“No, he doesn’t,” Ross agreed, tossing away another blade of grass. “I was surprised when Bradford Poole told me the story. He was a kid then, and remembers it firsthand. He said he’d watched from an upstairs window.” Ross shook his head. “I was making critical remarks about the sheriff, and that’s how the story came up at all. I guess everyone around here figures everyone’s heard about it.”
“What kind of critical remarks?”
“There was a bank robbery two years ago. Three men killed a teller and got off with a hundred thousand dollars.”
“That’s quite a fortune.”
“By anyone’s standards,” he agreed.
“And what about the criminals?”
“One of them was wounded. Hallender went after them, but he said he only found the one man. His buddies had murdered him when he slowed them down.”
I gasped. “How awful.”
“But as for the other two, they got clean away. Not a clue as to where they went or what happened to the money. Two of them were recognized by one of the tellers.”
“Who were they?”
“A trio called the Woodland brothers. They had pulled a couple of other robberies in the Oakland area and points north of there. It was the younger brother Hallender found.”
I stared at Ross. “You mean they killed their own brother?”
“I doubt if they were really related,” he commented with a shrug. “But with that kind of animal, you never know what they’ll do.”
“And this was two years ago,” I said quietly, in awe. “Have they robbed anyone else since then?”
“There have been rumors, but nothing substantiated. One hundred thousand dollars will carry them a long way.”
I sighed and looked down the hill. “Everyone’s gone!” I remarked with surprise. I had been so engrossed by my conversation with Ross Persall that I had failed to see the last celebrants leaving for home. I had missed most of the celebration as well.
“So they are.” Ross chuckled, not surprised at all. “We’re all alone now.”
“Stop teasing me.” I gave a push at the arm he started to put around my shoulders.
“Aren’t you afraid I might seduce you?” His eyes gleamed with laughter.
“Not in the slightest,” I answered and stood up, brushing the autumn leaves from my skirt.
“So you do trust me.”
“Don’t sound so disappointed. That’s a good foundation for a friendly relationship.”
Ross gave a deep-throated laugh. “A friendly relationship, huh?”
“Purely platonic,” I emphasized, drawing my shawl more tightly around me as I felt the cold. I laughed at his rueful expression.
He came to his feet. “You’re more of a brat than those sixty-odd children you beat sums into,” he drawled.
I laughed again. “I’ve enjoyed our little chat, Mr. Persall.”
“Ross,” he coaxed.
“Ross,” I agreed, unable to think of him any other way now.
“I hope we can do it again.”
“So do I,” I said candidly, then frowned as I realized that it would be virtually impossible.
“Why don’t we make arrangements for that to happen right now?” he suggested with a raised brow.
“Another clandestine meeting?” I teased.
“Put a little excitement into our lives.” He grinned.
“I don’t dare put any more in mine,” I sighed, thinking of the chance I ran riding to Eden Rock every Saturday. If the board were to hear....
“We can meet by the old water tower east of town. I can be there at eight each evening,” Ross whispered encouragement. “It’s not far from the schoolhouse, and no one goes there much.”
I looked up at him through the concealing veil of my lashes. There was a warm blaze in his eyes, a sensuous curve to his mouth. Perhaps Ross was not as trustworthy as I thought.
“I don’t think so,” I declined.
“You don’t trust me after all,” he said ruefully.
“Let’s just say I think it’s wise to leave things like this. We’ve had an enjoyable evening.”
“Those who are always wise have life pass them by, my dear Miss McFarland.” His faintly mocking tone lacked the bite of Jordan Bennett’s usual barbed comments.
“Woefully true, perhaps. But I’m not in any kind of position to test your theory. I’m sorry.”
“Then at least let me see you back to the schoolhouse.”
My luck with the school board was thin enough. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, wise and ever-cautious maiden,” he needled.
“Good night, Ross.” I smiled and turned away to walk down the hill. I was almost to the bottom of the incline when I turned to look back up where I had sat with him. Ross had walked down the other way along the fence of the cemetery. He was standing beside a marker just beyond the boundaries. He leaned down slightly and dropped something onto the ground. Then he straightened and walked on without another look at the lonely grave.
I stood for a long moment in the shadow of the hill, then curiosity got the better of sense. I walked briskly back along the line of the hill and moved toward the grave. It was unkept, with weeds growing over the low mound of dirt, which had started to sink in on its resting inhabitant. One wild flower lay at the base of a cross that bore no identification. The flower rustled against the night air and then rolled off the mound, flipping away with the wind.
For a long time I stared at that grave, wondering what poor soul was buried there just beyond the enclosed cemetery. What had the person done to be so excluded from the peaceful, resting places of the others? Was there no one who cared about the person who lay here beneath the cold earth, only a wooden marker to say he had once lived?
But Ross Persall had cared. Not much perhaps, but enough to place one wild flower on the grave.
Suddenly, for no explicable reason, I felt very cold. Drawing my shawl more tightly around me, I turned away and walked back toward the darkened schoolhouse.
Chapter Thirteen
When I came down over the hill and saw the schoolhouse, I was struck by the silence. It was so quiet, my ears rang. Even the crickets and the owl that inhabited the oak seemed hesitant to perform their customary night concert. I stood motionless in the dark shadows of the oak, feeling vaguely uneasy but unable to explain the sensation. I stared at the lonely, dark building that was now my home.
How ironic, I thought, that during the daylight hours from Monday through Friday the place resounded with the chatter and laughter of children at work and play. But at nights and on the weekends it sat in lonely desolation, inhabited by only me, Orphan and some active, noisy mice.
The chill I had felt at the grave returned when I saw a faint illumination move across a side window of the schoolhouse. For a moment I had thought I had seen a woman. Then I admonished myself for being so foolish and letting my fanciful imagination control my good sense. What would another women be doing in the schoolhouse this late at night?
I walked across the open area between the oak and the back steps. As I started up, I heard something in my room. There was a scurrying and a desperate mewling sound. Orphan, I thought in alarm, and opened the door quickly, wondering what was the matter with her.
The cat gave a panicky yowl as she saw her escape made possible, and she darted past me. Turning, I saw her bound down the steps and race madly across the grass, clawing her way up the oak.
“Orphan, what is the matter with you?” I asked, reaching inside the doorway to grab a match. I struck it, lit the lantern and glanced quickly around the room. After finding everything in good order, I looked back out toward the oak.
“Come on down, you silly cat,” I beckoned. She refused to budge from her high perch, and I wondered if she could get down. She made a plaintive meow.
“You got yourself up there, so I’m afraid you’ll have to find your own way down,” I called to her.
Orphan had no intention of coming down from the
tree. I gave a faint shrug and quietly closed the door behind me. Sometimes that cat acted very strange indeed. I despaired of ever getting her to catch the schoolroom’s resident mice; she never wanted to enter the classroom at all.
My room seemed colder than the night air outside. Rubbing my arms, I moved to the stove. There were still red-hot coals burning, and it seemed strange that their heat had not kept the room from growing so chilly. I picked up several more pieces of wood and stoked the coals, then dropped them in to burn. Holding my hands over the fire, I warmed myself. I thought of my conversation with Ross Persall and smiled slightly. Tonight had been a pleasantly quiet interlude with a very handsome and charming man. Tomorrow would be another demanding, yet exhilarating day with my children. I was growing very satisfied with my life.
A sound from the schoolroom drew my attention. Those mice, I thought with annoyance. Perhaps I would have to find myself another more adventurous and courageous cat to team with my stray. Orphan was a fine companion, but sadly lacking in natural hunting talents. I could always invest in traps. Olmstead stocked a variety. I did not like that thought, but something would have to be done if the little creatures began working on the children’s texts and the modest paper supply. When another sound came, I thought I had better investigate.
Opening the schoolroom door slowly, I peered in, not eager to find some larger relative of the mouse family in residence. The cold air hit me almost physically, raising an army of goose bumps upon my skin. Even the thick shawl was no protection. I pushed the door even wider and stood staring into the darkness. I could make out the shapes of the children’s desks and that of my own. The texts were stacked neatly on the shelves, and the can of pencils on top was undisturbed.
I heard nothing now. Surely mice would scurry for cover, wouldn’t they? An odd prickling sensation was growing at the nape of my neck. Stepping farther into the room, I peered around again.
No movement. No sound. Intense, ear-ringing silence greeted me. And that chill. What had made the noise? I wondered. And why was it so cold in this room? The broken windows, I answered myself silently. Yet, it had not seemed so cold outside.
As I started to turn back to my room, something caught the corner of my eye. There was another message on the blackboard. Almost afraid, I moved into the room to read what the practical joker had chalked there this time. Two words were written in a neat hand—not in the scrawled writing as had the other, more menacing messages been written.
“Go away.” Simple and direct, I thought wryly. I muttered an impatient sound and picked up the eraser. As I rubbed out the irritating message, I thought I heard something.
“Abigail...”
My heart began to pound as I strained to hear every sound. I did not move, but stood like a statue, my hand still raised and clutching the eraser. Again, that chill hit me like an unseen force.
And there was something else! The smell of lavender. It permeated the room, strong and cloying. I was panting in alarm, but I forced myself to ease my arm down and place the eraser gently back in the chalk tray. Turning slowly and staring around the darkened room for the intruder, I found there was no one there. No one at all.
I sensed a faint, moaning sound, as though someone were crying with his face muffled in a pillow. Then, again, that intense, almost tangible silence. A sudden gust of wind blew the patchwork curtains into the room, whipping them about wildly for an instant. Then they lay still. Even the scent of lavender was gone.
It was a full minute before I became aware that the crickets had started to chirp again. The old owl hooted from the oak, and I heard Orphan meow and scratch at the back door. I drew in my breath and let it out again, still nervously staring around the schoolroom.
Had I imagined the entire episode? Everything was in place. There was the usual night sounds—the creaking of the building, the insects and birds outside. What had frightened me so much a moment ago, filling me with unreasonable dread?
Perhaps that lonely grave outside the cemetery had distressed me more than I realized. Perhaps it had begun a chain reaction of imaginings. I knew my imagination had fuel enough to feed it. Perhaps that lonely marker had pushed my fantasies into nightmarish proportions. With a last, slow look around the schoolroom, I turned away.
When I reentered my room, it was comfortably warm. The lantern I had lighted cast a welcoming glow over everything. Orphan scratched again at the door, letting out a summoning cry. When I opened the door, she came in unhesitantly and rubbed herself against my skirt as she always did.
Shaking my head, I gave a faint laugh at the wild thoughts of only a moment before. I had even wondered if there was a ghost inhabiting the schoolhouse. Now, in the warmth and glow of my room, I realized how utterly ridiculous that thought was. I had let the desolation of that lonely grave affect my good, solid common sense. Ghosts, goblins, witches. The stuff Halloween was made of, and Halloween just passed. How people would laugh if they were to know what an impressionable schoolteacher they had hired, I thought. Well, I would not give them the entertainment of admitting such nonsense. I gave Orphan a bowl of warm milk. Then I removed my clothing and put on my nightgown. In spite of my reasoning, however, sleep was a long time in coming.
***
During the week that followed I tried not to ponder the strange occurrence in the schoolhouse. In the daylight hours I didn’t have much time to think about that evening, because I was so involved with the children. Even during the late afternoon, when I cleaned the schoolroom, and early in the evening, when I cooked for myself and planned lessons for the following day, I was able to keep my thoughts from distressing me. However, it was later, when I blew out the lantern and snuggled deeply into the blankets of my lumpy cot, that all reason fled. Well after midnight, even rationalizing was far from comforting when strange noises filled the schoolhouse, when my room was at its darkest and coldest.
Orphan’s strange behavior further increased my uneasiness. She flatly refused to enter the schoolroom, and sometimes a frightened yowl would erupt from her, startling me awake in the blackest of night. Somewhere in my reading I had remembered that cats were believed by some to be the familiars of witches and therefore had uncanny knowledge about the supernatural. Perhaps Orphan sensed a presence I was afraid to acknowledge. Such thoughts proved even more frightening to me, and I wondered if the concentration of my experience was not unlike reading horror stories to oneself after dark.
Yet, sometimes late at night I would awaken for no reason and lie in a state of cold sweat and tension, listening for something I could not explain. For the most part I would recognize the nighttime sounds—the owl in the oak, the mice in the rafters, a cricket in the corner, a toad beneath the back steps. As soon as I made the identification, my fear dissipated, and I wanted to laugh at my foolishness. Yet, there were other sounds that I could not rationalize. Twice since the night I had returned from my sojourn with Ross, I again heard a woman crying. Neither time had I dared leave my bed to investigate.
When I first experienced “the occurrence,” as I came to call it, I had immediately dismissed the possibility of a ghost. Then I rethought the matter. While I clung desperately to the mental haven of disbelief, my instincts told me I was wrong. This woman of the schoolhouse did, in fact, exist.
Being a Christian, I therefore believed in an afterlife. So how could I reasonably not believe in ghosts who were supposedly the disembodied spirits of the dead. Souls, as the church would define them. I knew what frightened me, of course. This spirit had, for some reason, not departed this world for the next. She was living here in the schoolhouse... with me.
It seemed strange that I should be so sure that the ghost was a woman. I had never seen her. And the crying was so faint, it was hard to discern as male or female. After all, men cried as well as women. Why shouldn’t the ghost be a man? Yet, I knew, without any doubt, that the ghost was female. But who was she? And why was she here? And why was she so dreadfully unhappy?
Gradually, as several mor
e weeks passed, the fear I felt at the visitations lessened and evolved into other emotions. The ghost had never tried to harm me. The only unpleasantness I experienced at her presence was the alarming cold. Everything else I felt was brought on by my own emotions. I began to wonder about her. Whatever was grieving my nocturnal companion must be the reason her soul had not departed this world. If I learned her secret, perhaps that would release her. And give me a night’s peace!
Once, I dared enter the schoolroom when I heard her crying in the night. There was nothing. Not even the flickering of the curtains. And the crying stopped almost immediately when I opened the door.
“You’re looking tired, Abby,” Ellen Greer observed during our Wednesday afternoon visit three weeks after I had become aware of something strange going on in the schoolhouse. I continued to sip my coffee, then glanced up at her through the veiling of my lashes.
Considering how I had felt the first time I experienced the visitation, I hesitated in confiding the story to anyone else. They might think me completely mad, even Ellen Greer, who I considered my closest and only real friend. I could imagine what she would think if I were to tell her that there was a ghost inhabiting the schoolhouse. She might laugh at such nonsense, or she might be alarmed and worried that my position had proven entirely too much for me.
“I haven’t been sleeping well,” I said simply. Ellen looked concerned.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Lots of things, I suppose.”
“Don’t brush me off, girl! Something is bothering you, and I want to know what it is this minute.”
I laughed at her characteristically demanding nosiness. “Ghosts and goblins, actually,” I said, lowering the cup and saucer to my lap. “They’re making too much noise in the schoolhouse to allow me a good night’s sleep.” I made it all sound like a joke, but something flickered in Ellen’s eyes.
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