A Haunting Collection

by Mary Downing Hahn

  Grandmother raised her head and stared at the psychic. “Frankly,” she said, “I don’t know what to think.”

  “How else would you explain what we have all witnessed in this room?” Miss Duvall asked.

  Grandmother rose to her feet, a little unsteadily, but with her dignity intact. “If you and Mr. Coakley are somehow responsible for this, I will bring a lawsuit against you.”

  Miss Duvall drew herself up as tall as possible and gave Grandmother a look of utter dismay. “I assure you that neither Chester nor I—”

  Grandmother swept past as if the woman was of no more importance than a toadstool. “Please go back to your rooms,” she said, “and do not enter my quarters again. By checkout time tomorrow, I expect you both to be gone.”

  “But—” Chester began.

  “Nothing you can do or say will change my mind,” Grandmother said. “I want you both out of here.”

  Turning to Corey and me, she added, “As for you two, please go to bed at once. We’ll talk about this in the morning. I am exhausted.”

  Still protesting, Chester and Miss Duvall followed Grandmother out of the room. “Don’t you understand what this means to paranormal research?” Chester said.

  Grandmother shut the door, and we didn’t hear her answer.

  “Please don’t leave me here by myself, Travis,” Corey begged. “I’m scared to death they’ll come back.”

  She tossed me a blanket and an extra pillow, and I tried to make myself comfortable on the floor. I didn’t want to be alone any more than my sister did.

  “I kind of wish Grandmother would send us home,” Corey said. “I don’t like it here anymore.”

  “Even camp doesn’t seem so bad now,” I said. “Swimming in a freezing lake at seven A.M., eating lumpy oatmeal and mystery meat and mushy lima beans, hiking ten miles uphill.”

  “Making potholders and clay animals, singing those dumb camp songs, striking out in softball. . . .” Corey’s voice slowed and thickened and finally trailed off in a sleepy mumble.

  I turned this way and that, but whether I lay on my side or my back or my stomach, I couldn’t relax. Every sound frightened me—a rustle in the leaves, a sigh of wind, the tap, tap of a branch against the window, a creak in the hall outside the door.

  At any moment I expected to hear giggles and feel the pinch of invisible fingers. Worse yet, what if the thing from the grove came howling through the window again?

  Early in the morning, I left Corey sleeping and hobbled back to my room, as stiff as an old man from sleeping on the floor.

  Pages from books littered the floor, my favorite sweatshirt was now sleeveless, my T-shirts were torn in half, shreds of my socks hung from the ceiling light. My chair lay on its back on top of my desk, which was now on my bed. The mirror over the bureau was cracked, and the bureau’s drawers were on the lawn, their contents scattered on the grass.

  “Wow, what a mess.” Chester stood outside my window, staring into my room.

  Before I knew what he was doing, he’d climbed over the sill. “Mind if I take some pictures? This should be documented.”

  “Help yourself,” I said. “Maybe you’d like to clean it up when you’re done.”

  Chester laughed as if I were joking and began shooting. “The socks are a nice touch,” he said, aiming his camera at the ceiling light.

  Corey appeared in my doorway and glared at Chester. “Why are you still here?”

  “We’ve got until noon to check out.” Chester moved to my bed and photographed the desk and the chair from several angles “This is amazing stuff! Poltergeist activity, laughter, pinching, cussing, cold spots—I’ll be the envy of every paranormalist in the world!”

  “What are you doing in here?”

  Grandmother took Chester by surprise. Clasping his camera to his chest, he backed away. “The children invited me in,” he lied. “They—”

  “Well, I’m disinviting you,” Grandmother said. “Get out of my grandson’s room!”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was just leaving anyway.” Chester left the way he’d come in.

  Grandmother looked around. “Please explain what’s going on,” she said in a weary voice. “If you can, that is.”

  “You were in Corey’s room last night,” I said. “You saw what we saw, you heard what we heard. I wish we could explain it, but . . .” I shrugged, unable to think of anything else to say.

  Grandmother removed the chair from the desk, set it on the floor, and, with a sigh, sat on it. Shutting her eyes, she took a deep breath. “That’s right. I saw, and I heard. As a result, I lay awake for hours trying to think of an explanation. And failed. Utterly.”

  Rising to her feet, Grandmother said, “I suggest we have breakfast. After that, please clean up your room. When everything is back to normal, I’d like to pretend last night did not happen.”

  Turning my back on the wreckage, I followed Grandmother to the dining room. She could chase off the psychics, she could make me clean up my room, she could pretend last night hadn’t happened—she could even send Corey and me back to New York—but the ghosts were here, and they weren’t leaving.

  Not until they got what they wanted . . . whatever that was.

  9

  After breakfast, most of the guests checked out in support of Chester and Miss Duvall. At least that’s what they claimed. I had a feeling some of them had had their fill of ghosts and didn’t want to spend another night at Fox Hill.

  Grandmother watched them leave. “So much for ghosts bringing business to the inn,” she said.

  A few minutes later, the Kowalskis joined us on the porch.

  “What on earth was going on last night?” Mrs. Kowalski asked. “Our TV and radio came on, as well as the lights.”

  “We heard a lot of commotion, too,” Mr. Kowalski added. “People shouting and running up and down the steps. We came here for peace and quiet, not wild parties.”

  Grandmother sighed. “I apologize for the disturbance. It won’t happen again. The guests who were responsible are leaving today”

  “It was that strange man with the hearse, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Kowalski asked.

  “And his bizarre lady friend.” Her husband shook his head. “Crazy as loons, the pair of them. Going on and on about ghosts. What a load of hooey.”

  Mrs. Kowalski ran a hand through her short gray hair. “Those two should get some exercise and clear their minds. Yoga would help. So would an organic diet.”

  Rackets in hand, the Kowalskis headed for the tennis court, and Grandmother turned to Corey and me. “Time to get some exercise yourselves,” she said. “Go clean your rooms.”

  It took us all morning to sort through the wreckage. It was clear we’d need new clothes. New books, too—the pages of our summer reading books were scattered everywhere. Corey’s favorite teddy bear had been torn limb from limb and his stuffing strewn on the floor.

  I left Corey weeping over the bear and went outside to retrieve my bureau drawers. While I was gathering what was left of my underwear, I saw Mr. Brewster watching me.

  “Don’t expect no pity from me.” He spat in the grass and started to walk away.

  “Wait.” I hurried over and stepped in front of him. “Please tell me about the ghosts.”

  “Get out of my way, boy.” He tried to step around me, but I blocked him, as though we were playing basketball.

  “Mr. Brewster, I have to know what they want, so I can make them go away.”

  For the first time I heard him laugh—a sort of growl combined with a cough. “They been here afore you, and they’ll be here after you.”

  “But what are they? Who are they?”

  The man sighed and wiped his forehead with an old handkerchief. “It woulda been best if them Cornells had never seen this house. Never bought it. Never fixed it up.” He seemed to be talking more to himself than to me. “Some places ought to go to ruin. Let the bricks fall and the grass grow over them. Let it all be forgot and the dead stay dead.”

  W
ith that, he stepped around me and headed toward the inn.

  I stood where I was, cold despite the sun’s heat, and watched him walk away. Then I gathered up the bureau drawers and their ruined contents and carried them back to my room.

  Just before noon, the service bell rang. Grandmother rose from her chair with a sigh, laid her book aside, and headed for the office. Corey and I followed her inside. Surrounded by their luggage and gear, Chester and Miss Duvall were waiting to settle their bill.

  Ignoring the couple’s greeting, Grandmother sat down at the computer and looked up their account. As the bill was printing, she frowned. “I would appreciate your saying nothing about last night’s events,” she said.

  “Oh, I can’t agree to that, ma’am,” Chester said. “I’ve already e-mailed my associates with the details. And spoken to my editor at Chronicles of the Dead.”

  “This sort of story simply cannot be swept under the rug,” Miss Duvall added. “The public has a right to know.”

  “If you mention the name of this inn in a book or a magazine article or anywhere else,” Grandmother said, “you will hear from my lawyer.”

  “But that’s censorship,” Chester put in. “You can’t—”

  “I can—and I will.” Grandmother handed him the bill. “That will be three hundred and seventy-seven dollars and five cents, including tax.”

  Chester slapped his credit card down on the counter, and Grandmother ran it through the machine. “Thank you,” she said and handed the card back.

  “But think of the free publicity,” Miss Duvall said.

  “I am,” Grandmother said.

  With a shrug, Miss Duvall swept out of the inn behind Chester. We watched the ghost hunter get into his hearse and drive away, with the psychic close behind in her VW.

  “I feel better already,” Grandmother said.

  At lunchtime, the nearly empty dining room was so quiet I could hear bees buzzing in the flower boxes at the windows. The Kowalskis had ordered a box lunch and were off hiking in the hills, toting binoculars, bird books, cameras, and plenty of sunscreen.

  Tracy came to our table to refill our glasses. “I hear you had a lot of trouble last night.” Her hand shook as she spoke, and she spilled a few drops of water.

  Grandmother watched her daub at the puddle with a corner of her apron. “Oh, leave it,” she said impatiently. “Water won’t stain anything.”

  “Sorry.” Tracy stepped back from the table. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just feel so nervous all the time. Everything makes me jump.” Her eyes roved the room, lingering in the corners.

  “We’re all a little edgy,” Grandmother said. “But now that those so-called psychics are gone, I’m hoping things will return to normal. Two guests are checking in this afternoon, and another three tomorrow. They asked about bike trails and hiking paths, shopping, historic sights—that sort of thing. Not one of them mentioned an interest in ghosts.”

  Tracy didn’t seem to be listening. “I keep seeing things out of the corner of my eye,” she said in a low voice. “But when I look straight at them, they’re gone.”

  “That’s just your imagination working overtime,” Grandmother said.

  Twisting her apron, her face red, Tracy said, “I called my mother this morning and told her about all the weird stuff. She said maybe I should come home.”

  Grandmother stared at her. “Tracy, didn’t you hear what I just said? We have five reservations. You can’t quit. I need you.”

  “I didn’t say I was quitting,” Tracy whispered. “I just said my mother thinks I should come home.”

  “And what do you think?” Grandmother asked. “You’re sixteen years old. Surely you have your own opinions.”

  “Yes, ma’am, of course I do.” Tracy’s eyes got watery, and her lower lip quivered. I wanted to leap up and defend her, perhaps throw my arms around her and protect her, but I just sat there like a nincompoop.

  “Well?” Grandmother asked, her voice softening at the sight of a tear rolling down Tracy’s cheek. “Will you stay and help me?”

  Tracy wiped her eyes with her hands. “I’ll stay,” she said, “. . . as long as the ghosts don’t come back.”

  If I hadn’t felt so sorry for her, I would have remined her of what she’d said before she did her Nancy Drew act in the grove—“I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “I don’t expect any more manifestations,” Grandmother said. “Not with that lunatic and her crazy companion out of the picture.”

  “Do you really think Mr. Coakley and Miss Duvall faked the whole thing?” Tracy asked.

  “I don’t know how they did it, but I’m sure they were responsible.”

  I glanced at Corey. She sat quietly, poking her salad this way and that in an effort to make it look as if she’d eaten some of it. She’d been so quiet all day I was beginning to worry about her.

  “I hope you’re right, Mrs. Donovan.” Tracy’s eyes returned to the corners of the room, as if she’d just glimpsed something moving in the shadows.

  “A man who wears a ponytail and drives around in a hearse is simply not to be trusted.” Grandmother ate the last of her sandwich and got to her feet. “Neither is a woman over twenty who polishes her nails black, pierces her nose and heaven knows what else, and claims to have psychic powers.”

  With that, she left the dining room, her faded denim skirt swinging.

  Tracy sat down at our table and rested her chin on her hands. “If your grandmother didn’t need me, I’d leave right now.” She tried to pour herself a glass of water, but this time it slopped all over the table.

  “Clumsy,” someone whispered.

  “What did you say?” Tracy turned to me.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Clumsy, sloppy girl.”

  Tracy jumped up and whirled around, trying to see who’d spoken. Her apron slid to the floor, its strings untied, and the same giggling we’d heard last night rippled around the room. Here and there, a cloth slithered off a table, forks, spoons, and knives rose into the air, and napkins whirled like eddies of leaves on a windy day. China plates and cups smashed against walls. Ketchup bottles spurted like ruptured arteries and splattered tables and carpets.

  The three of us cowered together, our flesh pinched, our hair pulled, our faces slapped by invisible hands, until we screamed.

  With a bellow of rage, Mrs. Brewster barreled into the room, her chest heaving. “Behave, bad ones, behave!” she screamed.

  “It’s not us,” I yelled. “We didn’t do anything!”

  But it wasn’t us Mrs. Brewster was looking at. Her eyes were focused on the swinging chandelier. “Stop it this minute!”

  Behind her, a pitcher of water rose from a table, sailed through the air, and dumped itself on the old woman’s head. The giggles changed into wild laughter. A cold draft swirled around us. Giving us a few last pinches, something swept out of the room.

  Tracy ran to Mrs. Brewster and began drying her with a tablecloth. “Are you all right?”

  Mrs. Brewster pushed Tracy aside and surveyed the dining room. “One of you fetch Mr. Brewster,” she said. “Tell him it’s worse than before.”

  As I ran out of the room to find Mr. Brewster, I bumped into Grandmother rushing into the room.

  “No,” she cried. “I don’t believe this!”

  “I want my mother,” Tracy wailed.

  Leaving them to settle things, I dashed out the back door and began searching for Mr. Brewster. I found him weeding the vegetable garden.

  “Mrs. Brewster sent me to get you,” I shouted. “She says it’s worse than before!”

  The old man dropped the hoe and came running. He didn’t ask for an explanation. He knew.

  “So they done all this,” he said glumly, taking in the dining room. Overturned chairs, linens on the floor, puddles of water, broken china, ketchup on the walls, Tracy weeping, his wife rubbing her wet hair with a tablecloth.

  Turning to Corey, Mr. Brewster added, “You a
nd your pranks. I hope you’re satisfied, miss.”

  Without looking at him, my sister ran out of the dining room. When I followed her, she tried to slam her door in my face, but I managed to push my way into her room.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I yelled. “Why won’t you talk to me? Are you mad at me?”

  “I’m scared,” she whispered. “Just scared. That’s all.” She sank down on her bed and began to cry. “I want to go home.”

  I sat beside her and patted her shoulder. “Don’t you think I’m scared, too?”

  “Let’s call Mom.”

  “No.” My chest was so tight with fear I thought I was having a heart attack. “We started this, and we have to finish it.”

  Corey raised her head and looked at me with teary eyes. “But how do we do that?”

  “They’re ghosts,” I said. “They must be here for a reason. Unfinished business or something.”

  “The Brewsters know more than they’re saying,” Corey muttered.

  As she spoke, I glanced out the window and saw Mrs. Brewster walking slowly across the grass toward the barn. Her hair and dress were still wet from the pitcher of water. She looked tired. While I watched, she vanished behind the hedge.

  “I wonder where she’s going,” I said.

  Corey perked up. “Let’s follow her.”

  We ran across the lawn and peeked through the hedge. Mrs. Brewster was standing in the weeds, staring down at the numbered stones. “It’s too bad, that’s what it is,” she said softly. “You ought to be sleeping peaceful. All of you.”

  As she spoke, shadows stirred among the stones and whispered in the grass.

  “That boy and girl are bad ones,” she muttered, “full of pranks and mischief, just like you.”

  She cocked her head like a robin listening for a worm to turn in the earth. “No, it ain’t punishment they need,” she said. “No more than you needed it.”

  She cocked her head again, listening hard to the rustle in the weeds, and then looked up, straight at our hiding place. “Come out from there. Didn’t nobody teach you manners?”