Out of the Wild Night

by Blue Balliett

  I have an idea! Perhaps that is when the ghosts first took charge, settling deep into the weathered wood and deserted streets of their familiar home. And did those ghosts, men and women as tough as boot leather, teach those who came after?

  How obvious this is! The world-famous determination that fueled Nantucket’s whaling days didn’t just disappear. Why would it?

  That fierceness is a part of the fabric of every old house. For decades these houses weren’t threatened, so no ghosts had to rise to defend their territory.

  I’m dizzy at the thought! Do ghosts like ours see children as apprentices? Useful, fresh young hands who can be put to work?

  When I was a young girl, ghosts were an everyday part of our lives and certainly of our homes. There was nothing shocking about a visit.

  There were times my parents and I heard a sharp rapping in the hall at the top of the stairs when we were downstairs at night. My mother would call up, “Bringing a light, Aunt Sally,” and the sound would stop. When the family went to bed, we’d set an extra candle, a sturdy one with a glass globe to protect it from drafts, at the top of the stairs. We left it burning. I never thought it was odd. My mother explained to me that her aunt, an avid gardener, had fallen and broken a leg as an older woman, and claimed it was because her candle had gone out. After the accident, she had to sit on a footstool while weeding, and it made her furious.

  The morning after the rapping, my mother would find something fresh lying on the kitchen table, such as a handful of basil, a juicy tomato, or some lovely beets. She’d then thank Aunt Sally.

  Our doors were never locked, but it wasn’t a neighbor who left these gifts.

  No one had much to give away. That’s part of the reason I go on about the free clothing and furniture at the dump. The flow of goods looks ridiculously easy to me, and maybe it is.

  Too easy.

  Perhaps it is dangerous.

  Balance, for those who live by the sea, is essential. Any boat is small and every ocean huge. Islanders have always known about the tipping point. Once you lose your balance, the sea won’t wait for you to catch your breath.

  It can’t. Waves follow waves.

  Which brings me to the present and to Eddy Nold, my house key hot in the palm of his hand. Eddy is not the real problem; he handles what’s visible. Today, Nantucketers—expert at fishing for centuries now—have hooked some of the wildly rich. If you ask me, these fish are far too big for us. Is it too late to unhook them and hope they swim away?

  The whalemen were killers who used every last bit of the lives they took. We use all we can reach. Truth to tell, the people demolishing the interiors of old houses these days don’t understand how self-sufficient an islander can be.

  Eddy pauses by my front door, as if hearing a sound inside. Then he looks around, sniffing. I listen and sniff, too.

  I see Eddy’s face soften. We both recognize—wait, can this be?—the unmistakable smell of fresh wonders.

  The contractor stands back from the front door, a strange expression on his face. Then he and I hear the clink of a plate set down gently inside, on the front hall table.

  Otherwise, there’s no sign of life. The windows of my house are dark.

  Eddy takes two steps back, spins, and runs.

  What is a ghost story?

  Some say it’s a supernormal tale involving people. I like that word better than paranormal. Supernormal sounds like more than usual. Perhaps it’s a pillow filled with feathers instead of rags, or a fat, blueberry-filled biscuit. Like cream instead of skim milk. Like the luxury of gravy instead of nasty, dry meat. Like a lobster sunset instead of a shy blush.

  Kids and ghosts have much in common. Both can and do change shape. Both know how to hide.

  Children understand the supernormal without even trying. For them, it’s like laughing or crying—it just happens.

  Ghosts are extra-normal around here.

  Does that mean more real than the living?

  I think it does.

  My hands tremble. I wipe the handle of my bell and clean my horn.

  I know I’m not responsible for that plate, nor is Eliza Rebimbas. Is a batch of supernormal wonders a good thing?

  November 21.

  The Old North Cemetery.

  Although his sore throat is gone, Gabe’s voice is squeakier than usual.

  “I got news,” he says, looking around at the other members of the Gang. It’s the day after Eddy paused at the door of my home, before Phee can share Sal’s plan to use that mysteriously growing pile of old lumber.

  “My dad told me that, starting last night, every single ‘renovation’ site in town is in trouble,” Gabe hurries on. “Those big earthmoving machines are breaking down. All of the equipment that helps a worker pull apart the tight joints of an old house—hammers, saws, crowbars—is being scattered. Tossed out, thrown in mud puddles, ruined. And then someone’s completely emptying the dumpsters at night, not just taking a board or two.”

  “Oh, wow,” Phee mutters.

  “What if people think your grandpa’s doing it?” Cyrus asks.

  “Herbie’s already worried about that.” Phee glances at Gabe.

  “Yeah, everyone knows that Sal Folger hates the house-gutting.” Gabe chews on a thumbnail. “But he’s one kinda old guy, I mean …”

  “Ridiculous.” Phee nods. She wonders, suddenly, what Sal’s been up to lately while she’s at school.

  “Hey, you know the names in our heads?” Paul looks around at the group. “What if they’re here? Maybe some of the old house owners with those names are buried right around us, in this graveyard, and they’ve been listening.”

  “Watching us,” Markus adds.

  Even Phee looks shaken by that idea, her mouth rounding down like the top of an old gravestone. “Like right now?” she asks.

  “I listen,” Maddie says promptly. “To people when they tell secrets.”

  Paul pokes his little sister and she squeals. “Like you’ve heard any secrets,” he says to her, and she sticks out her tongue, then hugs him.

  “What if some of them know some of us,” Maria says slowly. “And they don’t want us talking?”

  “You mean, the ‘some of us’ who are out here playing all the time,” Markus says. “Maybe they think we live out here, too.”

  “Ooh.” Cyrus hugs his knees.

  The kids glance around at the rows of lichen-covered stones on all sides. Smoky greens, slate blues, grays, and marbled creams trade color with the wintery clouds overhead. In certain lights, stone and sky can seem like cousins.

  “Look,” Phee says. “All of us here have relatives buried on the island, right? So … like Sal says, family is family. They’d never hurt us, no matter how angry they are.”

  “Yeah, Grandma Sue says that, too,” Cyrus mutters.

  Gabe elbows Phee. “Look, right over there, Elizabeth Folger, died in 1844.”

  “Oh! Right,” Phee says, hiding a shiver. “Anyway, hey, speaking of family.” She points to a Tristram Pinkham nearby. “Died in 1853.”

  Gabe swallows. “So we all belong,” he says loudly, as if to be sure the stones hear.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Paul says. “If these are spirits protecting their old houses, they’re being kind of hard on the living workers. That doesn’t make sense. If they were plain old Nantucketers, they were probably workers themselves.”

  “Eddy’s getting hurt worse and worse,” Gabe says. “I know he asked for it, but …”

  I remember with fear the word that flew into Phee’s head a few days ago when she ran out into the dusk, thinking of her mother.

  Heartless.

  “When people—or maybe ghosts—get desperate, they can forget what’s right and do weird things,” Phee says. In a flash, she thought of her young parents leaving her alone at night on a leaky boat in the harbor.

  Sometimes caring can’t stop bad things from happening, she thinks.

  “How about we all go into the next house, not just
Gabe.” Paul seems to read Phee’s mind.

  “Stick together.” Phee nods. “Join hands.”

  I grip my bell. The kids don’t know about Mrs. Rebimbas’s recent words, Remember to join hands. Nor do they realize what scared Eddy away from her front door yesterday.

  But Mrs. Rebimbas is still alive, I think. She was nowhere near our house. Who filled that plate yesterday? Not me.

  As if reading my mind, Grandma Sue calls out, her voice warbling across the dark cemetery, “Who wants a WON-DER?”

  The kids in the Gang scramble to their feet and race for her kitchen door. I follow.

  Maddie stays with Grandma Sue while the other kids head for a work site on Union Street. No, please! It’s my aunt Thankful’s place, a house built in 1802.

  Although it wasn’t a happy home to me as a child, the sight of it now is wrenching. The interior has been torn apart, and I mean torn. Peeking in from the street, we see old lumber and plaster tossed into crude piles around the bones of new rooms.

  Phee and I both imagine how the house must be weeping. The old front door leans at an angle against the foundation, its cast-iron thumb latch looking like a tongue longing for water. A fresh door with shiny modern hardware has just been installed, and the chrome glints with an unnatural brightness in the low afternoon light, drawing all eyes.

  “It looks cruel.” Phee voices the others’ thoughts.

  “Hey, there’s the name of the guy who built the house, on that old Historical Association plaque.” Maria points.

  Markus reads it first. “Charles Wyer. Anyone recognize it?”

  I do, I shout. My middle name is Wyer! But the kids don’t hear me.

  Phee shrugs. “Could be that the names in our heads belong to the longest owners of these houses, not necessarily the folks who built them.” She pauses. “Names in our town are flowing like—” She stops, surprised at her own words.

  “—blood from a wound,” Gabe finishes, as if reading her mind.

  The words shock, but then two workers hurry around the side of the house carrying a table saw. One has blood running down his arm. Without looking up, they head straight for Gabe.

  Jumping out of the way, he asks, “You guys okay? Can we help?”

  The men speak to each other in rapid-fire Spanish. One hesitates, looking at the kids, as Eddy roars around the side of the house, shouting, “Cover it and let’s get going! Need to get these injuries checked at the hospital.” Holding one shoulder, the contractor grimaces and waves a floppy arm as more workers stumble out, one holding the side of his head, another clutching his side. Everyone piles into a nearby van. It careens out of sight.

  Silence settles on an empty Union Street. The kids look up at the house. The windows gaze back, as if asking for help.

  The roof is partly off, like a wig that has slipped to one side. Wooden shutters hang at sad angles. Between them, a row of expressionless new windows still have manufacturing stickers. A tattered needlework pillow props open the last of the very old casement windows, a narrow one with many panes and glass as rich with shimmer as a summer tide pool.

  The kids notice it and feel sad.

  “Not right,” Maria says.

  “Some say old glass is liquid, you know,” Paul adds thoughtfully. “A really slow liquid. Just learned that in science class this year. Like it looks solid and unchanging but really isn’t. Although our teacher said it might not be true, experts don’t agree.”

  “Our house is kind of like that,” Phee blurts. “It’s always making creaks. Looks not-alive, but really is. We think.” She then looks embarrassed.

  “You got real ghosts?” Cyrus asks.

  Phee shrugs. “Maybe,” she says, not wanting to scare her friends away from coming over when Sal isn’t there. “Don’t you?”

  Before anyone can reply, she adds quickly, “Come on, let’s peek inside. We’re alone now.”

  “Maybe,” Cyrus murmurs.

  Phee smiles at him. “Glad you get it,” she says cheerfully, and stepping over my millstone, marches toward the kitchen door around the back.

  Inside, tools are scattered. A can of lavender paint has tipped on its side, the spill still glistening. “Watch your step,” Gabe cautions. “My dad would be upset if he knew we were in here after—well, the accidents,” he adds, sounding as though he isn’t too happy about it, either.

  “Look,” Maria says tenderly. “Poor house!” She points to a wall that is half gone. Plaster and old lathe are thrown in a corner, leaving a gaping hole into the next room. A part that’s still intact has faded wallpaper patterned in tiny red roses and one bright rectangle where a picture had hung, probably for decades.

  I catch my breath. The ugliness of it all … I know what should be hanging in that spot. My aunt Thankful told me it was a picture of her.

  “Oh! And here it is!” Markus picks a small painting out of a nearby trash can. The glass is broken but the watercolor inside the frame looks perfect. I don’t have to look—I know it depicts the section of Main Street with Phee’s house on it, a horse and carriage drawn up in front.

  Knowing how interwoven the island’s families are, this has never surprised me.

  “Here you go.” Markus grins, handing it to Phee.

  She smiles, looking as though it’s the best gift ever. “Thanks—great find!”

  “It’s a sign.” Gabe nods, peering closer. “And look, there’s a lady with a bonnet in your upstairs window.”

  They all peer at the painting, noticing first one thing and then another. A Boston terrier sits on the freshly painted front steps. Pink and purple hollyhocks grow where there are now only weeds and old barrels.

  “Huh,” Phee muses. “I wonder which Folger that is upstairs. She looks so hopeful and happy.”

  Not a Folger, I think to myself. A Wyer! And she wasn’t happy when I knew her.

  Just then the back door claps shut, as if the house doesn’t want the picture to go.

  The kids instinctively move closer to each other, grabbing for each other’s hands. Markus leans the picture against a wall.

  Phee clears her throat. “Sorry, house. I should have asked. I’m Phoebe Folger Antoine. I live inside the home in your picture, and my family always has. Can I take this and keep it safe? I promise I’ll hang it right up.”

  The door blows back open, and a yellow-handled screwdriver rolls across the floor, stopping in front of the group. The kids stand quietly for a moment, looking at it.

  “I think that’s a yes … and maybe the house wants us to replace the old front door before we go,” Paul suggests.

  They do just that, carrying it gently back up the steps and propping it in place as the hinges are torn. The new door is easy to remove and they lean it against the dumpster, next to the road.

  “Maybe someone building a new home can use it.” Phee looks pleased.

  “Bye, house,” Maria says gently, patting the shingles.

  Phee adds, “Thanks again for the painting, and don’t worry.” She presses a hand to her mouth and then holds it up toward the roof, as if to send a kiss.

  “We’re rooting for you,” Gabe promises.

  “Yeah,” the others mumble. “We are, we are.”

  “Grandma Sue must be looking for us by now,” Cyrus announces, as if to let the house know they have a reason to leave.

  Phee picks up the painting, but feels suddenly dizzy. She puts it down again.

  “Something is wrong,” she mumbles, still studying the image. “Oh!” she exclaims. “I’ll bet I know who that is!”

  “So do I,” I say, but I don’t think they hear me.

  Phee looks around at her friends. “I think this is the woman my grandfather’s father, Caleb, wanted to marry but then didn’t. She stayed in our house for a while when she was in her teens, while the rest of her family had a sickness. Caleb Folger was a young man and they fell head over heels. An artist living across the way did some paintings of her and our house, and we have one, too. She and Caleb were like
Romeo and Juliet, just nuts about each other. And then it all fell apart.”

  “Why?” Markus asks.

  “That’s awful!” Maria looks stricken.

  “I think Sal said it was something about a drowning. The two of them were supposed to be watching one of the Folger babies one day, but they were really watching each other. The toddler crawled off toward a pond and that was it.”

  “I guess the Folgers didn’t want her around after that,” Paul adds.

  The Gang is silent for a moment.

  My aunt Thankful! I marvel. Why didn’t she tell me? When I was a girl, she never allowed me near deep water and I always thought it was because she didn’t want me to have any fun.

  I’ll bet she, too, wants the island children watched, I mutter to myself.

  The kids in the Gang are leaving. They don’t hear my words, and I sink down on a broken footstool in the darkening room.

  I feel both sad and relieved. I was grateful to my aunt, but didn’t like how small she wanted my world to be. As a child, I couldn’t understand why she never let me run around with other kids and always wanted me in the yard. And I wrestled with her sadness, which she wore like a punishment right up to the day she died.

  I wish she hadn’t kept her story a secret.

  “Ohhh,” I sigh, feeling tired. I was so pleased to matter, to spread the news as the Crier, but do I matter?

  Perhaps this crisis wrapped around our old homes is about love. Saving the soul of our deep island one board and one spirit at a time—and making sure more children aren’t hurt.

  Love and the possibility of making things better, and it’s children who hold the power. Not their parents. Not this Crier.

  The Gang and ghosts! Children spy but also forgive, and perhaps that is why they work so well with those who return.

  I look around at the wreckage in this home where I once lived.