The Haunting

by Rodman Philbrick

  The bright, golden sunshine made what had happened last night seem distant, like maybe it really had been a dream. I knew it wasn’t, but I really didn’t want to think about it. The daylight made everything seem OK.

  No way was I going to let this stupid old house completely ruin my summer. There were too many cool things to do in the yard and around the lake. And so far the house hadn’t really been able to hurt me—what was I so afraid of, anyhow? Ghosts couldn’t hurt you unless you let them, everybody knew that.

  I was nearly finished with my cornflakes when there was a knock at the kitchen door.

  Steve. Time for payback.

  I took a big gulp of orange juice and held it in my mouth as I flung open the door, ready to spray all over Mr. Plastic Dog Poop himself.

  “Hi, Jason.”

  Oops. I hurriedly swallowed my orange juice. “Um, hi, Lucy,” I gulped.

  “Some kids are going to meet behind the school to play ball,” said Lucy. She had on a lime-green baseball cap with her ponytail pulled through the back, and was dressed in cutoffs and a white T-shirt. “If you bring a lunch, we can picnic at the lake afterwards.”

  “No prob,” I said, and slapped together a peanut butter sandwich.

  Steve showed up just as we were leaving. He gave me a secret grin but he didn’t mention the trick with the dog poop.

  “How’s it going, Jay? Get a good night’s sleep?” he teased.

  “What do you care?” I said.

  Steve looked hurt. “Hey, I was only asking. All that weird stuff you told me about, I was worried.”

  Lucy gave us both a look. “I’ve been asking around about the house on Cherry Street,” she said. “We’ll talk about it after the game.”

  My heart lurched. “What have you found out?”

  “Later,” she said firmly, waving to some kids coming down the street.

  The school with the softball diamond was only a few blocks away. Nothing I did could get Lucy to say more and in a couple of minutes the other kids joined us. I was so distracted I could hardly keep their names straight. What had Lucy found out about the house? Why did she look so grave?

  At the ball field there wasn’t time to worry. Lucy and Steve knew everybody, so they picked the teams. Steve ended up picking me for third base, which is the position I wanted. It’s a lot better than getting stuck in right field and having to shag down all the balls that get hit out of bounds.

  Me and my big mouth. Even with Steve pitching, third base turned out to be the hot spot. Some of those ground balls came at me at about a hundred miles an hour and it was all I could do to knock them down and make the throw to first.

  I made a couple of stupid errors, but basically I did OK, and we ended up winning 15 to 13.

  After the game we left the field and headed for the lake. I was kind of replaying the game in my head—especially the part where I knocked in two runs—and I’d almost forgotten that Lucy wanted to tell me something she’d learned about the house.

  I was so out of it, I actually ate a couple of Steve’s chocolate chip cookies. I was munching down when Lucy wrapped up her picnic stuff and said, “You haven’t asked what I found out, Jason. Don’t you want to know?”

  I felt like a balloon getting deflated. All the good cheer went out of me. For a couple of hours it had been as if the house didn’t exist.

  “I hope it’s not something too horrible,” I said. But even as I spoke the sun went behind a cloud. That’s how it felt—as if that house was a big cloud cast over my whole summer.

  “No, not so horrible,” said Lucy. “But I think maybe you do have a reason to worry. It turns out that a little boy who lived there years and years ago died there. He fell out of a tree. Or something like that. He’s probably still haunting the place.”

  Steve made a farting noise. “Oh, yeah? What about the old lady? She lived there for about a hundred years and no ghost ever scared her away,” he said.

  “Yes, but the thing about child ghosts,” said Lucy, “is that only other children can see them.”

  “My mom and dad sure can’t see this one,” I said. “But then again, neither can I.”

  “You can hear it, though,” said Lucy. “You can feel its presence in the house.”

  “That’s for sure,” I said dejectedly. “And Sally can see it. I’m sure of that.”

  “That’s what scares me,” said Lucy, leaning forward. “What if the little boy ghost wants another child for company. Permanently.”

  I stared at her, my mind a wordless blank.

  Even Steve looked horrified.

  “Oh, my God,” I said.

  “I think you’d better keep an eye on her,” Lucy said. “You’re the only one who can keep her safe.”

  19

  That night I pretended to be asleep when my parents came up to bed.

  They couldn’t help—it was up to me.

  Once the house was quiet—as quiet as it ever got—I dragged the chair from my room out into the hall and down next to Sally’s door, which was open just enough for me to see her bed.

  I sat in the chair with a baseball bat across my knees, waiting. Let it come! I was pumped up. Nothing was going to hurt my little sister, not if I had anything to say about it.

  Nothing happened. The house remained quiet. Sally slept peacefully. The hours slowly passed.

  My eyes grew heavy. I fought to stay awake but it was no use. I drifted off listening to the slow, rhythmic sounds of Sally breathing gently as she slept.…

  Suddenly I woke up with a start. At first I couldn’t remember where I was, or what I was doing there. Then my mind cleared and my hands gripped the baseball bat.

  A glance told me Sally’s door was still open a few inches exactly as it had been. I was getting up to go inside and check on her when a noise from downstairs stopped me cold.

  Screeeeek.

  There was a scrape on the floor as if someone down there had bumped into a chair.

  Eeeeeerk.

  That was the sound of a drawer opening very slowly.

  Steve. Maybe he was down there playing a prank after all that spooky talk.

  Crouching close to the wall, I started hesitantly for the stairs, clutching the bat. More shuffling, stirring noises, then an eerie, echoey voice.

  “Mama. My mama.”

  A child’s voice! Sally must be down there!

  I bolted down the stairs and tripped. Hanging on to the stair rail, I lost the bat. It was so loud thumping down the steps that surely it would wake my parents. And Steve would be scared off, right?

  Right?

  The noises stopped. I fumbled around for the light switch and clicked it on.

  Nothing happened. The lights weren’t working. It remained so dark I could barely see my own hands.

  I heard a rustling noise. Cloth on cloth, somebody moving.

  “Who’s there?” I called out, my voice echoing in the darkness.

  No answer.

  I advanced slowly into the downstairs hall. A movement at my shoulder made me jump.

  The clock. It was just the grandfather clock rearing up out of the dark, moonlight catching on its face. Just the clock—but my heart thudded.

  “Sally?” I called softly.

  No answer. I moved farther into the dining room.

  Behind me a floorboard creaked. I whirled around. The shadows under the stairs stirred and parted. Cloth whispered against cloth.

  If only I hadn’t dropped the baseball bat.

  “Dad?” I breathed, hopefully.

  From under the stairs came a raspy, whispery voice. “Where is it? You stole it from me, give it back!”

  My skin crawled. It was like the voice was getting inside me, making my blood freeze.

  “Who—” My voice cracked. “Who’s there?”

  “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

  Above me a child let out a piercing scream. It sounded as if it came from the top of the stairs. The scream seemed to free me and I tried to run up the steps.

>   Something hurtled out of the darkness. I ducked and it whistled past my ear, just missing me.

  “Ahhhh!”

  Behind me, right behind me, there was a cry of pain as the object connected with something and bounced, striking an end table and knocking it over.

  An antique lamp smashed to pieces.

  I dropped to the floor, feeling around for the missing bat. My hand closed over something heavy and coldly metallic. I held it up. A bronzed baby shoe.

  Something had hurled the heavy shoe at me—or maybe at something else on the stairs. Something behind me.

  Then the shoe was torn from my grasp. Wham—it flew into the air and smashed into the chandelier, raining glass everywhere.

  A piece of glass hit my leg and glanced off, cutting me slightly.

  Got to get out of here! I stumbled for the stairs. The air seemed to crackle around my ears. My only thought was to reach my room. It wanted me, I had to get away!

  Long, cold fingers came out of the shadows and snagged at my pajamas.

  I jerked free and tried to run.

  It was right behind me, gaining. Another whispery touch grazed my ankles.

  Then I was at the top of the stairs, my room only steps away. My breath wheezed in my chest. I reached for my bedroom door, threw it open and dived inside.

  I flung myself against the door and held it closed. Don’t come in, I prayed, don’t come in!

  Ghostly fingernails scraped along the door—skreeeek, skreeeek—and then moved on to rake the length of the wall.

  On the other side of the door a hollow voice spoke right into my ear. “I’ll get you, Jason. You can’t hide. I’ll get you.”

  Then the ghostly voice slowly faded and the house settled into silence as deep and soundless as the grave.

  20

  My skin was clammy and hot. When I opened my eyes the sun was beating down on me, already high. I had overslept, no surprise.

  I dressed as fast as I could, eager to tell my parents what had happened last night. This time it would be different. They’d have to believe me, with all the damage downstairs. Finally they’d have to listen, they’d have to realize that both me and Sally were in danger. Like it or not we’d have to get out of this house.

  Opening my door, I heard both Mom and Dad down in the kitchen. Good, I’d tackle them both at once.

  Suddenly I felt a little uneasy. Why hadn’t they come to wake me up when they found all that broken glass?

  They were laughing down there in the kitchen. Weird. Very weird.

  At the top of the stairs I stopped in surprise.

  The bronzed baby shoe was back on its shelf.

  Well, I realized, naturally Mom would have cleaned up the mess.

  My jaw dropped in amazement as I started down the stairs. The chandelier was hanging in its place, completely undamaged!

  I closed my eyes and opened them again. The chandelier was still there.

  I went down a few more steps. There was the little end table. On it was the antique lamp that last night had been smashed to bits. It was untouched.

  I picked it up and examined it. There wasn’t so much as a crack.

  What was going on here? Was I going crazy? Had it really all been a dream?

  Then I looked down at my leg. There it was—the small cut where the chandelier glass had hit me, beaded with dried blood. It was no dream. It had really happened, just as I remembered it.

  But Mom and Dad would never believe me. No point even telling them about it. Not until I had proof.

  21

  It was the bottom of the ninth, two out, with runners on second and third. I was holding down third base, keeping the runner on the bag. Our team was up by one run.

  Just one more out and the game was ours.

  “Hey, batter! Hey, batter!”

  Steve pitched without a windup, holding the runners on. He threw a fastball right down the middle.

  The batter swung and hit a soft ground ball right at me. An easy out. All I had to do was throw to home. No problemo.

  I bent down to scoop up the ball and it went right through my legs.

  Unbelievable. One runner crossed home plate, and before I could make a move, Lucy came around from second and passed me in a blur to score the winning run.

  It was all my fault. After the game nobody said much. Steve just looked at me and shrugged.

  I should have felt terrible, losing the game like that, but I didn’t feel much of anything at all. A stupid baseball game, what did it matter?

  “Hey, Jason, wait up!” It was Steve. “What happened to you? You looked like a zombie today. A real no-brainer.”

  “Thanks, Steve. You’re a big help,” I said. “If you’d had the kind of night I had, you’d still be hiding under your bed.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Steve’s eyes lit up. “More ghost stuff, huh?”

  “It’s not funny,” I said. “I’m really worried.”

  “Tell me,” begged Steve. “I won’t laugh. Maybe I can help. Two brains are better than one no-brainer.”

  Not that I expected him to believe me, but I told Steve everything that had happened. The noises, the things moving around downstairs, the voice outside my door. His eyes got bigger and bigger.

  “When the chandelier smashed, a piece of flying glass hit my leg.” I showed Steve the small cut. “I didn’t get this in a dream. I keep looking for rational explanations but this time I have to admit, there aren’t any. Broken lamps don’t fly up and put themselves back together.”

  “Wow,” said Steve, looking at the scratch. “So what do you think? Is it an old lady ghost or a little kid?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s two of them. The voice was definitely not a child’s. It sounded like a witch’s voice. But I heard a little kid, too.”

  “Two ghosts? How come there’d be two ghosts haunting the same house?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe they’re connected somehow.”

  “You mean like because of a murder or something? They say a ghost has to keep reliving the moment of its death. So if there’s a little kid ghost, maybe he had something to do with the old lady dying!”

  For some reason the very idea gave me the creeps. What if Steve was right? What if my little sister was playing with a ghost who had killed someone in real life?

  Suddenly Steve turned in the road and slapped my arm. “I’ve got it,” he said excitedly. “We can search for the old lady’s body. The way to get rid of a ghost is to find the body and lay it to rest. Once the old lady’s body is properly buried, maybe the child ghost will be at peace, too. Maybe that’s what it wants, for you to find the body and get it out of the house.”

  It was a gruesome idea, searching for a body. But we had to try something.

  “I’ll bet it’s in the basement,” Steve said. “That’s why nobody found it.”

  I didn’t want to go down into that basement, not after what happened with the slimy hand grabbing my ankle, but Steve would think I was a chicken if I didn’t. And besides, maybe I really had imagined that creepy hand.

  So we did it, we went down into the basement.

  My dad had fixed the broken step and the piece of wood was the only new and clean thing in the whole place.

  I tensed when I put my foot down on the new step, listening for noises from under the stairs. But with Steve chattering away like a real motormouth, I couldn’t hear a thing.

  “Now I see why you brought that flashlight,” said Steve. “It’s pretty dim and spooky down here. The perfect place for a dead body.”

  We stopped within the circle of light from the overhead bulb and I switched on the flashlight. The flashlight beam turned hulking shadows into perfectly ordinary piles of junk—boxes, old tools, broken furniture.

  We both stiffened when the door at the top of the stairs opened with a creak.

  “Boys!” It was my mother. “Don’t disturb those boxes in the corner,” she said. “They belong to the owners of the house.”
/>   “OK, Mom,” I called back. I aimed the flashlight at the other side of the basement. “We’ll start there,” I told Steve.

  But Steve wouldn’t make a move until I went first. It was much less scary down here when there were two of us, I decided. And thinking about it, I didn’t really expect to find anything, certainly not a forgotten skeleton, but exploring this creepy place with Steve would be cool.

  “Blak!” Steve shouted suddenly, like he was choking.

  I whirled around. The shadows moved in closer.

  Steve was batting at his face and sputtering. “Spiderwebs! They’re sticking to my face. Yuck!”

  I laughed and the shadows retreated to their corners.

  We found a bunch of moldering boxes filled with old magazines and newspapers, old-fashioned hats with net veils, unrecognizable parts of rusting metal.

  “Look at these weirdos,” Steve said, holding open an old magazine.

  “That’s how they dressed back then,” I said.

  “What a bunch of geeks.”

  “If you lived back then, that’s how you’d dress, too,” I pointed out.

  “No way.”

  As it turned out, none of the boxes in that corner were big enough to hide a body.

  We looked behind a ripped armchair that sprouted stuffing like fungus. Wrinkling my nose against the smell, I yanked the cushions off a sagging sofa while Steve held the flashlight over my shoulder.

  No body. Not even a dead mouse.

  Dust swirled as we shifted heavy boxes and played the flashlight beam into corners that hadn’t been disturbed in at least fifty years, maybe more.

  “What’s that?” cried Steve, tensing suddenly. “That noise.”

  I paused and listened. “I don’t hear anything.”

  Steve suddenly grabbed my arm.

  “There!” He pointed behind us, toward the corner where the owners’ things were piled. “It sounds like someone moving around back there, trying to be quiet.”

  I listened. “Mice,” I said, trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice. “I saw a mouse last time I was down here.”

  Steve looked doubtful. While we shifted around what seemed like millions of mildewed magazines, his gaze kept drifting toward that corner.