Out of the Wild Night

by Blue Balliett

  “Just watchin’ things,” one woman reports. “Makin’ sure nothin’ gets out. Door has done this at least three times.”

  “The noises in there—not made by a person,” her husband adds. “Just warning ya, Herbie, might want to get backup. Sounds like that there whale skeleton is swimming around inside.”

  Gabe! The officer needs him. “Bad,” he mutters aloud.

  He asks one of the islanders watching to find Gabe and tell him to get downtown as fast as possible, bringing the rest of the Gang. Sal, too.

  After all, Herbie reasons to himself, those kids and Sal Folger won’t waste any time doubting, and the ghosts—if that’s what they are—will recognize them as helpers on the right side of things. Hadn’t they all been in on moving a bunch of rescued wood the night before?

  Ten minutes later, the kids trot down the street, minus Maddie, who’s home with Grandma Sue. Gabe, Phee, Maria and Markus Ramos, Cyrus and Paul Coffin. Phee explains that Sal is out revisiting the “renovation” sites in town, having had a sudden idea about “the crazy stuff” happening there.

  “His idea was simple,” she says. “Shouldn’t we be talking to them and not just each other?” Phee glances around at the group.

  Them. Herbie grunts. He hopes Sal knows what he’s doing.

  The kids by his side, the police officer walks softly to the Whaling Museum door and listens. Whang! The door flies open and bonks him on the forehead. A harpoon, an old one, bobs into view, dances sideways, and falls to the sidewalk.

  Hear me, all doubters!

  Paul reaches down and picks up the weapon. Slowly. Carefully. “Okay to bring this back in?” he asks in a loud voice, pointing the sharp tip, scarred and twisted in some long-ago battle with a whale, away from everyone. “Seems like it might get mislaid out here.”

  “Super-valuable tool,” Markus adds, looking at no one in particular. “Whoever used it won’t like seeing it outside this building. Might think it was being tossed away. Thrown to the fishes.”

  At that, the harpoon yanks out of Paul’s hand and bounces back toward the front door.

  Yes, as if someone is carrying it.

  The group trots after. All six kids slip easily through the opening and vanish inside, the locals sighing and tut-tutting, shifting from one sneaker to the other. As Herbie steps firmly after the kids, something stamps on his boot. Hard.

  “Oww!” the officer shouts. Pulling his foot back but tightening his grip on the door, he asks in a calmer tone, “May I enter? I’m here to make peace. Really.”

  Fwishhh! His police hat is knocked off his head and sails neatly into a nearby hydrangea bush. When Herbie doesn’t react, not even to smooth down his ruffled hair, the door swings slightly toward him and he mutters, “Thanks, you won’t regret it.” He steps inside bareheaded.

  I, Mary Chase, am in my element. Listen, all you who buy and sell! Know first how little you may know! The Crier is no liar!

  I don’t pretend to understand all that I report, but as the Crier I’ll continue to make noise until silenced.

  Oh me oh my, even as I speak, I now can’t seem to control this bell and horn. They jump in my hand.

  I press both against my skirts and slip silently inside.

  Heavy objects are flying. When Herbie catches up to the kids, he stands, mouth open, watching.

  It is one thing to accept that Nantucket probably has ghosts and see unexplained footprints at the shoreline—or to believe that hauntings really do happen at “renovation” sites, and that they can either help or hurt the living. Or that things move around at night while the island sleeps, a happening Sal seems to think is almost normal. But this! Here they are, real-live spirits, invisible but clearly hard at work.

  Well, I’ll be, I can hear Herbie Pinkham thinking to himself. Never imagined I’d actually witness such a sight! A game changer, that’s what this is.

  I see Gabe sneaking a look at his father, who returns it in kind. That unguarded exchange is the beginning of an understanding that catches in both of their throats. Gabe looks away as if it’s no big deal, but it is.

  First, there is the nineteenth-century whaleboat. Equipped with six long oars, this small vessel was used by the men who chased and harpooned the whales. Normally sitting on a platform beneath the skeleton, it is now up in the air and traveling toward the second floor, as if being carried sideways up the stairs. Occasionally, one side of the boat or another bumps a railing and the thing pauses, steadying itself. The oars drift along in its wake, and three or four of the most beautiful harpoons fly slowly upward at a gentle, forty-five-degree angle.

  Herbie and the kids freeze, hardly breathing, until the objects thumpity-bump along the second-floor hall and disappear from sight. The group follows this invisible current. The policeman finds himself cautioning them to keep a steady hand on the stair rail—they should hold tight if airborne. Sounds crazy, but who knows? He raises a finger to his lips as they climb, although the kids are already dead silent.

  The officer hopes that if they can’t see the ghosts, perhaps the ghosts can’t see them, either. Now Herbie has an all-too-vivid flash of the lawyer he’d seen strangled by his own scarf, and right out in the open. No need to get these ghosts mad.

  Or madder than they already are.

  Even in the gloom of the unlit museum, the group of one adult and six kids can see that the air is filled with objects. As the whaleboat floats into the special-exhibits room at the end of the hall, a flow of treasures follows.

  Scrimshaw bobs by. A whalebone pie crimper with a mermaid on the handle dances next to Phee like a strange butterfly; yellowed whale teeth covered with scenes of ships and curvy ladies drift past, one following another. Two canes with an ivory hand at the top bounce along, as if being carried. An old marketing basket and several lightship baskets come next, one almost hitting Maria on the head. She ducks and giggles.

  The basket pauses.

  The kids and Herbie, who’ve been gliding silently along the edges of the corridor, freeze midstep. A moment or two later, the basket travels on.

  Now comes a spindle-back chair, some braided rugs, a stack of old patchwork quilts, and a few floorboards that look as if they might have been borrowed from the navy base pile, one an astounding three feet wide. Next, an assortment of wooden and iron latches, and a rocking horse minus most of its paint. All are things that could easily have come from Sal and Phee’s home. In fact, Phee thinks, the rocking horse looks a lot like the one from their attic.

  Herbie and the kids crowd around the door to the exhibition room, their faces awash in wonder. Objects are alive: A tea tray or jug or candlestick floats to a certain spot, and then abruptly changes direction. An embroidered pillow and a flock of pewter spoons sink gently to the floor and then take off again, as if the ghosts are trying to decide where to put them or as if these things have invisible wings.

  Phee, as Sal’s granddaughter, notices immediately that every item was no doubt made by an islander, and by hand. Our Nantucket hands—Phee smiles to herself, hearing Sal’s words in her head. She can’t wait to tell him about all of this.

  Just when things can’t get much stranger, they do: The longer the group stands motionless in the doorway, the more clearly they hear the faintest smattering of voices. As if someone is slowly, slowly turning up the volume on a radio.

  “Here …” is followed by “Really?” and then, “Yes, yes!” The level stops rising just before the sentences become clear. All kids have overheard adults through closed doors. This is exactly the sound: language filtered by wood. Something going on, something the listener isn’t a part of.

  Gabe thinks of what he heard in Lydia Lyon’s house on the day he saw those bubbles of everyday living. I think of what I used to hear in my very own home, at the lonely times.

  Herbie strains to hear but can’t catch as much as the kids, perhaps because he has older ears.

  Gabe squints hard at a photograph propped against a far wall, one of a dog looking out to sea.
The dog has his head back, howling in profile. He’s alone on the beach, big surf breaking in front of him.

  “It’s Ghost!” Gabe whispers excitedly. “It can’t be, but it looks exactly like Ghost! Haven’t seen him in ages, but I know that’s him!”

  Forgetting where he is, Gabe steps quickly into the room and calls out, “Look!”

  Phee rushes to his side, grabs his arm, and hisses, “Shhhh!”

  Invisible feet thump closer and something collides hard with Phee, sending her crashing to the floor.

  Herbie is at Phee’s side in a flash. She gasps, the wind partly knocked out of her. Gabe’s dad scoops her up.

  “Hurry, kids! Out!” he orders in a whisper, suddenly terrified that the entire group, children he’s allowed to linger in the museum with him, might be under attack.

  What had he, a trained police officer, been thinking? These ghosts have some serious weapons, including harpoons and oars!

  The kids and officer hurry down the hall, wishing at that moment that they were already safely outside. A chair floats to the doorway behind them and then clatters down as if dropped. The group rushes on, Phee breathing more normally but still whisked along in Herbie’s arms.

  The sidewalk outside the museum is now empty. Coughing but embarrassed, Phee struggles to get down. Herbie lowers her gently to a bench and steps back.

  “Should never have called you kids,” he mutters under his breath.

  “We’re glad you did, Dad,” Gabe pipes up. “And what just happened was my fault, not yours.”

  “Mmph,” Herbie grunts, but blinks rapidly, looking thankful.

  Phee, oddly, seems the least disturbed of everyone. “I smelled lemons,” she croaks, her voice filled with wonder. “Like my mom was around when I got knocked down. And I’ve gotta check on Sal,” she adds.

  The rest of the Gang freezes when Phee mentions Flossie. Could her mom be a ghost? And if so, isn’t Phee upset?

  Herbie, trained to help those who’ve had a shock, decides to focus on her concerns about Sal.

  “I’ll revisit the sites your grandfather and I were at earlier,” he tells Phee in his official voice, then studies the group, who suddenly look small and vulnerable.

  The idea of chasing wandering kids as well as a missing grandfather is too much. Too dang much, Herbie thinks irritably to himself. Bad idea. Like trying to catch baitfish with your bare hands. Drat this job. Hate it! Someone else can take a turn getting blamed for every goldarn thing that goes wrong around here.

  He wonders if the island has passed the point at which its ghosts can be reasoned with. Perhaps, as with Phee in the Whaling Museum just now, something will go after Sal or the kids at any time, given an opportunity. Lord knows there are many excavations to fall into. Razor-sharp table saws and cutting blades.

  If anything were to happen to Gabe …

  “How about you guys all head over to the Folger place and wait for me there? You, too, son,” the officer barks as he leaves.

  Giving an order makes him feel better. As an adult whose job is to be responsible for everyone’s safety, though, he knows that he is no match for whatever is making trouble.

  Soon he finds himself stopping in front of one of the abandoned “renovation” sites. He moves orange hazard cones from the middle of the street and then freezes, mouth open in horror.

  There, sticking out of a basement window, is one of Sal’s legs.

  “Sal! What on earth! You okay?” The officer flops down on all fours in the mud. The growl of a machine pulses from inside the building. He reaches out gingerly to touch bare skin on the protruding leg.

  It vanishes inside and both men shout with horror at the same moment. As the officer rocks back on his heels, rubbing dirt across his mouth, Sal’s sock hat bobs into view.

  The older man is the first to speak. “Thought you were a vengeful ghost!” he blurts, his face the color of a beet.

  “Thought you were a corpse!” Herbie shoots back. “What are you doing in there?”

  “This is one of the houses with the worst damage—you know, tools thrown around, paint splashed, things like that.” Sal pauses to glance over his shoulder. “One of the ones the off-island professionals came to see. I was talking to it, I mean them. Asking how I could help. Suddenly the heating unit over there clicked on. I was concerned about fire, so I decided I’d better slip in through this window and turn the thing off, but then my sneaker got wedged in between boards. No, let’s be honest: It was more like the boards jumped up and grabbed my leg.”

  Shaking his head, the older man bends over to feel his knee. “Yep, still in one piece. Guess it’s good you came and scared the dickens out of the situation, because I might’ve been stuck so long that I passed out and turned into a piece of bacon with that heater cranking. Hot as Hades.”

  Herbie looks down, realizing he’s been sinking. “Scared the dang-blasted chowder out of me, too, no kidding,” he mutters, struggling to get up. “Thought someone was planning to use your leg for a paint stirrer.”

  Sal now struggles to turn off the heater, but can’t. The ON switch won’t move.

  “Leave it,” the officer calls in. “I’ll find whoever’s in charge. Let’s get you out of there.”

  After a messy scramble, both men rest quietly on the curb. Mud is smeared across their clothing. “Glad I put on a clean uniform this morning,” Herbie says.

  “Yeah. Glad I put on my best pants for visiting,” Sal says, looking at a shredded knee. “And newest dump shirt,” he adds, examining a rip in his latest Take It or Leave It find.

  The men glance at each other and grin.

  “Know what?” the officer asks.

  “That’s what!” Sal’s quick smile turns wistful. “Seems like yesterday that you and Flossie and I played that game, when the two of you were schoolkids.”

  “But that’s it.” The officer nods. “That is what! They want to be left alone to do things their own way. Clear as day.”

  “But,” Sal says slowly, “you’re a policeman. You can’t allow this.”

  The younger man throws up his hands. “Why not?” he says. “Had it with being blamed for all this dangerous tomfoolery. Followed the kids into the empty Whaling Museum just now and, oh boy, Sal—you shoulda been there. Stuff flying around. Phee got knocked down somethin’ bad but she seems fine—”

  Sal stares at him. “And you didn’t tell me right away?”

  “Well …” All is quiet for a beat. “I know you’re more matter-of-fact about ghosts than I am, so I was trying to see it in a calm light. And she mentioned something about smelling lemons, like her mom was there with her when it happened. We were all kinda rattled by that, but she didn’t seem upset. And now I’m wondering, what if the ghosts that’ve been acting up are somehow luring the kids closer so that they can turn on them?”

  “You think we’re headed for a nasty climax, the way a school of sharks can behave once blood gets in the water,” Sal says slowly. “You sent the kids back to my place. Told them to stay there. Alone.”

  Not a word is spoken as both men hurry toward the Folger house, Sal limping.

  Once the two are out of sight, the heating unit in the basement switches off, the coils clicking as they cool in the darkening room.

  When the kids get to the Folger house, they step into the kitchen and freeze. Something upstairs is thumping and dragging furniture.

  Ba-bonk! SCREE-thunk!

  Phee whispers, “Sounds like it’s coming from my mom’s old room. That’s not Sal. No one ever stays there and—well, it might or might not be her.”

  She tiptoes toward the bottom of the stairs.

  “Phee! Stop! You nuts?” Gabe hisses. “You just got attacked in the museum, and it hurt. Come on, we’ll go together, but let’s each grab a piece of wood or something. You know, so we can defend ourselves.”

  “Against ghosts?” Cyrus asks, knowing it isn’t a real question.

  “Come on.” Paul elbows him. “Feels better not to be em
pty-handed.”

  Armed with kindling, the Gang creeps slowly up the stairwell, Phee leading the way so they can avoid squeaky treads. The noises continue. Whack! Something like a heavy book falls to the floor.

  The door to Flossie’s old room is ajar. Sal and Phee always leave it closed.

  As she slowly pushes it open, Phee distinctly hears a swift intake of breath from inside. Next, the murmur of a female voice—or is it the swish of water against their old houseboat?—and a whispered “Phee? Is that you?”

  Eyes huge, Phee peers around the corner.

  The room is empty.

  The bed, however, is rumpled as though someone has slept in it, and the pillow is dented. The dresser that Sal had pushed in front of Flossie’s empty closet years ago—for some reason, Phee had been afraid of that closet—has been moved. A heavy picture book from a dusty bookcase, a volume Phee recognizes from Sal’s childhood, is on the floor. Grimm’s Fairy Tales.

  Phee shudders. She’s always hated that book. It’s filled with kids getting tortured, lost, or killed. Nasty stuff from the old days.

  The others behind her try to peer in as well, but Phee backs up, closing the door gently.

  “No one inside,” she says. “Just house ghosts moving stuff around. Not hurting anything.”

  She doesn’t mention the bed or the dresser. No one else says they heard a voice, nor do they ask what a house ghost is.

  The messed-up quilt makes Phee’s heart pound. It’s almost as if her mom had returned secretly, to help out.

  But if so, where is she?

  Could this mean she’s died? The word glints, sharp and dangerous, and the hallway swims with sudden tears. Phee blinks them back.

  Died! Died, died, DIED!

  Slamming her mind shut on the word, Phee feels sure this isn’t the case. Flossie always makes things happen, doesn’t she? She wouldn’t die.