A Haunting Collection

by Mary Downing Hahn

  “What’s wrong?” Grandmother asked her. “What were you doing outside at this time of night? I promised your mother I’d make sure you behaved—”

  “I went to the grove,” Tracy sobbed. “To see the ghost, and it, oh, Mrs. Donovan, it, it—” She collapsed into Grandmother’s arms, weeping.

  “We heard the ghost, too,” Miss Duvall put in, her voice rising. “It was roaming the hall, sobbing and moaning.”

  “There was a blue light,” Mrs. Bennett added.

  “Blue,” her husband agreed. “But very dim. Spectral.”

  “It pounded on our door,” Mr. Jennings added. “It laughed like a maniac.”

  “There must be two ghosts!” Mrs. Jennings cried. “One outside and one inside.”

  “Maybe more,” Mrs. Frothingham whispered.

  Finally, Miss Duvall turned to Tracy, who was still crying in Grandmother’s arms. “What did you see?”

  “I didn’t see anything,” Tracy sobbed. “But something was there, I felt it, it was cold and horrible. Evil.” She clung to Grandmother and cried harder.

  Corey and I stared at each other. We could explain the inside ghost, but the outside ghost was beginning to frighten both of us.

  Keeping one arm around Tracy, Grandmother said, “I think it’s time we all went to bed and got some sleep. Tomorrow I’ll ask Martha what she put in her tomato sauce—it must have been pretty potent.”

  If Grandmother had hoped for a laugh, she was disappointed.

  “Don’t blame the food,” Miss Duvall said. “This inn is haunted. Just wait till Chester sets up his equipment tomorrow! Then you’ll see.”

  With that, she flounced upstairs, her gaudy silk robe and nightgown fluttering, her bare feet seemingly too tiny to bear her weight. Even without jewelry and makeup, she was an amazing sight.

  The other guests followed her, murmuring to each other about the sobs and laughter, the blue light, and the terrifying presence in the haunted grove.

  Flashlight in hand, Grandmother led Tracy back to her room in the carriage house, and Corey and I went to bed. For once we didn’t feel like talking about the ghosts of Fox Hill. Or even thinking about them.

  6

  The next day, Corey and I cornered Tracy in the kitchen. She’d been surrounded by guests all morning, and we wanted to talk to her alone.

  “Tell us what happened,” Corey begged.

  “Every detail,” I added. “Don’t leave anything out.”

  Tracy shook her head. “Can’t you see I’ve got dishes to wash?”

  Mrs. Brewster looked up from the laundry she’d been sorting. “Go ahead. Tell them. I’d like to hear it myself.”

  All three of us stared at her, surprised by her interest. Without looking at us, she went on separating white napkins from blue napkins.

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Tracy murmured.

  “You’ve told everybody else, but I haven’t heard a word.” Mrs. Brewster frowned at a red sock. “How did that get in with the table linens?”

  “Okay,” Tracy said, gulping a little. “I wanted to see the ghost—which was totally stupid—so I went to the grove and waited for it to come. After a while, I started hearing a lot of rustling sounds, like squirrels or mice in the leaves.” Without looking at us, she paused to wipe her soapy hands on her apron. “Then I thought I saw a face.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t one of these two playing tricks on you?” Mrs. Brewster scowled at Corey and me as if she knew exactly what we’d been doing. We both edged away from her sharp eyes.

  Tracy shook her head. “Laugh if you want, but there was something in the dark watching me.” Her voice dropped so low I could hardly hear her. “It wasn’t Corey or Travis . . . or any other living soul.”

  Mrs. Brewster picked a stray blue napkin out of a pile of white tablecloths and waited for Tracy to go on. But Tracy just stood there, twisting her apron and trying not to cry.

  “Is that all?” Mrs. Brewster sounded disappointed.

  Tracy nodded. Tears ran down her face, and she wiped them away with her apron. “You wouldn’t say ‘Is that all’ if you’d been there.”

  Mr. Brewster entered the kitchen as quietly as a ghost himself and frowned at us all, even Mrs. Brewster. “Leave the girl be,” he said. “Can’t you see? She don’t want to talk about it.”

  With a sigh, Mrs. Brewster picked up an armful of tablecloths and headed for the laundry room. “Bring the napkins,” she told Tracy, “and help me get the wash started.”

  As Tracy walked past, I grabbed her arm. “I know just what you mean,” I told her. “Something’s in the grove. I’ve felt it, too.”

  Corey nodded. “It’s a scary place.”

  Although we hadn’t spoken loudly, Mr. Brewster said, “If I was you, I’d stay away from there. No sense looking for trouble.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  He hesitated, hands deep in his pockets, chin stuck out. “Trouble finds folks who look for it.” Then, without another word, he left the kitchen. A moment later, we saw him walking toward the vegetable garden, pushing a wheelbarrow.

  Corey made a face at his back and darted out the back door. I followed her. As we walked along the hedge separating the vegetable garden from the lawn, we heard Mr. Brewster say, “I thought you was doing the laundry.”

  “Tracy can do it,” Mrs. Brewster said.

  Peeking through the hedge, we watched her sit down on a bench. Mr. Brewster leaned on his hoe beside her, the weeding forgotten.

  “Bound to be trouble now,” he muttered.

  “It’s those grandchildren,” Mrs. Brewster said. “Soon as I saw ’em, I knew they’d stir things up. Bad ones—that’s what they are. I can spot ’em every time. They’ve got her up and about. And the little ones, too.”

  Mr. Brewster nodded, his face glum. “They wake up easy.”

  “And it’s so hard to lull them back to sleep, poor dears.”

  “Mrs. Brewster!” Tracy called. “There’s something wrong with the washer. Soap’s everywhere. I can’t shut it off!”

  Mrs. Brewster shook her head. “Yep, things are stirred up, for sure. Next it’ll be the lights and the TV and the plumbing.”

  “They’ll keep me busy.” Mr. Brewster sighed. “Not a moment’s peace, that’s for certain.”

  Mrs. Brewster got to her feet. “Better come with me,” she said, “and take a look at the washing machine.”

  Mr. Brewster grunted to himself and laid down his hoe. “Weeds can wait, I reckon.”

  Corey and I crept away to the terrace behind the house and sat down at a table almost hidden by wisteria.

  “What were they talking about?” I asked. “Who did we wake up?”

  “They must be nuts or something,” Corey said. “Blaming us when all we did was play a few pranks.”

  “It’s not fair. We’re not bad.” A wasp settled down to explore a smear of jam on the table. I swatted it away absent-mindedly. “They act like it’s our fault the washing machine broke.”

  The wasp landed on the table again. Corey watched it probe the jam, her forehead wrinkled as if she was memorizing its shape and color, its legs, its wings. It wasn’t like my sister to be quiet so long.

  At last, she looked at me, her face full of worry. “Maybe they think we woke up the ghosts. The ones that used to be here.”

  I stared at her. “But we faked it.”

  Corey shook her head. “We didn’t fake what scared Tracy, and we didn’t fake what scared you and me. Something’s in the grove—and the Brewsters think we stirred it up.” She glanced at the wasp. “Like we poked a stick in a hornets’ nest, and they all flew out.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the grove and felt the hair on my arms prickle. Part of me wanted to say “Don’t be ridiculous,” but another part of me was scared she was right.

  Corey clasped her hands, twisting her fingers until her knuckles turned white, a worried frown on her face. “What if we did, Travis?” she asked in
a voice so low I had to lean close to hear her. “What if we did?”

  “If we woke something up,” I said, “let’s hope Chester Coakley and Miss Duvall can put it back to sleep.”

  Corey got to her feet. “He should be here by now.”

  We came around the corner of the inn just in time to see a dusty black hearse pull into a parking place. KEEP THE DEAD PEACEFUL was painted on its side in large white Gothic letters, and underneath, in smaller letters was:

  CHESTER COAKLEY

  PSYCHIC INVESTIGATOR

  THE MAN TO CALL WHEN THINGS GO BUMP

  The license plate said, I C B-YOND.

  The driver’s door swung open, and out stepped a tall, thin man with a long gray ponytail and matching beard. He wore a Grateful Dead baseball cap, black jeans, and black boots. His faded black T-shirt said, I SEE—AND I CATCH—DEAD PEOPLE.

  From the porch came a cry of delight. Clothing aflutter, Miss Duvall hurried down the steps and threw her arms around the man, almost knocking him flat on his back.

  Chester Coakley had arrived.

  The Jennings gang poured out of the inn and raced across the grass, calling out greetings. As Miss Duvall introduced them, they formed a respectful circle around Chester Coakley.

  Catching sight of Corey and me, Miss Duvall beckoned to us. “Come and meet Chester.”

  Chester regarded us with the saddest eyes I’d ever seen. His face was long and narrow, and his brow was carved with deep lines. He shook our hands and in a melancholy voice said, “Eleanor has told me all about you.”

  Turning to Corey, he added, “You are a sensitive, I hear.”

  For the first time, Corey seemed a little uneasy about her newly acquired psychic powers. With a shrug, she backed away from him.

  “Don’t be so modest!” Miss Duvall engulfed Corey in a smothering hug. To Chester, she said, “This little girl has witnessed several psychic manifestations. Indeed, I believe she’s the catalyst for everything that’s happened.”

  Chester nodded. “The catalyst. Of course. The one who sets everything in motion.”

  Miss Duvall returned her attention to Corey. “You see, dear, ghosts will not manifest unless someone sensitive to their presence is nearby. Obviously, the inn’s previous owners were sensitives, like you. When they left and your very rational grandmother arrived, the ghosts became dormant. Now you’re here, and they’re once more on the prowl.”

  Corey shook her head, clearly alarmed.

  “Don’t be frightened,” Miss Duvall said softly. “You have a great gift.”

  “No,” Corey said. “It was a—”

  I think Corey would have confessed everything if Grandmother hadn’t arrived just then and interrupted her.

  Barely concealing her dislike for the newcomer and his vehicle of choice, she gave him a teacher look that once must have terrified her students. “Mr. Chester Coakley, I assume?”

  Chester gave a little bow and removed his baseball cap. “At your service, Mrs. Donovan.”

  Grandmother didn’t return his smile. “I’ve given you a room on the second floor. Would you like to see it?”

  “Sure—just give me a minute to grab my gear.”

  With obvious distaste, Grandmother watched Chester pull a tripod, strobe lights, and a camera bag out of the hearse. Miss Duvall took a crate of recording equipment and trudged into the inn behind Chester and Grandmother. The Jennings gang traipsed through the door after them, leaving Corey and me alone in the driveway.

  “What a pair of nut cases.” Hoping for a laugh, I tried to imitate Miss Duvall and Chester. “Oh, she’s a catalyst, there has to be a catalyst.”

  Corey didn’t even smile. Without a word, she turned her back on me and walked away.

  “Where are you going?” I called after her.

  “To my room. I want to be alone for a while.”

  I watched her go, hair swinging, shoulders squared, obviously upset. “Don’t be stupid,” I shouted. “You aren’t a catalyst. They’re crazy—and so are the Brewsters!”

  But she kept going. Didn’t look back. Didn’t slow down. I could’ve run after her, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. When Corey got into one of her moods, you just had to wait until she got over it.

  Not used to entertaining myself, I wandered around the grounds looking for something to do. I tried batting a tennis ball against the wall, but I kept missing it. I went inside and played a video game. I read a few pages of a Harry Potter book I’d already read three times. I started a crossword puzzle, but it was too hard.

  Too lazy to put on my bathing suit and swim, I went back outside and walked through the garden to the place where I’d found the row of stones. I stared down at them, still puzzled.

  Suddenly, a shadow fell across the weeds. Mr. Brewster stood a few feet away, blocking the sun. “What are you doing here?”

  From the way he said it, you would’ve thought I’d climbed over a fence and trespassed on his own private land.

  Instead of answering his question, I asked him one of my own. “What are these stones for? Why do they have numbers on them?”

  He studied me as if I were a subspecies of the human race that should be extinct by now. “There’s copperheads round here. Lots of ’em. Best stay away lest you get bit.”

  I looked at the mass of weeds and brambles growing over everything. Mr. Brewster had a point. It was snake territory, for sure.

  I followed him back to the inn. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You didn’t answer mine,” he said.

  “But don’t you wonder about those stones? Somebody went to a lot of trouble to line them up and write numbers on them.”

  “Whoever done it’s dead and gone.” Mr. Brewster stopped and scowled at me from under his bushy eyebrows. “Told you before. Leave things be that don’t concern you.”

  With that, he walked a little faster, as though he was anxious to get rid of me. I slowed down and let the gap between us widen. Grumpy old man. Grandmother should fire both of the Brewsters. Surely she could find a good-natured hired man and a cook even better than Mrs. Brewster—people who might smile once in a while.

  Although—or maybe because—Miss Duvall and Chester were looking for her, Corey stayed in her room until dinner.

  I knocked on her door once, but she told me to go away. “I’m reading,” she said.

  “Is it a good book?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the title?”

  “Go away.”

  I took her advice and left without even making a joke about a book called Go Away. In her present, very bad, mood, Corey wouldn’t have been amused.

  By dinnertime, the inn was full, and Tracy had to rush from table to table, taking orders, bringing food, and refilling water glasses.

  Miss Duvall and Chester were holding forth at the Jenningses’ table, describing their methods of discovering and recording ghostly presences.

  Grandmother gave Chester a dark look. “Imagine a grown man driving around in a hearse, pretending to be a ghost hunter. Surely he can’t earn a living doing that.” She sighed. “Then again, maybe he can. Some people will believe anything.”

  For once, Corey had nothing to say. Still in her mood, she sipped her water and poked at the food on her plate, rearranging it instead of eating it.

  “You’re very pale,” Grandmother said to her. “Do you feel all right?”

  Corey shrugged. “I’m fine. Just not hungry.”

  Across the room, Chester’s voice rose. “I tell you, the little girl’s responsible. It’s the same with poltergeists. They feed off the psychic energy of young people. Especially if the child is disturbed.”

  Chester had lowered his voice somewhat, but all three of us heard his last comment.

  Corey looked at Grandmother, alarmed. “I’m not disturbed,” she whispered.

  Grandmother opened her mouth to speak, but I was too fast for her. Thinking to turn Chester’s words into a joke, I said, “Of course you
’re disturbed, I’ve known that since the day Mom brought you home from the loony bin.”

  Grandmother stared at me, her face stern with anger. “That wasn’t funny, Travis. Can’t you see your sister’s upset? Apologize for your insensitivity.”

  Before I had a chance to say anything, Corey jumped up from the table so hastily she overturned her chair. Without a word, she fled from the room.

  Chester turned to us in dismay. “I’m so sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean Corey’s disturbed. I just—”

  Grandmother rose to her feet with all the dignity of thirty years of teaching and stared the man down. “Please refrain from discussing the supernatural in Corey’s presence. And mine and Travis’s as well. This is our home, not a boardinghouse for ghosts.”

  With that, she hurried after my sister.

  Tracy broke the embarrassed silence by entering the room with the dessert cart. Unaware of what had just happened, she moved among the tables, describing the evening’s choices: apple pie à la mode, peach upside-down cake, crème brûlée, and “Death by Chocolate.”

  I guess if Tracy hadn’t come along with the cart, I might have run after Grandmother and Corey, but who can turn down the world’s best chocolate cake? Not me.

  No sooner had I taken the first bite than Chester and Miss Duvall joined me. “Do you mind?” Chester asked as they sat down.

  Of course I minded, but I was too polite to say so. Wimp that I was, I swallowed my mouthful of cake and smiled.

  “Is your sister all right?” Miss Duvall asked. “Chester didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. He was speaking in general of children who cause psychic manifestations, especially poltergeist activity.”

  “I don’t suppose Corey has a history of shaking beds, broken furniture, loud noises, flying objects, rappings and tappings, and so on?” Chester asked.

  “My sister is not disturbed.” I glared at the man, sitting there in his dopey cap, wearing his dopey T-shirt. Suddenly, I hated him and his gray ponytail and his hearse. I decided to tell him the truth—maybe he’d go away and take the Jennings gang with him. If these were the kind of guests who came to the inn to see ghosts, I’d like to see the end of them.