The Haunting

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  “No, Lia. Not today.”

  “Really, Mom, I want to come back. I—”

  “Don’t argue. It won’t do any good,” Mom said. She put a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Let’s do as your father suggested. We’ll lock up the house and find Mr. Boudreau.”

  Mom and Dad walked down the stairs to the entry hall. All I could do was follow and try to come up with an idea about what to do next.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Starling?”

  A deep voice from behind us boomed out so suddenly, I jumped and let out a yelp. I wasn’t alone. Mom started, and Dad whirled around to face whoever was there.

  Out of the dining room strode a tall, broad-shouldered man who was dressed in a suit and tie in spite of the day’s heat. His nose was long and so thin that it made me think of a fence dividing his close-set eyes. His hair was thick and the kind of shiny black that comes from a bottle of dye. He smiled and held out a hand to Dad. “The name’s Raymond Merle, and you must be the Starlings. Glad to meet you,” he said, without giving Mom or Dad a chance to say a word.

  All I got was a brisk nod as he handed Dad a business card and went on talking. He had to be one of those people who think kids don’t exist. It didn’t bother me. I was used to adults who acted like that.

  “I’m a land developer,” he explained. “I represent a firm that has big plans for Bogue City.”

  Dad’s mouth twitched, and I could tell he wanted to laugh. “Bogue City’s a pretty small place. What kind of plans could be called big plans?”

  Mr. Merle’s eyes narrowed even more. “The size of Bogue City doesn’t matter, although Main Street will be spruced up, a few stores will be added, and maybe a movie theater. What we’re talking about is right here, on this riverfront property—a self-contained retirement community.”

  “Not here,” Mom managed to squeeze in, but Mr. Merle went right on as though he hadn’t heard her.

  “We’re talking about cottages with kitchenettes and river views for those who want more independence,” he said. “Then, behind the cottages, a four-story building with luxury apartments, restaurant, coffee shop, and entertainment center. There’ll be a medical center with a nurse on the premises, and a doctor just a quick call away. On the east side of the property we’ll build a golf course and small clubhouse. On the west, a row of shops—groceries, clothing, gifts. Walking trails, biking trails—you name it, we’ll have it.”

  “No,” Mom said.

  Mr. Merle stared at the high ceiling and waved his arms in a wide arc. “All this should have been torn down years ago,” he said. “I shudder when I think of all the money spent on taxes and upkeep. As the new owner, I know you’ll be tickled to get the place off your hands.”

  Mom tried again. “Listen to me.”

  But Mr. Merle was like a windup toy that hadn’t reached the end of its spring. “I’d like to sit down with you in my office and come to an understanding. I can offer you a mighty fine price for this property.”

  Mom leaned toward Mr. Merle, tilting her face up so that she was almost nose to nose with him. “You haven’t heard me, Mr. Merle,” she said. “This property is not for sale to you, to the firm you’re working with, or to anyone else. It’s mine, and my husband and I have our own plans for it.”

  Mr. Merle’s glance grew even sharper as he studied Mom’s face. He looked as if he were trying to read her mind. “You plan to develop the property?” he asked.

  “We plan to develop it the way it should be developed. We intend to turn Graymoss into a family home for a group of children.”

  Mr. Merle actually snickered. “You haven’t heard the stories about what goes on in this house after dark.”

  “I’ve heard the stories, and I’ve read Charlotte Blevins’s diary,” Mom said.

  “Then you know that Charlotte wasn’t the only one who felt the haunts,” he said.

  Mom’s voice became cool and detached as she said, “There is clinical terminology for the type of mass hysteria that has been engendered by the legends surrounding Graymoss.”

  Mr. Merle backed off. He studied Mom with those sharp little eyes of his and said, “That’s what you think it is—mass hysteria? How wrong can you be?”

  Mom drew herself up. “I am not wrong, Mr. Merle. I’m a psychologist. Throughout the years, I have worked with people who are disturbed. I know how fear can grow, how people can actually cling to it.”

  For a moment Mr. Merle was silent. Then he said, “All I can say is, spend one night in this house, Mrs. Starling, and you’ll change your mind real quick.”

  I gripped the bag of gris-gris and Poe’s book with all my might, holding my breath as I waited for Mom’s answer. I was rooting for Mr. Merle to win this one. Dare her! I thought, hoping he’d pick up the mental message. Make her take the dare!

  Mom smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. “If I do, I suppose you’ll provide clanking chains and sheeted ‘ghosts’ who moan and groan—all the correct ghostly effects.”

  Mr. Merle’s face flushed a dark red. “I don’t use tactics like that to make a sale,” he said.

  “I apologize,” Mom said, although she didn’t look the least bit sorry. “I just want to make it perfectly clear to you and to everyone else that I have no intention of selling this house and property. My husband and I have dreams of turning it into a home for unadoptable children—children who have very little chance of growing up with parents who love them and care for them.”

  “I’ve always heard there aren’t enough babies to adopt,” Mr. Merle countered.

  For the first time Dad stepped into the conversation. He’d been hanging back, leaning against the round table in the center of the entry hall. He’d let Mom carry the ball herself, the smile in his eyes showing that he knew she’d come out the winner. “You’re right about the babies,” he said. “Most people wanting to adopt do want babies. They aren’t interested in older children—especially two or three in a family who want to stick together. And they usually don’t want children who are mentally or physically handicapped.” Dad’s smile broadened as he added, “But we do.”

  For a moment I felt smothered by a heavy wave of guilt, but I pushed it away. Mom and Dad weren’t the only ones in this family. I was here, too. Sure, I felt sorry for kids who needed homes, but I wasn’t ready for a dozen instant brothers and sisters. And I didn’t like the idea of living way off from nowhere with Bogue City as the only nearby town. Graymoss was too far from Jolie. We’d never be able to get together. I was getting desperate.

  Before Mom or Dad could say anything more about filling this house with kids, I broke in. “Let’s come back tonight, Mom,” I said. “We’ll prove that there’s nothing scary about this house and that Mr. Merle is wrong.”

  Mom raised an eyebrow as she looked at me. “Not tonight,” she said firmly.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I began, but Dad interrupted.

  “You’re our beloved daughter, and we do worry about you.” He grinned as he said, “We’ll make sure we banish all the ghosts and goblins from our minds, then move on to the next step.”

  “And come here at night?”

  “You better come soon,” Mr. Merle said, “before you start pouring money into this place.”

  Good move, I thought, sending Mr. Merle more mental messages. Keep it up. Say something that will make Mom want to be here after dark.

  But Mom didn’t give him a chance. She opened the front door and said impatiently, “Mr. Merle, there’ll be no more talk about ghosts. We’ve been in this house close to two hours, and we haven’t seen a single sign of preternatural beings.”

  He shrugged. “That’s because it’s daylight. The ghostly stuff waits until after dark.”

  “Only after dark? But—” I blurted out, then stopped as the three of them looked at me.

  At least one ghost hadn’t waited. I’d only been in Graymoss a few minutes when it had let me know of its presence. In spite of the sun-baked air pouring through the open door, I grew cold and shiv
ered. All these years … all this time … had the ghost been waiting for me?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I was counting on the promise that nothing invisible could harm me as long as I held on to the gris-gris, but I was still the first one out the door. As I walked across the veranda and down the steps, I was puzzled by what had happened and why.

  Mom and Dad said a quick goodbye to Mr. Merle. He folded himself into a low black sports car and drove off, obviously unhappy about the way things had turned out.

  “I never want to see that awful man again,” Mom declared.

  “You won’t get your wish,” Dad said. “He’ll be back to follow through. You didn’t even let him make his offer.”

  Mom shook her head impatiently. “How could he actually think that a few ridiculous ghost stories would send us running?”

  “Because the other women in the family ran,” I said.

  Mom’s nose and cheeks got pink, the way they always did when she was upset, so I spoke fast. “There was something in the house that frightened them. That’s what Grandma said. But the house doesn’t frighten you, Mom. At least it doesn’t right now.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Mom asked.

  “I mean, prove that everyone else is wrong. Stay in the house at night.” I threw in something I thought would really make my case. “Don’t let Mr. Merle win,” I told her.

  “Mr. Merle is not going to win,” Mom snapped. She hadn’t said that we wouldn’t come back after dark, so I began to hope.

  Mom turned to Dad. “How did he find out so quickly that we were here?”

  “You know small towns,” Dad answered. “News travels fast.”

  “Especially when the newscaster is someone like Mr. Mudd,” I said.

  Dad and I laughed. Mom was getting over being angry, because at least she smiled.

  “I want to see the outbuildings,” Dad said.

  “And the vegetable garden,” Mom said.

  We had no sooner walked across the drive and onto the thick, green lawn when we heard a car driving up. We stopped and stared as a gold Cadillac zoomed up the drive and stopped with a screech next to our own car.

  A plump woman, with piled-up hair bleached the bright yellow of lemons, heaved herself out of the passenger seat of the car. “Yoo-hoo!” she called.

  I lost interest in her as I noticed the hunk climbing out of the driver’s side. He was tall and good-looking, with dark hair and blue eyes. I guessed he was around sixteen or seventeen. The woman made straight for Mom and Dad, but the guy smiled, his eyes on mine.

  “Good morning, good morning,” the woman called. “You have got to be the Starlings, the new owners of Graymoss, and I’m delighted to meet you. I’m Hannah Lord. This is my grandson, Jonathan.”

  We all said hello and went through introductions.

  “Hi, Lia,” Jonathan said in a voice that was warm and deep.

  I had to gulp before I could answer. My “Hi” came out in a squeak.

  “Let’s step inside out of the sun,” Mom said. “I’m sorry that I can’t offer you anything to eat or drink.”

  Mrs. Lord giggled and said, “Thank you. I didn’t expect refreshments.” She took Mom’s arm and leaned into her ear. “I must confess that I’ve been dying to see the interior of Graymoss. Mr. Boudreau takes his caretaker duties seriously. He won’t allow anyone inside—even for a tiny peek.”

  We all walked back up the stairs, and Dad unlocked the front door again.

  Mrs. Lord clasped a hand to her chest and took a loud breath. “Oh, my! I can’t tell you how excited I am!” she cried.

  She gasped her way around the entry hall and through the downstairs rooms. As we silently followed behind her, I made sure the bag of gris-gris stayed right under the fingers of my left hand.

  “It’s perfect! This house is absolutely perfect!” Mrs. Lord cried as we reached the parlor. She dropped onto a nearby sofa and fanned herself with her small handbag.

  “Thank you. We think so, too,” Mom said.

  Mrs. Lord leaned forward, her eyes bright. “I modestly neglected to tell you that I’m president of the Bogue City Historical Society. I’ve been president for eons because no one else could match my devotion and dedication to the position.”

  “Or want the job,” Jonathan murmured into my ear. He was standing very close. Smiling, I turned to share the joke, and my cheek brushed his shoulder. I desperately wished I could think of something clever to say. I didn’t know how to talk to guys. I didn’t know how to talk to anybody but Jolie.

  Mrs. Lord took a deep breath and went on. “Just think how fantastic it would be to share this piece of local history with those who’d drive from all over the country to see it!”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mom said.

  “On historical tours,” Mrs. Lord said. “Tours to the old plantation homes are all the thing. They’re even combined with some of the steamboat cruises on the Mississippi. But, of course, you know all that. You must, if you read the newspapers. Think what exhibiting our own local plantation would do for the economy of Bogue City! And to the prestige of our Bogue City Historical Society!”

  She didn’t say, “and to me,” but the words were hanging there.

  Mom shook her head. “Are you asking me to turn Graymoss over to your historical society?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m asking.” Mrs. Lord beamed at Mom. “Taxwise it could be highly advantageous to you.”

  “I’m not—” Mom began.

  “Oh! I have such dreams! We could put a small gift shop in the kitchen area. Of course, we’d have to have a new water well dug and a rest rooms area built out in back. And then—”

  “Absolutely not,” Mom interrupted. “We have other plans for Graymoss.”

  Mrs. Lord turned pale and sank against the back of the sofa. “It’s Ray Merle, isn’t it? He got to you first.”

  Mom opened her mouth to answer, but Mrs. Lord suddenly revived and struggled to her feet. “We’ll meet his price, even though it will be difficult. We’ll hold fund-raisers. We’ll do whatever needs to be done to raise the money. We can’t let him bulldoze this valuable contribution to history.”

  “It’s not Mr. Merle,” Mom tried to explain.

  “Mr. Tavey, then. Don’t even listen to Mr. Tavey! He’s dying to get his hands on the furnishings. You know, Tavey’s Antiques. But he must not have them. The furniture belongs with the house!”

  “Please listen to me, Mrs. Lord,” Mom said. Her voice sounded tired. I don’t think she’d had any idea she’d spend her time at Graymoss arguing with people who wanted the property. “My husband and I plan to modernize the house and turn it into a home for at least a dozen unadoptable children.”

  “But that’s impossible! You can’t!” Mrs. Lord insisted. “For one thing, Graymoss is a priceless piece of history and should be treated as such. The house was built in 1831 and survived the War Between the States. Through your family’s trust, Graymoss has been well cared for, and I can see that it needs relatively little in repair. I can give you a long list of very good reasons why Graymoss should be opened to visitors as a historical treasure.”

  Mom looked cynical. “I suppose the first reason on your list is that we can’t live in this house because of some kind of after-dark hocus-pocus.”

  “You mean the ghosts,” Mrs. Lord said. “Since you know about the ghosts, I don’t have to tell you about them. I assure you that the stories about the fearsome evil that takes place in Graymoss after dark are not exaggerated.”

  Mom’s eyebrow slid even higher. Cynically, she asked, “You don’t think that the so-called ghosts will frighten visitors away?”

  Mrs. Lord missed the sarcasm. “Oh, my dear, of course not,” she said. “They’ll be a fantastic selling point. The house won’t be open at night, which is when the terrifying things take place. And people love tours through haunted houses. They love knowing that ghosts appear—only not in daylight hours. I know for a fact that when some of the plantation tours
began including stories about the ghosts that haunt the premises, attendance rose dramatically.”

  I quickly asked, “The ghosts—uh—what about when they show up during the day?”

  “They don’t. At least not at Graymoss.”

  I had to persist, because I knew she was wrong. “Are you sure no one has seen any sign of ghosts in Graymoss during the day?”

  “No one has ever reported any unusual occurrences,” she said. “Believe me, as I told you, I’ve researched Graymoss thoroughly. Your mother,” she told Mom in a voice filled with awe, “even allowed me to read Charlotte Blevins Porter’s diary.”

  “This conversation is absurd,” Mom said. “We’re talking about ghosts as though they exist. Mrs. Lord, we don’t believe in ghosts. We aren’t going to be frightened away by tales of things that go bump in the night.”

  “But Charlotte’s diary—” Mrs. Lord began.

  “Charlotte was under a great deal of stress,” Mom said. “She had recently been orphaned and lost her grandmother. She was terrified by the soldiers’ threat to burn her house, and you can imagine how traumatized she was when her grandfather was shot right before her eyes. Hallucinating during tremendously stressful situations is not uncommon.”

  “It wasn’t just Charlotte who experienced the evil,” Mrs. Lord argued. “The workers Charlotte wrote about and her mother’s cousin Lydia all saw, heard, and felt the same things as Charlotte.”

  “The results of the power of suggestion can be amazing,” Mom told her.

  “Oh, no, my dear,” Mrs. Lord said. “I can’t believe that the horrifying events Charlotte wrote about didn’t exist. There have been people who have come to Graymoss just to experience manifestations. And there have been those whose intent was to steal or vandalize. The evil came. It terrified them. It drove them away. Some of them actually died of fright. In a sense you might say that the evil protected Graymoss.”