’t move toward the door.

  Before he could say more, we heard a crash from somewhere inside. Then another. As the noise increased, we clung to each other, too frightened to move.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Michael cried after a resounding thud from inside seemed to shake the entire house.

  Running after him, I glanced back once, just in time to see a pale figure emerge from the back door. It hesitated on the steps for a moment, looking after us, then vanished.

  “Did you see her?” I clutched at Michael’s shirt, making him stop for a moment.

  “Who?” He looked back at the house from the edge of the woods.

  “Helen,” I cried. “Helen! She was in the house, I saw her on the back porch.”

  He shook his head. “You must have seen heat waves or something,” he whispered. “Whoever’s in our house isn’t any ghost. It’s probably a motorcycle gang or something. What are we going to do, Molly?” He edged backward into the woods, putting a screen of trees and bushes between us and the church. “I wish Mom would come back.”

  Sinking down next to him on a log, I shivered. “I know what I saw, Michael. She was standing on the porch looking at us, and laughing. Why won’t you believe me?”

  “Because this is the twentieth century, and I don’t believe in ghosts!” His voice shook and he moved farther away from me.

  “What about poltergeists? I’ve even read stuff in the newspaper about them. They throw furniture and destroy stuff, and scientists don’t have any explanation for them.”

  “Yes, but you never see them. They cause a lot of destruction, but they don’t manifest themselves the way you claim Helen does.” He stood up and began walking away from me.

  “Where are you going?” I leapt up and crashed through the bushes behind him.

  “I think we should wait up the road for Mom and Dave. The worst thing you can do is come home while the burglars are in your house. That’s how people get killed.”

  “She’s gone now,” I told him. “I saw her leave.”

  Ignoring me, Michael pushed through the woods, still carrying the salamanders. “It’s almost three o’clock,” he said. “They should be coming along any minute.”

  We plunged through trailing vines of honeysuckle and stumbled out into the sunlight by the side of the road. Without saying a word to each other, we sat down in the shade and watched for the van.

  After a half hour or so, I heard the sound of a motor. Jumping to my feet, I saw the van bouncing toward us: Dave at the wheel, Heather beside him, and Mom sitting in the back. He braked quickly when he saw Michael and me, kicking up a cloud of white dust.

  “What is it? Is something wrong?” Mom struggled to open the side door as Michael and I jostled each other, anxious to get inside.

  “Somebody broke into the house!” Michael gasped. “We heard them when we came home from the swamp.”

  “Are you sure?” Dave craned around from the front seat, frowning as if he thought Michael was lying.

  “Of course I’m sure!” Michael leaned toward Dave, his face flushed. “They were making a lot of noise. I think they’ve wrecked the house.”

  Mom put her arm around me, holding me close, her face buried in my hair. “Thank goodness you didn’t go inside,” she murmured.

  Dave put the van into gear and drove toward the church. “If they’re still inside, I’ll keep on driving into Holwell and call the police,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, they’re gone,” I said, glancing at Heather as I spoke. She was looking out the window, her face turned away from Dave, smiling past her reflection at the green trees.

  Sure enough, when we pulled into the driveway we saw no sign of anyone. The little church sat silent and deserted in the shade of the maples.

  “It looks all right to me,” Dave said. “This better not be your idea of a joke, Michael.”

  Michael stiffened beside me, a scowl on his face, but he didn’t say anything. Silently he followed Dave up the steps and into the kitchen, with the rest of us close behind.

  “It’s freezing cold in here,” M
om said, folding her arms across her chest and shivering.

  Again I glanced at Heather, who had pushed her way to Dave’s side. Catching my eye, she smiled. “I told you so, Molly,” she whispered, never letting go of Dave’s hand.

  Dave led us down the hall. Everything seemed to be in order until we reached Michael’s room. When Dave opened the door, we stepped back as cold air rushed out to meet us. Hesitating on the threshold, we stared at the room in horror. Everything that Michael cherished lay in a heap of rubble in the middle of the floor. His books, his specimen cases, his fossils and rocks, his microscope, his aquarium—all were smashed and broken, ruined. His bureau lay on its side—its drawers emptied, its mirror shattered. Not even his bed had been spared. The blankets and sheets had been hurled across the room, and the mattress leaned against a wall, his clock radio in fragments beside it.

  “Oh, Michael!” Mom put her arms around him and let him cry great, gasping sobs that shook his whole body.

  “My insects, my butterflies, everything’s ruined,” he wailed. “Everything.”

  Dave rested a hand awkwardly on Michael’s shoulder. “The police will get to the bottom of this. Whoever is responsible will pay, believe me he will.”

  Then he turned to me. “We’d better take a look at your and Heather’s room,” he said.

  But Heather was there ahead of us, sitting on her bed, still smiling. Her side of the room was untouched, but mine was destroyed. My books, my diaries and journals, my teddy bears had been ripped to bits. Like Michael’s, my bed had been torn apart, my clothes scattered about, my china and glass unicorns shattered.

  “They must have heard you and Michael,” Dave said. “You scared them off, I guess, before they wrecked the entire house.”

  But I wasn’t listening. Instead I was staring at a scrawled message on the wall over my bed. Written faintly in an old-fashioned hand, it said, “I have come. H.E.H.”

  “What did I tell you?” Heather whispered. Without my noticing, she had crept to my side. One cold hand touched my arm as she smiled up at me, her back to Dave.

  Pulling away from her, I ran to Mom who was standing in the doorway, one arm around Michael. “It’s all her fault,” I cried. “She made this happen!”