The door opened, and Mom came in. “We were looking for you,” she said. She saw the tears on my cheeks and asked, “What’s wrong, honey?”
I grabbed a fistful of paper towels, trying to dry my face and hands at the same time. “Kids shouldn’t be hurt or have to live the way Jimmy lived, or Demetria, or Delia.”
I threw myself into a storm of words and tears about adults who kicked children down the stairs or yelled at little ones who made mistakes.
Mom waited until I had finished. Then she put her arms around me, smoothing back my hair and murmuring soft, loving Mom things the way she did when I was younger. It felt good, and I thought for a minute that while I was growing older maybe she would have done more of this … if I’d let her.
Finally I stepped away. “I’m okay now. Thanks, Mom,” I said, and splashed cold water on my face.
She held out a hand. “Let’s find your father and Barbara. They were wondering where you’d disappeared to.”
As we walked out into the hall I asked, “Mom, doesn’t it hurt you to see kids like these?”
“It hurts more,” Mom said, “to walk away and leave them.”
I stopped and faced her. “You’d want to take somebody like the boy I met named Jimmy? He told me he has terrible nightmares and cries out at night.”
“I know Jimmy. He needs a series of operations on his right leg.” Mom nodded. “With someone to reassure him that he’s loved, Jimmy might stop having nightmares.”
“What about Delia? She doesn’t seem very smart and isn’t housebroken.”
“Potty trained,” Mom corrected, and smiled. “Delia really needs someone to care for her, doesn’t she?”
Arguments zipped and zinged around in my mind like stray arrows. “If you adopt a houseful of kids, it’s going to mean an awful lot of hard work,” I said.
“That’s right,” Mom said. “For all of us.”
Surprised, I countered, “And you’ll lose sleep.”
“We expect to.”
“And there’ll be a lot of noise and probably some arguments—even fistfights.”
“Of course.”
“Mom,” I complained, “you aren’t making this easy.”
“Nothing about our plan is going to be easy,” she said. “But the results are going to be worth’ while, and that’s what counts.”
I still didn’t like Mom and Dad’s idea about filling Graymoss with kids no one else would adopt. At the same time I didn’t like not liking it, or leaving Jimmy and Demetria and Delia without parents to take care of them. But I wanted my parents to myself and my quiet life to stay the same … didn’t I? “I think …,” I began, then groaned. “I don’t know what I think.”
Mom put an arm around my shoulders. “It takes time to sort things out,” she said. “Let’s say goodbye to some of the children and to Barbara.”
But before we left I had a question for Mrs. Lane. “What will happen to Delia and Robbie and Demetria? Will they be sent to another foster home?”
“There are none available at the moment, and because of Delia’s extra needs, there aren’t many foster parents who’d take her.”
“Then do they just keep living here?”
“We might try another foster home, but when children are rejected—well, it’s awfully hard on them. They’ll probably keep living here, or in other institutions, until they’re eighteen.”
Institutions? I shuddered.
Demetria appeared, leading Delia by the hand. Delia was wearing clean shorts and a matching blouse with nursery-rhyme figures on them. “Are you going now? Will you come back?” Delia asked me.
I hunkered down to her level. “Yes,” I said. “But I’ll come back to see you soon. I promise.”
As I stood up I saw Mom and Dad watching me. “That’s all I promise,” I told them.
We left the Barker Home for Children and drove back to Metairie in silence. I guessed we all had too much to think about. I kept picturing Jimmy, with his lopsided grin, and the loving way Demetria looked at her little sister, and I discovered that I really wanted them to come and live with Mom and Dad and me at Gray moss.
Just then Mom said, “I’m exhausted. I suppose it was all the conflict this morning.”
“Lie down for a while when we get home,” Dad said. “I’ll make dinner.”
“I’ll be all right,” Mom said. “A nap will help. We’ll be up awfully late tonight.”
I bolted upright in shock as I realized what Mom meant. “Mom!” I cried out. “You can’t go to Gray moss tonight.”
Mom twisted around to look at me. “All day long you’ve been after me to spend the night at Graymoss to prove to everyone that the house is not haunted. Now that I’ve agreed, you don’t want me to go. Why this sudden change of mind?”
I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t tell her that the evil would surround her and terrify her, making her realize she couldn’t create a home out of Graymoss. What would happen to Demetria and Delia and Robbie and Jimmy?
Ava Phipps had told me to find the cause of the hauntings so that I could set the evil free. I’d try my best, but I had to have time.
I took a deep breath, looked right into Mom’s eyes, and said, “I was wrong. You don’t have to prove there are no ghosts to Mrs. Lord or Mr. Merle or anybody else in Bogue City. It’s your house, not theirs. I don’t think you should give in to them, Mom.”
“Lia has a good point,” Dad said.
Good old Dad. I was counting on him to back me up. He’d gladly drive Mom back to Graymoss if she wanted him to, but I was sure he was tired enough to want to skip another three- or four-hour round trip.
Mom turned around and settled back. “You’re right, Lia,” she said to me, although I could tell she was thinking things out loud to herself. “I don’t have to prove anything to anybody. Besides, I’m tired and hungry and my feet hurt.”
She laughed, and Dad laughed along with her.
But I didn’t laugh. I’d just given myself the job of getting rid of whoever was haunting Graymoss, and I didn’t know how I was going to do it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When we got home there were three messages from Grandma telling us that she’d returned to Baton Rouge earlier than she’d planned. She asked us to call her.
“After we’ve had something to eat,” Mom said. She went into the kitchen to help Dad make dinner, and I dashed upstairs to telephone Jolie. I laid Favorite Tales of Edgar Allan Poe next to me on the bed.
Jolie squeaked and gasped while I told her everything that had happened. I finally said, “That’s it. What should I do?”
“Call him,” Jolie said. “He told you to, and you said he was a hunk, so call him.”
Exasperated, I flopped back on the bed. “Jolie! I told you all about the people we met and what they said about the evil in Graymoss, and I told you about the kids and how I changed my mind, even though I didn’t want to, and all you can tell me is ‘Call him’?”
There was silence for a minute. Then Jolie said, “What do you expect me to say? We’ve been best friends forever, Lia, and now you want to move away. We’ll never see each other.”
“It’s only a little over two hours’ drive,” I said. “We can get together often. You can come and spend the night.”
“No thanks!” she said quickly.
“It’ll be all right after the ghosts have left.” I propped myself up on one elbow and said, “Oh, Jolie, moving away from you will be the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life, but if you could see those kids who’ll probably grow up without families …”
“Don’t tell me any more about them,” Jolie said. “Right now I don’t want to hear because I’m not through feeling hurt and unhappy and a little bit mad.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be. It’s not really your fault. Parents rule the world, and you would have moved to Graymoss whether you wanted to or not.”
“Only if we could get rid of the evil.”
Th
e smell of onions and bell peppers frying wafted under my door and tickled my nose. My stomach rumbled, but I kept my mind on trying to solve the problem. “Mrs. Phipps didn’t think the evil came from the grandfather,” I said. “Nobody thinks so. He was a good guy, and this ghost is just plain nasty and evil.”
“Maybe it’s the ghost of one of those people who stayed in the house at night and died of fright.”
“No,” I said. “Charlotte felt the evil. Remember? It happened the night her grandfather died.”
“Wait a minute,” Jolie told me. “I’m getting an idea.”
Just then Mom called me. “Hurry up, Jolie,” I said. “I’ve got to go.”
“Okay,” Jolie said. “Get Charlotte’s diary and go over it carefully. Write down every single thing she said about her grandfather and every single thing he said. Take a good look at it. There might be a clue.”
I got an idea of my own and added, “Or in what he didn’t say?”
“Both. Want me to come over and help you?”
“Sure,” I told her, beginning to feel hopeful for the first time. “After dinner. Okay?”
I ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. As I dropped into my chair at the table I said, “Mom, Jolie’s coming over tonight.”
“That’s nice,” Mom said.
Dad placed a bowl of rice and a bowl of shrimp stir-fry on the table.
“So would you give me Charlotte’s diary? We want to read it again, together.”
“Not on your life,” Mom answered. “I locked up that diary and put it away forever. You read it twice, and that was two times too many. If you read it again, both you and Jolie will have nightmares for a month. Forget the diary. Forget the so-called ghosts. Ghosts don’t exist.”
I knew, from the expression on Mom’s face, that it wouldn’t do any good to argue. I ate dinner, not even thinking about what I was tasting, and tried to figure out what to do next.
When Jolie came, she immediately made for the Favorite Tales of Edgar Allan Poe, which lay on my bed. “Wow!” she said as she carefully picked up the small book and ran a finger over the corner that had been burned. “This was Charlotte’s.”
“I’ve been looking through the stories,” I explained, “trying to find a message.”
Jolie held the book up and gently shook it. She carefully pried up the loose endpapers and looked under them. “Nothing here,” she said. She put down the book and glanced around. “Where’s Charlotte’s diary?”
“Out of bounds. Mom’s got some weird idea that we’ll have nightmares.”
“But we have to see the diary again,” Jolie said. “It’s not like you can just get a copy at the library.”
I had picked up the book of Poe’s stories, but now I nearly dropped it. “There is a copy of what Charlotte wrote,” I said. “It’s on display in the Bogue City Historical Society’s museum.”
For a moment Jolie brightened, but then she made a face. “That’s a big help. How are you going to get to Bogue City to read it without your mom finding out?”
“I could visit Grandma in Baton Rouge,” I said. With a grin I pulled Jonathan’s father’s card out of the pocket of my shirt and waved it at Jolie. “Then I’ll call Jonathan. He said he’d do anything he could to help me, and he’s old enough to drive.”
Jolie didn’t grin in return. She frowned. “Just don’t forget your gris-gris,” she warned. “When you get around that house, anything might happen. Look what you saw already.”
“Don’t try to scare me,” I said. “You’re supposed to be helping me get rid of a ghost.”
“Okay,” Jolie said. “Fill me in. What have you found out by reading the Poe stories?”
“That there are ten short stories in this book, but because of Poe’s writing style, with long paragraphs and lots of description, they’re hard to skim. I’m going to be up late trying to finish reading them.”
“Remember reading ‘The Masque of the Red Death’ last year in American lit?” Jolie asked. “It gave me shivers.”
I nodded. “Mrs. Weems said that most of Poe’s stories have some kind of surprise ending. They’d give anybody shivers.”
“You’ll have to read every one of the stories in Charlotte’s book,” Jolie said.
“I’ve already decided that,” I told her. “I thought if I could compare the plots I might see which story Placide Blevins had in mind as a message.”
“I’ll help you,” Jolie said. “Read off the names of the stories, and I’ll write them down. Tell me the plot of each story, but keep it short, like one sentence.”
I opened the book. “Let’s see. Where should I start?”
“I wish Charlotte hadn’t lost that bookmark,” Jolie said.
“I do, too, but it’s too late for wishing.” I turned to the title page. “ ‘The Gold Bug,’ ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue,’ ‘The Oval Portrait,’ ‘The Black Cat,’ ‘The Purloined Letter,’ ‘The Tell-Tale Heart,’ ‘The Fall of the House of Usher,’ ‘The Masque of the Red Death,’ ‘The Cask of Amontillado,’ and ‘The Pit and the Pendulum.’ ”
Jolie looked at the list. “Maybe the first letters of each word spell out a message.”
“Forget it. That’s a dumb old code we used in third grade. Are you ready to write?” I asked. “We can list the stories we’ve already read.”
“ ‘The Masque of the Red Death,’ ” Jolie began. “Selfish prince hides in his castle with his friends to escape the plague that is killing everyone in his country, only at a ball the Red Death comes and kills the prince and his friends, too.”
I made a face. “How long are these sentences supposed to be?”
Jolie waited until she had finished writing. “Very funny. You try it with the next one.”
“ ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue,’ ” I said. “Here goes. Neighbors hear screams and break into a locked room to find a woman missing and her murdered daughter stuffed up a chimney. A detective named C. Auguste Dupin—”
“That’s more than one sentence,” Jolie said.
“There was more than one murder. They found the woman’s body in the courtyard.”
“That doesn’t matter. We agreed, one sentence.”
“All right. After ‘stuffed up a chimney,’ write, ‘so a detective is called in who solves the crime by finding a broken nail that proves the murderer left the room through a window and he wasn’t a raving maniac because he—’ ”
“Stop,” Jolie said. “This is getting too long.”
“I don’t see how it fits anything at Graymoss anyway,” I told her.
“Don’t try to figure it out now. Let’s just write the sentences. Later on we can study them and see if anything fits. Next story.”
“ ‘The Cask of Amontillado,’ ” I said. “I hated that story.” I took a deep breath and thought hard. “A man gets revenge on an acquaintance who insuited him by luring him to his wine cellar and walling him up inside it.”
Jolie finished writing and said, “Don’t forget ‘The Gold Bug.’ A man is invited to help a friend find the location of Captain Kidd’s buried treasure by dropping a gold bug through the eye of a skull nailed to a tree.”
“Okay. Write it,” I said. When she had finished I asked, “Any others?”
“No,” she said. “How about you?”
I shook my head. “I have to read the rest of them.”
“Then start reading,” Jolie said.
I picked one of the shortest stories to read: “The Oval Portrait.” It was only three pages so it didn’t take long. I rested the book on my lap and said, “A wounded man and his valet break into an empty chateau to spend the night, and there’s an oval portrait of a beautiful woman hanging on the wall, and the man reads what the woman’s husband wrote, that he was an artist who ignored her for his art, and his neglect killed her.”
“That’s it?” Jolie asked.
When I nodded, she made a face of disgust, but wrote it anyway.
I felt a little guilty at my disloyalty to Charl
otte, who had written in her diary that she enjoyed the stories, because Jolie and I didn’t.
I was halfway through “The Tell-Tale Heart” when Jolie’s mom called her to come home.
I took the notepad from her and said, “I’ll finish the stories tonight.”
“Let me know what you find out,” Jolie said. She hesitated at the door. “About your visit to your grandma’s—I hope you can go, but …” She suddenly hugged me. “Be awfully careful, Lia!”
After Jolie left I went looking for Mom and found her in the den. “Did you talk to Grandma?” I asked.
“Yes,” Mom answered.
“Is she all right? I mean, you know. When her mother died that’s the only time I’ve ever seen Grandma cry.”
“She’s all right. She just needs a little moral support,” Mom said. She gave me a careful look. “Lia, I know you’re enjoying your summer vacation with Jolie, but would you consider visiting your grandmother for a few days? We could drive you there tomorrow, and pick you up on Friday, when we meet the structural engineers at Graymoss.”
I realized my mouth was open. I couldn’t have planned this any better. From Sunday to Friday I’d have almost five whole days to try to find the secret keeping the evil at Graymoss.
“I know sometimes you feel Grandma is a little hard to get along with,” Mom said, “so if you don’t want to visit her, I’ll understand.”
Mom was watching, waiting for my answer, so I quickly pulled my thoughts together and assured her, “I’d like to visit Grandma. I really would.”
Mom smiled and reached for the telephone. “Thanks, honey,” she said. “Grandma may not say so, but she’ll be glad you’re there, too. I’ll give her a call.”
I shot back up the stairs. Pack and read … don’t forget the gris-gris … Read and pack. I had things to do.
I filled my canvas bag with shorts and T-shirts and tucked in a waist pack with a small flashlight inside. I even added one dress—just in case Grandma decided she wanted to go to a restaurant. I wasn’t going to let myself in for another “young people nowdays don’t have the slightest idea of how to dress properly” lectures.
The Haunting Page 11
