A Haunting Collection

by Mary Downing Hahn

  Corey grinned. “It’s a start. We can think of more stuff, like footsteps and moans and groans and crying babies.”

  “And howling dogs and rappings and tappings and strange blue lights.”

  By the time I went back to my own room and climbed into bed, I was too excited to sleep. I lay awake a long time, my mind racing with ideas. With Corey’s and my help, Grandmother would be a rich woman by the end of the summer.

  3

  The next morning, Corey and I found the Jenningses on the patio, drinking coffee. I leaned against the trellis, slightly embarrassed, but Corey sat down between them. Without hesitating, she whispered, “Did you see it last night?”

  “See what, dear?” Mrs. Jennings nibbled at her croissant, her eyes fixed on my sister.

  Corey drew a deep breath and somehow managed to look pale. “The ghost.”

  “Ghost?” Croissant in midair, Mrs. Jennings gasped. “You saw a ghost last night?”

  “Shh,” Corey hissed. “Grandmother told me not to tell anyone. She insists I imagined it, but I swear I saw it.”

  “After that story you told, I knew you were sensitive to the spirit world.” Mr. Jennings looked at Corey with awe.

  “Tell us everything. Don’t leave out a single detail.” Mrs. Jennings kept her voice so low I had to move closer to hear her.

  “Something woke me around three A.M.,” Corey said. “That’s the demons’ hour, you know—halfway between midnight and dawn.”

  “Yes, yes.” Mrs. Jennings patted Corey’s hand. “Go on.”

  “Well, I went to my window,” Corey said. “At first, I didn’t see anything, but I heard sort of a low moaning sound.” As she spoke, a gust of wind skittered across the table, blowing the paper napkins onto the lawn. Mrs. Jennings shivered.

  “Then I saw this woman in white,” Corey went on, “flitting about under the trees. For a moment, she looked toward the house, straight at me, and I ducked behind the curtain. When I got the nerve to look again, she was gone.”

  Mrs. Jennings leaned toward Corey. “What did she look like?”

  “She was wearing a long white dress, and her face was really hideous—white as a skull with dark circles where her eyes should be.” Corey shuddered. “She moaned and groaned and then shrieked, like a banshee or something.”

  “I heard it, too!” Mrs. Jennings whispered. “But I didn’t know what it was.”

  “You must have been terrified,” Mr. Jennings said.

  “I’m still shaking.” Corey held out her trembling hands as proof. “It was definitely evil. Not sweet like Julie’s grandmother. Wicked.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Mrs. Jennings stared at my sister. “Oh, my dear, how absolutely dreadful.”

  The breeze danced in the flower bed, shaking the blossoms. Wind chimes clinked like someone laughing. For a moment, I thought I saw something move in the shifting shadows under the trees.

  Mr. Jennings turned to me. “Did you see it, too, Travis?”

  This was my sister’s show, so I shook my head. “Corey ran into my room and woke me up. I’ve never seen her so scared. In fact, she scared me. She’s really psychic, you know.” Psycho was more like it, but why spoil things with the truth?

  “Do you think the ghost walks . . . every night?” Mr. Jennings asked, voice low, practically quivering with excitement.

  “Ghosts usually do the same thing over and over again,” Corey said. “Like they’re atoning for something they did—or didn’t do—while they were alive.”

  Mrs. Jennings sighed with envy. “Sometimes I get feelings, sensations, a sort of shiver. But I’ve never actually seen anything.”

  “Nor have I,” Mr. Jennings admitted sadly. “We’ve gone to many so-called haunted inns, but we’ve been disappointed every time.”

  To keep from laughing, Corey avoided looking at me. “Get up at three A.M. tomorrow and watch those trees.” She pointed at a grove of oaks. Even in the morning sun, the shadows they cast seemed denser and darker than anywhere else. “That’s where I saw the ghost,” she said.

  The Jenningses stared at the grove as if they hoped to catch a glimpse of the ghost in broad daylight. “We’ll be watching,” Mrs. Jennings promised.

  Mr. Jennings set his coffee mug down with a clink and got to his feet. “In the meantime, Louise and I have sightseeing plans.”

  “And some shopping to do,” Mrs. Jennings put in. “I want to visit the glass factory near Quechee and browse in a few antique shops on the way. There’s a cheese store, too, and an artist’s studio. . . .”

  We watched them get into their car and drive away. Corey grinned at me. “They won’t be disappointed tonight.”

  A couple of hours later, we parked our bikes in front of a tourist-bait shop on Middlebury’s main drag and went inside. We found white and green face makeup, black stuff for Corey’s eyes, dark purple lipstick, and a bunch of other junk—rubber eyeballs that glowed in the dark, plastic spiders and rubber snakes, spray-on cobwebs, a haunted-house sound-effects CD, a lantern, candles, and flashlights that cast a blue beam. In a secondhand store, Corey bought a long white filmy scarf.

  By the time we’d eaten a couple of slices of pizza and washed them down with bottles of soda, we’d spent about a quarter of our entire summer’s allowance. And we had a fifteen-mile ride back to Fox Hill, mostly uphill this time. Balancing our shopping bags on the handlebars, we set off for the inn.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon at the pool. We’d swim for a while, then lie in the sun and plan our ghost act, then dive back into the water. We had the place to ourselves. The bike riders had pedaled off to add more muscle to their legs, the Jenningses were still touring the countryside, and Grandmother was sitting on the patio dozing over a novel. Every now and then, Mr. Brewster cruised past on a riding mower, pretty much ruining the peace and quiet. He never looked our way.

  At dinner, a new guest joined us. Mr. Nelson was short and skinny. He reminded me of a really strict math teacher who gave me a C and ruined my report card in sixth grade. He sat at a table by himself, reading a science book propped open with his saltshaker—Global Warming in Our Lifetime: Fact or Myth? It was clear he had no wish to be sociable. Why make friends when the world is about to end?

  The Jenningses talked Tracy’s ear off with tales of their day of shopping, the lovely lunch they’d eaten, the bargains they’d found. Cheese! Barn-board paintings! Pure Vermont maple syrup! A rusty child’s wagon for the garden back home!

  While they chattered, the bike riders discussed their ride—seventy-five miles in five hours, a near miss with a logging truck, an eagle sighting, a flat tire. Tim was making a major effort to stay awake, but Robert looked ready to hop on his bike and ride another fifty miles before bedtime.

  After we’d eaten, everyone congregated on the porch again. Mr. Nelson sat at the end of the row of rocking chairs and kept his nose in his book. While Tim dozed, Robert studied his map, obviously planning another grueling ride. The Jenningses darted little looks at Corey and me, probably eager to talk to us alone.

  When it was too dark to see the map, Robert woke Tim up. Mr. Nelson closed his book. They said good night and went to their rooms. A few minutes later, Grandmother excused herself.

  As soon as she left, the Jenningses parked themselves in rockers next to ours.

  “What a perfect night for a sighting.” Mr. Jennings pointed to the full moon rising above the mountains.

  “Bright light, no clouds. If the ghost comes, we’ll get a good look at it.”

  “I’m not sure I want to see her again,” Corey said. “She was pretty scary.”

  “I plan to sleep like a log,” I put in. “No ghosts for me.”

  “Not us,” Mr. Jennings said. “We’ll be wide awake.”

  A cool breeze swept across the porch, rocking the empty chairs as it passed. The shadows of the morning glory draping the porch trellis quivered and shifted, and the wind chimes laughed on the dark lawn.

  Mrs. Jennings pulled her sweater ti
ghter and stood up. “It’s getting cold.”

  “We’re in Vermont,” Mr. Jennings said.

  Giving his wife a little hug, he said good night to us, and the two of them went up to bed.

  By two thirty A.M., Corey had caked her face with white makeup, hollowed out her cheeks with green eye shadow, circled her eyes with black, and coated her mouth with purple lipstick. The scarf hid her hair.

  “Do I look horrible enough?” she asked.

  “If you looked any worse, I’d be scared of you.”

  We sneaked out the back door and ran across the lawn. Taking care not to be seen, we darted into the inky blackness of the oak grove. Anchored to earth with its shadow, the inn was dark. Everyone was asleep—except the Jenningses. Although we couldn’t see them, we knew they were peering out their window, waiting to see the ghost.

  Corey stepped onto the moonlit grass. Waving her arms slowly and dramatically, she glided along, sleeves and scarf fluttering. She dipped and swayed, she moaned and groaned, and then turned to stare at the inn. Stretching both arms, she pointed her fingers, threw back her head, and screamed.

  Over my head, the leaves on the trees rustled and shook, as if Corey had awakened sleeping squirrels and birds. Something twittered softly, and the bushes swayed.

  With goosebumps racing across my skin, I watched Corey run toward me. “Quick!” she hissed. “We have to get back to bed before anyone comes looking for us.”

  As she spoke, lights went on in the inn and the carriage house, and someone shouted.

  Fearing we’d be caught, I ran after Corey. At the back door, she dragged me inside and we dashed to our rooms. I jumped into bed and burrowed under the covers.

  Moments later, Grandmother called, “Travis? Are you awake?”

  I pushed back the blanket and sat up, blinking at her. “Wha’?” I croaked, trying to sound as if she’d waked me from deep sleep. “Hunh?”

  “I heard a noise.” She went to my window and peered out. “It sounded like it came from that grove of trees.”

  “Didn’t hear it,” I muttered and lay back down.

  Grandmother went to my sister’s door. “Corey?”

  “Asleep,” she murmured. “Didn’t hear.”

  “It must have been a screech owl.” Grandmother sounded as if she was trying to convince herself. “I’m sorry I woke you.” The door closed, and the inn was silent again.

  I curled up under the covers and tried not to laugh out loud. We’d done it—ghosts had returned to Fox Hill.

  After a while, I heard Corey tiptoeing down the hall to the bathroom. She was in there a long time, but before she went back to her room, she stopped to see me.

  “Boy, was that stuff hard to get off. My whole face stings.” She touched her cheek and winced. “If I hadn’t found some cold cream, I’d still be scrubbing.”

  “You were great,” I told her.

  She bounced on the bed and laughed. “I think I woke up everybody with that scream.”

  “People for miles around heard you,” I told her. “The cows won’t give milk tomorrow, the chickens won’t lay eggs, and the corn will wither on the stalks.”

  “Black dogs will turn white overnight.” Corey laughed. “Flowers will drop their petals.”

  “Barns will collapse,” I shouted. “Chimneys will topple!”

  “Shh,” Corey hushed me. “You’ll wake Grandmother.”

  I clapped my hand over my mouth and tried to stop laughing.

  Corey hugged herself in delight. “I can’t wait to hear what everybody says tomorrow!”

  4

  The next morning, Corey and I found the Jenningses waiting for us in the dining room.

  “We saw it!” Mr. Jennings whispered. “We actually saw it. And heard it.”

  “It pointed at us and screamed.” Mrs. Jennings pressed a hand against her heart. “It was terrifying.”

  Corey feigned disappointment. “Oh, no, I must have slept right through it.” She glanced at me. “Did you see it?”

  I shook my head, trying to look as bummed as Corey. “I guess I was really tired.”

  By then, the bike riders had joined us. “Are you talking about that noise last night?” Tim asked.

  “What was it?” Robert wanted to know. “A cougar or something?”

  Mrs. Jennings stared at him. “You didn’t see it?”

  Robert shook his head. “It woke us up, but by the time we got to the window, it was gone.”

  “If it was a cougar, we should stay off the trails,” Tim said. “A few years ago, one of those big cats killed a bike rider in California.”

  At that moment, Mr. Brewster walked past on his way to the kitchen. “That was no cougar,” he muttered.

  “Are you sure?” Robert asked.

  “Of course I’m sure.” Mr. Brewster stopped and scowled as if Robert had called him a liar. “I’ve lived in Vermont all my life, so I ought to know what a cougar sounds like.”

  It was the most I’d ever heard him say.

  “If it wasn’t a cougar, what was it?” Tim asked, his eyes widening like a kid’s at a horror movie.

  Mr. Brewster had already lost interest in the subject. With a shake of his head, he disappeared into the kitchen, leaving us to stare after him.

  “A ghost,” Mrs. Jennings said. “It was a ghost.”

  Robert laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Mrs. Jennings frowned at Robert. “My husband and I saw it ourselves—as plain as plain can be, by that grove of trees.” Mrs. Jennings waved her hand toward the window and the oaks. “It pointed at the inn and screamed in the most hideous, inhuman way!”

  Robert laughed again, but Tim just stood there, as if he wasn’t sure what to think.

  Mr. Jennings laid a hand on my sister’s shoulder. “This young lady saw it the night before last.”

  Corey shuddered. “It was awful.”

  Before Robert could say anything sarcastic, Tim grabbed his arm. “Lay off, will you? You didn’t see it. They did.”

  Across the room, Mr. Nelson looked up from his newspaper. “So the ghosts are back,” he said. “I was hoping they’d gone for good.”

  Just then, Grandmother came into the dining room. Tracy was right behind her, carrying a tray heaped with breakfast goodies. “What’s back?” Grandmother asked.

  “The ghosts.” Mr. Nelson grimaced. “Didn’t you hear the screams last night?”

  Tracy gasped and almost dropped the tray. “I thought it was a screech owl.”

  “I heard what sounded like a scream,” Grandmother said. “I must admit it scared me, but after I went back to bed, I realized what it was.”

  Corey and I darted a quick glance at each other. Had Grandmother guessed we’d played a prank on the Jenningses? I held my breath and waited for her to denounce us.

  “Some people a mile or so down the road breed peacocks,” she went on. “One must have flown the coop—so to speak.” She smiled at her own joke. “A peacock’s cry sounds remarkably like a human scream.”

  “There,” Robert said to Tim. “I knew there was a rational explanation.”

  “But what about the ghost?” Tim asked. “All three of them have seen it.”

  Grandmother looked at us, plainly annoyed. “You were talking about ghosts the other night, swapping stories, trying to scare each other,” she said. “You expected to see a ghost, and you’ve convinced yourselves you did.”

  Mrs. Jennings frowned at Grandmother. “I didn’t imagine that ghost. If you’d been at your window, you would’ve seen it, too.”

  “You were looking out the window at three A.M.?” Robert asked in disbelief.

  “Corey saw the ghost the night before at exactly three A.M.,” Mrs. Jennings said. “She told George and me to watch for it in the grove of trees.”

  I held my breath, hoping the phone or the doorbell would ring—anything to distract Grandmother from questioning my sister and me.

  Unfortunately, no one called and no one came to the door. Grandmoth
er fixed Corey with a steely gaze. “You never mentioned seeing a ghost.”

  Unable to meet Grandmother’s eyes, Corey stared at the floor. “You wouldn’t have believed me,” she whispered. “But I saw it and I was scared and I told Mrs. Jennings because I knew she’d believe me.”

  While we were talking, Mr. Nelson had gone back to reading his newspaper.

  I sidled over to him. “Why did you say the ghosts were back? Have you seen them before?”

  He put down the paper with some irritation. “I’ve been coming to Fox Hill every July for twenty years,” he said. “I remember the purported ghosts, as well as the reporters and the psychics and the nuts who came to witness the goings-on. They swarmed upstairs and down, ranting about cold spots, setting up bizarre recording devices and infrared cameras, making nuisances of themselves. Fools, that’s what they were. Idiots.” He took a sip of coffee. “The inn is much better off without ghosts,” he said, “and the maniacs who flocked here to see them—they caused the most disturbance, by far.”

  Across the room, Robert seated himself noisily. “Get a move on, Tim,” he said in a loud you-can’t-fool-me voice. “We’re doing a century ride today.”

  Before he joined his friend, Tim smiled at Corey. “My girlfriend is psychic, too,” he told her. “She sees all kinds of things, just like you do—including those blue lights I was telling you about the other night.”

  Grandmother watched Tim join Robert at their table. Turning to Corey, she said, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I simply do not believe one word of this ghost nonsense.”

  To the rest of us, she said, “Breakfast is ready. Please take your seats, and Tracy will serve you.”

  Corey and I sat down, and Grandmother sat between us. “No more ghost talk,” she said. “I won’t have you scaring the guests with silly stories.”

  Corey kicked me under the table, and I kicked her back. She giggled.

  “I’m serious,” Grandmother said.

  We both nodded and turned our attention to the plates Tracy set down in front of us—scrambled eggs with cheese, home-fried potatoes, and a big cranberry muffin.