If You Find This

by Matthew Baker

  “We lost them!” I (piano)whispered.

  Grandpa Rose (piano)grunted, nodding. Wind (forte)gusted through and a flurry of maroon leaves tumbled whirling into the woods around us. We stumbled across the creek, scattering (forte)squawking herons.

  Standing on the porch of the ghosthouse, staring at the chipped paint and the busted knob of the door, I realized suddenly just what I had gotten myself into. This time I couldn’t just peek in. This time I actually had to go inside.

  The door (piano)creaked open. Grandpa Rose hobbled into the ghosthouse, leaving footprints in the dust. Dead leaves (piano)rasped against the floor. Tattered curtains (piano)fluttered in the wind. Grandpa Rose collapsed on the hearth of the fireplace, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeves.

  I stepped into the ghosthouse. The door (mezzo-piano)creaked shut. I had never been inside the ghosthouse before. But I had heard stories whispered, at the bus stop, in the locker room. Stories about floating jewelry, dancing mirrors. Stories about sinks of blood. Stories about ghosts like lightning blinding kids’ eyes.

  Grandpa Rose scratched at his beard with both hands, looking from staircase to fireplace, from fireplace to entryway.

  “Will you be okay sleeping here?” I (piano)said.

  “I’ve slept on floors before,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.

  “I can bring you food,” I (piano)said.

  “I’ll drink the well’s water,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.

  His volume was making me nervous. I felt like, if there were ghosts living here, we should be talking very quietly, or our voices might bring the ghosts out. There wasn’t a room that didn’t seem haunted. From the entryway, I could see halfway into the bathroom, where the faint shadow of something was flickering over the chipped basin of the sink. The wood floor in the kitchen was staggered with tilted floorboards, like something underground had tried to break through. A hooked chain dangled from the ceiling over the staircase, probably for a chandelier, maybe for a hanging. On the wall above the fireplace was a circle of paint a shade darker than the rest, like where once a portrait had hung, or where a ghost had sunk into the walls. Even the smell in here was freaky. My skin kept tingling, like something invisible was brushing against me.

  “I need to get home right away, so that I’ll have an alibi for when the nurses realize that you’re gone, but after school tomorrow I’ll be back so that we can start looking—” I (piano)said.

  I heard something (piano)murmuring.

  Suddenly Grandpa Rose was looking nervous too.

  “Do you hear something?” Grandpa Rose (piano)whispered.

  I backpedaled into a wall. Grandpa Rose gripped the cane. Stories about vanishing doorways. Stories about ghosts like fog scorching kids’ skin. Stories about voices shrieking in the fireplace. Something (mezzo-piano)murmured again. Something (mezzo-forte)clanked. Something (mezzo-forte)twanged. The door (forte)slammed open.

  I dropped the suitcase, the latch (forte)snapped, socks spilled across the floor.

  “Calculator?” someone (glissando)said.

  Jordan stepped into the ghosthouse, dust swirling at his high-tops.

  “We didn’t shake them, kid,” Grandpa Rose (piano)muttered.

  Jordan pointed at me.

  “What are you doing?” Jordan (forte)said.

  “Nothing,” I (forte)said.

  “Didn’t you hear what happened to Mark Huff?” Jordan (forte)said.

  “Ghost, attic window, tripped out,” I (forte)said.

  “And you came here anyway?” Jordan (forte)said.

  “You have to leave,” I (forte)said.

  Jordan wrapped an arm around my shoulders, like a coach about to teach a secret play to the star player.

  “Listen, Calculator, I get what you’re doing,” Jordan (piano)whispered. “Your grandpa hated the rest home, so you found a different place for him to stay. But Grandpa Dykhouse, my grandpa, he hates the rest home too. He’s miserable, living there. He can’t eat, can’t sleep. He’s always depressed. I want a room for him here.”

  Grandpa Dykhouse stepped into the doorway, wringing his hands. He was wearing faded jeans and a maroon sweater.

  “Jordan?” Grandpa Dykhouse (piano)whispered.

  “There are other abandoned houses,” I (piano)hissed.

  “This is the only haunted house,” Jordan (piano)said.

  “This house is taken,” I (piano)hissed.

  “I’ll tell your parents where you’re hiding your grandpa,” Jordan (piano)said.

  “Mr. Rose?” Grandpa Dykhouse (piano)whispered.

  “King Gunga, everything’s all set now, you can live here,” Jordan (forte)called.

  I had never heard Jordan use a nickname before that wasn’t mean. I wanted a nickname like Grandpa Dykhouse’s. I wanted a nickname like King Gunga.

  “Jordan, I’m going back to the rest home, tonight. I agreed to come along only to make sure that Mr. Rose was going back to the rest home tonight too,” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said.

  “You aren’t going back there. You hate the rest home. This house is yours now. Now you live here,” Jordan (forte)said.

  “Yes, I hate the rest home. This house, however, is filthy, in all likelihood is contaminated with asbestos, and looks about ready to collapse,” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said.

  “So? You can’t count that stuff! You said you wanted to die! So then isn’t an extremely dangerous house actually perfect?” Jordan (forte)said.

  Grandpa Dykhouse ignored this.

  “Mr. Rose, it’s Mr. Dykhouse,” Grandpa Dykhouse (mezzo-piano)whispered. “Do you remember meeting earlier? At breakfast? Talking about boats?”

  Grandpa Rose was hunched on the hearth, (piano)muttering something about shells for cheap coffins.

  Dogs were (mezzo-piano)barking somewhere. The door (mezzo-piano)creaked shut. Grandpa Dykhouse hooked his glasses to his sweater, shaking his head at me, like I had gotten a problem wrong.

  “Nicholas, I’m sorry, but your grandfather can’t stay here,” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said.

  “He has to,” I (forte)said.

  “He can’t be left alone, the state that he’s in,” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said.

  “You can’t take him back there!” I (forte)said. “Our family heirlooms are hidden somewhere, and we’re losing our house, we don’t have the money we need to keep it, unless we find the heirlooms! Grandpa Rose is the key! He hid them! He thinks he can find them! He thinks we can find them together!”

  “How do you know these heirlooms exist?” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said.

  Dogs (mezzo-forte)barked again. Beyond the broken window in the kitchen, dusk had fallen across the meadow. I sat on the staircase, burying my hands in my hair. I felt like I was flunking the biggest exam of my life.

  “I know there’s a map, I don’t know where. I know there are tattoos, I don’t know whose. I know Grandpa Rose lived here, I don’t know when,” I (piano)said.

  “He lived in this house?” Grandpa Dykhouse (mezzo-piano)said.

  “If we lose our house, we lose my brother. My brother is buried in our backyard,” I (piano)said.

  Grandpa Rose wiped ash from his hands onto his pants, leaving streaks of white across the gray, (piano)muttering something about prison hulks.

  “He’s confused now, but he made me swear to bring him here. You can’t take him back to the rest home. The heirlooms could save our house. Please, Grandpa Dykhouse, just leave here, don’t tell anyone where we are, forget you ever saw us,” I (piano)said.

  Grandpa Dykhouse ran his hands across his cheeks, shaking his head again.

  “He can’t be left alone,” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said. “If he’s going to stay here, somebody needs to stay here with him.” He raised a finger, like someone about to give a warning. “And—I can do that—but under certain conditions.” He waved at all the empty rooms. “We’d need food. We’d need blankets. We’d need soap, jackets, silverware, pillows.”

  Jordan (forte)cheered. Something
(mezzo-piano)squealed in the kitchen. Mice, or maybe chipmunks.

  “I don’t know if he’ll want a roommate,” I (forte)said.

  “It’s a roommate or the rest home,” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said.

  “He gets confused sometimes. Plus he’s been to prison. He won’t be easy to live with,” I (forte)said.

  “I was a school librarian for almost forty years,” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said. He crossed his sneakers, leaning against the wallpaper. “There’s nothing he can do I haven’t already seen.”

  Grandpa Rose lay across the hearth, his wig’s curls tangled, his face hidden under the brim of his hat.

  “My father built this house,” Grandpa Rose (piano)muttered. “I’ve done wrong my whole life. Been nothing but greedy. I don’t care what happens to me after we’ve found them. After we’ve given them to your mother I’ll live wherever you want. But until then I refuse to die, I refuse to quit, I will not stop looking. We can’t leave them buried. The heirlooms are worth a fortune. I want to do one good thing.”

  His chest rose and fell. White ash whirled. Dogs (forte)barked again. The porch (piano)creaked. A dog (forte)whined, claws (piano)clicking across the porch. Before I could shout, or scream, or warn anybody to hide, a silhouette appeared at the window.

  Zeke peeked through. Zeke’s eyes were > his normal eyes. Twice as big, maybe.

  “Heirlooms?” Zeke (forte)said.

  As per usual, Grandpa Rose was (piano)snoring.

  WHICH UNDERWORLD

  My mom didn’t come home until dawn. I heard the door being (piano)eased shut, the (piano)patter of footsteps, keys (piano)tinkling on the table. When I had kidnapped Grandpa Rose, I had felt = a hero, but now I felt < a hero. I pretended I was asleep. I didn’t want to see her upset.

  She had called earlier, just as I had come running through the door. Majorly frantic, she interrupted me to say that Grandpa Rose had wandered away from the rest home, and then asked whether Grandpa Rose had come back here. When I said he hadn’t, she said to call the rest home if he did, that she had to go, and not to worry, and then she hung up.

  Now she was in the doorway. Facing away, curled in my sheets, I saw her shadow glide across the wall. She knew I wasn’t asleep somehow, but I kept pretending.

  “We spent all night driving around, trying to find him,” my mom(piano) said.

  She sat on the bed. Bedsprings (glissando)squeaked. I tried to breathe normally.

  “We didn’t find him,” my mom(piano) said.

  The kids in my brain (forte)shouted, “Tell her where he’s hiding!”, (forte)shouted, “Say something, say anything, tell her the truth!”

  She kissed my head.

  “Don’t worry, kiddo. He may be old, but he’s tough. He’ll be okay until we find him,” my mom(piano) said.

  Now I felt < a nothing. She was worried about me, she was worried about my feelings, and I was the one who knew where Grandpa Rose actually was.

  When I woke again, my mom was asleep on the couch, clutching a faded photograph, her hair rayed around her head. In the photograph, a young Grandpa Rose was smoking a black cigarette under birch trees, alone, clean-shaven, wearing a buttoned shirt and tight suspenders. I had seen photographs of Grandpa Rose before. I had never seen a photograph of Grandma Rose though. My mom had said Grandma Rose had never let anyone take her picture.

  I ate some toast. I grabbed my high-tops, my backpack, my violin. I ran through the fog and the dew and sat at the roots of my brother the tree.

  I HAVE HIDDEN GRANDPA ROSE IN THE GHOSTHOUSE WHERE WE WILL HUNT FOR OUR FAMILY HEIRLOOMS, my song said.

  FALL IS HERE. THE SNOWS ARE COMING. YOU CANNOT HIDE OUR GRANDFATHER FOREVER. HE CANNOT STAY WARM IN A HOUSE WITH NO WINDOWS, my brother’s song said.

  I was quietthinking.

  IT’S TIME YOU KNEW THE TRUTH, my song said. OUR PARENTS ARE TRYING TO SELL OUR HOUSE. THEY SAID WE CAN’T TAKE YOU WITH US.

  My brother’s roots gripped the dirt.

  IF WE CAN’T FIND OUR FAMILY HEIRLOOMS, WE’LL HAVE TO MOVE AWAY AND LEAVE YOU FOREVER, my song said. BUT KIDS HAVE BEEN TAKING THINGS FROM THE GHOSTHOUSE FOR YEARS AND YEARS AND YEARS, TAKEN EVEN THE DOORKNOBS FROM THE DOORS, TAKEN EVEN THE DOORS FROM THE CUPBOARDS, THEY’VE TAKEN ALL OF IT AWAY, AND WHAT IF OUR HEIRLOOMS WERE STOLEN BY KIDS YEARS AGO, OR WHAT IF THE HEIRLOOMS WERE NEVER HIDDEN IN THE GHOSTHOUSE, WHAT IF GRANDPA ROSE NEVER REMEMBERS WHERE THE MAP IS, WHAT IF THE TATTOOS DON’T EXIST, WHAT IF FOR ONCE I HAD A CHANCE TO FIX EVERYTHING AND I COULDN’T, WHAT IF I FAILED, WRECKED EVERYTHING, MADE EVERYTHING WORSE THAN BEFORE?

  DO NOT FEAR THOSE THINGS, my brother’s song said.

  The dew on my brother’s branches flashed in the sun.

  My brother’s song said, I BELIEVE THAT YOU CAN SAVE ME.

  At school, I (forte)thumped off the bus, Mr. Carl (forte)bellowing goodbye.

  In the parking lot, Little Isaac and Big Isaac were (forte)banging on the garbage bin with sticks. Zeke’s dictionary was on the pavement next to the garbage bin, like it had been dropped there.

  “Come out, come out, Freaky Zekey!” Little Isaac (forte)shouted, stick (forte)clanging against the garbage bin.

  Zeke was crouched against a silver van, peeking at the Isaacs. I crouched there too.

  “Why are the Isaacs fighting that garbage bin?” I (piano)whispered.

  “They think that I’m inside,” Zeke (piano)whispered. “They were chasing me saying they were going to kill me, so I jumped into the bin, and they were too grossed out to jump in after me, so they shut the lid and ran away to get some sticks. I snuck away again before they got back.”

  The Isaacs (forte)shouted Zeke’s name again. Above the garbage bin, the school was scarred with initials kids had carved into the brick. VF + BR floated there, my parents’ initials, wearing a lopsided heart. My dad had scratched the same thing into the metal side of a drinking fountain, into the corner of a mirror in the cafeteria bathroom, into a sideline in the floor of the gym, back when this had been my parents’ school.

  “I’ll help you find the heirlooms, but when we find them, I get half of them,” Zeke(piano) said.

  “Why would I want your help?” I(piano) said.

  “I have a blueprint of the ghosthouse,” Zeke(piano) said.

  “Where did you find that?” I(piano) said.

  “Borrowed it from some high schoolers,” Zeke(piano) said.

  “Does ‘borrowed’ mean ‘stole’?” I(piano) said.

  I didn’t want to give away half of the heirlooms. But I didn’t know if I could find the heirlooms alone. And half of everything was more than all of nothing.

  “If the heirlooms are hidden in the ghosthouse, we’ll need that blueprint,” Zeke(piano) said.

  “There’s a map somewhere,” I(piano) said.

  “I don’t have time to wait for your grandfather to remember where the map’s at. And we don’t need a map anyway. I’ll bring a hatchet. We’ll tear apart the ghosthouse. We’ll find those heirlooms before sundown tonight,” Zeke(piano) said.

  Mr. Tim jogged from the loading dock into the parking lot, (forte)shouting at the Isaacs to leave the garbage bin alone. Little Isaac’s stick (piano)snapped. Little Isaac (forte)kicked the garbage bin. Big Isaac (piano)sworeunwritable, and the Isaacs yanked their hoods over their heads and stalked into school.

  I found Jordan at his locker, spinning the combination. Someone had written TRY BEING LOCKER PARTNERS WITH DAVY JONES on his locker in black marker.

  “How old is your grandfather?” I(mezzo-forte) said.

  “Seventy-something? Seventy-one, seventy-three? What do you care?” Jordan (mezzo-piano)said.

  Seventy-three was a prime. Whatever age he was, though, he was almost young enough to be Grandpa Rose’s son. Grandpa Rose was eighty-nine (prime). He wouldn’t be a prime again until he was ninety-seven. He wouldn’t have another year of Big Events for almost a decade.

  “How’d he get the nickname King Gunga?” I(mezzo-forte) said.

  “Techn
ically, it’s short for King Gunga, The Viking Raider, Beloved By All Animals, And Feared Throughout The Seven Seas,” Jordan (mezzo-piano)said.

  I was so jealous I could hardly stand. The nickname was even better than I had thought.

  “Would you go away?” Jordan (mezzo-piano)said.

  He (piano)yanked on the handle. It stuck. He had spun in the wrong numbers.

  “Just don’t tell anyone about the heirlooms,” I(mezzo-forte) said.

  “Tell anyone?” Jordan (forte)said.

  He (piano)spun in the numbers again.

  “Sorry, Calculator, but that treasure of yours doesn’t exist,” Jordan(mezzo-forte) said.

  During band, the band director vanished into the office to dig for sheet music. Sheet music is like the bones of a song—music bars with notes marked between—that you bring to life with your instrument. The band director keeps boxes of it stacked in the office.

  The second the band director shut the door, three of the drummers started (forte)singing “The Ballad Of Dirge And Keen.” Emma Dirge and Leah Keen don’t take band, but kids think it’s funny to sing even when Emma and Leah aren’t around.

  “The Ballad Of Dirge And Keen” is a song about Emma Dirge and Leah Keen and a pair of escaped circus monkeys. During the song Emma and Leah fall in love with the monkeys. Then other things happen that I probably shouldn’t say.

  It’s the number one meanest song anyone’s ever written. Which means that it was written, obviously, by Jordan. He wrote it during the winter of sixth grade, back when Emma Dirge was still his friend, and Leah Keen was still his friend, and Mark Huff, and the Geluso twins, and the Isaacs. Even more than the nicknames, that’s why everyone hates him—everyone loves Emma and Leah, and whenever Emma and Leah hear someone singing the song, they run into the nearest bathroom together to cry about it.

  Some of the tubas started (forte)singing along with the drummers, doing the motions that went with the song. Kids hate Jordan for writing the song, but they still like to sing it.