by Sheila Jecks
CHAPTER 3
Life went on and the year with it. I had to get my shopping done, it would soon be Christmas, and I wasn’t ready, not even near ready. I just couldn’t seem to stop thinking about the little ghost.
Get a grip girl, or there’ll be no Christmas for anybody!
I knew I had to get the little ghost out of my head, but I just couldn’t. I kept seeing her in my mind’s eye. She was the sadist little thing I ever saw and I was determined to learn more.
I even asked around at the church, but there wasn’t anyone old enough that really knew what I was talking about. When I brought up the little ghost, people would just excuse themselves and leave me alone.
I finally found the address to the Home where Aunt Muriel lived. Why had she gotten so upset? I had to find out. She seemed to be the only one who knew anything about the little girl.
On the Monday before Christmas I went to visit Aunt Muriel.
As I walked down the hallway to her room I couldn’t help but think this was a nice place to live. The rugs were soft underfoot; the Christmas décor inviting and the caretakers seemed to be genuinely interested in the old folks. Lots of people going about their business and I heard voices and Christmas carols coming from the room at the end of the hall.
“Hi Aunt Muriel,” I said as I paused at the door. Family pictures covered one wall of the pleasant room. All the holiday decorations were handmade and each one spoke of love. The room suited the old lady and she looked comfortable sitting in the wingback chair by the window reading.
“I’m Sara, remember, that friend of Helen’s?”
I sat on the edge of the bed and made small talk about the weather and how nice I thought her room looked and yes, Christmas would soon be here. And yes, I saw Helen last Sunday and she said to say ‘Hello’.
Finally, I broached the forbidden subject.
“You were at our house two weeks ago and I asked about the little girl in the graveyard but you didn’t want to talk about it. I realize you were upset, and I’m sorry, but I really need to know about the little girl.”
I told her about the things I saw.
I thought the old lady would relent and tell me what she knew. Instead she stood up, distress and pain running in tears down her face and said, “You have no right to dig into other people’s lives. Why are you bringing up the past? Let it go! I don’t want to see you ever again!”
I was stunned!
“I’m so sorry,” I stammered, “I thought when you knew the whole story you would feel different. I’m not trying to dig up old wounds; I’m trying to understand why the little girl is coming to me.”
“For pity sake, don’t you know where you live?”
“Yes, I live in the old house that sits in the cove by the ravine just off River Road.”
“You live in the old Gunderson house! They chose that spot to build their first house and that was where they buried their little girl when she died of the fever.”
“I can’t tell you any more, just go away,” said Aunt Muriel noisily sniffling into her lacy white hanky, “Don’t come back here again.”
Driving home I felt a fever of anticipation come over me. Not the fun kind, not the Christmas kind, but a burning urgency to do… something!
I drove home and parked at the top of the ravine and started down. A strange sense of foreboding came over me as I came to the bottom of the steps. Looking around I saw a strange man digging a hole under the apple tree.
I called out to him, but he didn’t move or stop digging, and then I realized…the house wasn’t old anymore, it was brand new…
Again.
