by Glass, Debra
A stout breeze danced through the gold, red and brown leaves, causing several to turn loose and float down like confetti as Ella and I walked toward the house.
She chattered mindlessly about every single detail of her day and although I pretended to listen, my thoughts lingered on the few things I’d learned about my house at school today. Namely, that a hundred year old lady who’d never married had lived here and that everyone thought she was in love with a spirit. Normally, I would have thought that was the stuff of campfire ghost stories. After what I saw last night though, I thought differently.
I knew from my near death experience that communication with spirits was possible. But how could a living woman be in love with one? For the thousandth time today, the image of the young man I’d seen in my bedroom played through my head. I gazed up at the gracefully arching fanlight, musing that Laura’s ghost story had probably been embellished. Plenty of women who’d been born a century ago never married.
Mom greeted us at the door. “Hey, girls! Did you have a good day at school?”
Ella’s books fell to the floor with a thud as she threw her arms around Mom’s waist and, although she gave Ella a hard squeeze, Mom’s gaze rested on me.
“How’d it go?” she asked, her voice softer, more serious. The look in her eyes echoed the thoughts I detected. She was concerned. She’d asked because she cared. Guilt plagued me that I couldn’t assuage her worries, because more than anything, I just wanted to be left alone.
“Fine,” I muttered.
Her gaze sharpened. “Are you sure?”
I forced a convincing smile—something I’d gotten good at in the past six months. All she wanted was some good news and I had some for her. “I made a few friends. One said he wanted to stop by.”
Her mouth actually dropped open. “He? When?”
“Maybe next Saturday.” I strolled past her toward the stairs. I stopped about halfway up. “Did David get the Internet guys to come today?” I hoped beyond hope I could fire up my laptop and get online. There might be something about the house—and the ghost—on the net.
“Next week,” she said.
My shoulders sagged. “Next week?”
She flashed an apologetic look. “That was the soonest they could come.”
Disappointed, I climbed the winding staircase and trudged to my rooms.
Rooms.
Plural.
I smiled. We’d had a decent sized house in Atlanta but I still couldn’t get used to the fact that here I had a suite of rooms. That thought alone chased away the setback of not having the Internet.
Mom had unpacked some of my stuff while I was at school. Several boxes of my clothes had been hauled upstairs and put in the little hallway that opened onto the balcony. A little shiver raced up my arms. The same hallway with the stairs to the attic.
Inhaling sharply, I peeked behind the door and noticed the entrance to the attic was still exactly as I’d left it this morning. For some reason, I would have been disappointed if anyone else had explored the attic before I got a chance to.
I lowered my backpack to the floor and then steeled myself for the strange and unexpected as I cautiously pulled open the attic door.
Narrow, rough-hewn stairs ascended steeply into shadows and, as I peered inside, the stale odor of dust and darkness filled my nostrils. I shuddered and hugged my arms to myself. Should I go up?
I debated.
What if the ghost was up there?
Seeing a ghost had scared me more than I cared to admit. Scared wasn’t quite the right word. More like, startled. And although he hadn’t looked as if he would harm me, what if he wasn’t the only one? What if that hundred year old lady was up there? I shivered at the thought of seeing the wrinkled, faded ghost of an old woman staggering toward me, arms outstretched.
I swallowed thickly.
No. Curious as I was, I wasn’t quite ready to invade his territory. I started to close the attic door but heard the sudden rush of footsteps coming down the stairs.
I froze.
And then gasped as a flash of bushy-tailed, black fur fled out the door and past me. “Mr. Stella!” Relief chased away fear. I blew out the breath I’d been holding. My cat had finally made up his mind to come out from under the book case.
After my pulse returned to normal, I gripped the toggle knob, determined to close the door again but decided instead to leave it as I had found it.
Slightly open.
A tingle swept over me. While I wasn’t yet ready to explore my ghost’s world, I wasn’t totally opposed to him revisiting mine.
Three
“Hey, Wren!” Waylon’s voice carried above all the other noise in the school hall the next morning.
I shoved my locker closed and turned in his direction, fearing the worst. I just knew he intended to ask me out and, as adorable as he was, I just wasn’t ready for that yet. Without divulging too much about my past, it would be difficult to explain my reticence to him.
Clad in a very similar school jersey and pair of jeans to the ones he’d been wearing the day before, he stopped and leaned casually against the row of lockers. “I found an article for you.” He thrust a rolled up magazine into my hand.
Yesterday, I’d noticed Waylon was a big guy, but standing nearly toe to toe with him, I realized he loomed nearly a head taller than me.
Shifting my backpack higher on my shoulder, I unrolled the magazine. A stern looking man in a blue uniform sat atop a horse on the cover. “A Civil War history magazine?”
“What’d you expect? A fashion rag?” he joked.
I could have slapped myself for having such a huge ego, for thinking he meant to ask me out. I’d had no shortage of dates back in Atlanta but that had been before the accident. And long before the scar.
Self-consciously, I tilted my head so that a wave of dark brown hair veiled that side of my face. Even though I would have turned down a date, disappointment filled me that I’d been so wrong about his intentions. So much for being able to direct my psychic powers.
Waylon was a history buff who only wanted to metal detect in my yard. No boy was going to be interested in me when I looked like the bride of Frankenstein.
He rocked proudly back and forth on his heels. “There’s an article about your house in this magazine.”
I searched his sincere eyes. “An article? About my…house?”
“Yes, silly.” He playfully snatched the magazine out of my grasp and then thumbed through it to the article before handing it back.
My gaze fell on the page. Stunned, my lips parted in surprise and gratitude.
There, rendered in warm, sepia tones, was my house with the fanlight overlooking the grounds like the giant eye of a Cyclops. A group of people, some seated, some standing, stood outside the house but the cameraman was so far away, I couldn’t make out the faces.
A little thrill bubbled up inside me. Was my ghost in this picture? Excitement surged at the prospect of seeing a photo of the boy I’d encountered. “Can I…borrow—”
“Keep it,” he said, smiling. “A welcome to Mt. Pleasant High gift.”
My gaze found his. “Thanks,” I said. “A lot.”
The homeroom bell blared and Waylon gave me a nod before he sprinted off down the hall toward his class.
As I ambled toward my own room, I wondered again if I’d just imagined the whole ghost boy thing. Last night had been disappointingly quiet. I’d heard no creeping footsteps. I’d seen no wandering spirits.
Mr. Stella had finally forgiven me for confining him to a cat carrier for the grueling five hour drive from Atlanta and had curled up at the foot of my bed. In fact, life had seemed as normal as possible given the circumstances of our move. Despite the haunted house stories I’d heard, I doubted what I’d experienced.
Still, I was grateful to Waylon for thoughtfully bringing me the magazine.
Glancing at the cover, I saw it had been printed in 1972. I snorted. Waylon really was into the Civil War. He probably
had stacks of these magazines at home. Doubtless, he enjoyed dressing up in a Civil War uniform to take part in reenactments and living histories. The guys I’d known back in Buckhead would never have been caught dead attending a reenactment, much less participating in one. They were all about texting, computers, traveling to their beach or mountain condos and pursuing girls from private schools.
Trying to read the article and walk at the same time, I bumped into the back of a boy. He shot me a hateful look so I tucked the magazine in my backpack and weaved through the throng of students to my classroom.
Sinking into my desk, I didn’t even bother to put down my backpack as I retrieved the magazine and continued to peruse the article.
Most of the information detailed how the house was built in 1828, by a man named Andrew Ransom and how all the materials used to construct the house came from the property. I didn’t care about the poplar siding or the stone cutter who came from England. I didn’t want to know about what went into the plaster for the columns or that the stone fencing had been laid by an old servant named Bill King. I didn’t care how much tobacco Ransom’s Run Plantation produced.
But at least now it had a name besides the old Polk House. Ransom’s Run Plantation. A name far more befitting the grand old house.
The first period bell sounded, dragging me from my reading once again. Gathering my things, I stood and then moved with the herd of students down the hall. After only one wrong turn, I found my way to my government and economics class. Hopefully, a seat in the back would be vacant so I could finish reading the article.
“Good morning, Wren,” Frank’s lilting Indian accent drew my attention from the article.
“Oh, hi,” I said, trying very hard to be social when all I wanted to do was hide and read. I waggled the magazine. “Waylon was kind enough to bring me this article about my house.”
Frank merely nodded as if history and ghost stories didn’t interest him in the least.
A whiff of cigarette smoke assaulted my nostrils. Reeking of tobacco, Briar glared as she swept past me. Still not wanting to make an enemy of her, I ignored her silent challenge and settled into my desk.
Reading the article, however, proved impossible.
My teacher, Mr. Daniels, didn’t waste time getting to the business of teaching us the importance of supply and demand. As soon as the tardy bell rang, he ordered our books out and I furiously took notes right up until the dismissal bell.
After gov-ec, I met up with Holly in the hall. As we strolled toward our next class, Holly discussed the boy whose ring she wore on a chain around her neck while I tried to concentrate on Briar who followed a few paces behind. I could practically feel her heavily lined eyes on my back and, unable to resist the urge, I glanced over my shoulder at her more than once. I caught about every fifth word of Holly’s monologue, grasping that the boy attended college in the nearby town of Murfreesboro but that she feared he cheated on her with older girls.
Even though I kept eye contact with Holly while she talked, my attention lingered on Briar’s obvious hostility toward me.
I drew in a deep breath and tried to zero in on Briar’s thoughts—to see if I might pick up more than I had yesterday in the lunchroom.
You’re not fooling anyone, little Miss Scarlett.
My heart skipped a beat. I’d heard her thoughts as clearly as if she had spoken them. I knew my eyes were wide with shock and yet I couldn’t help but stare back.
That’s right, I know you can hear me. I know what you are. And I know what you did. You’re not supposed to be here. Killer.
I trembled and quickly turned away, pretending I hadn’t read the hateful thoughts she projected. My first instinct should have been to read her in return, to ferret out her deepest, darkest secret. But I didn’t. With a deep breath, I forced myself to relax my concentrated glare. This scar already made me freakish enough. I didn’t need help by advertising my unwanted psychic ability.
Still, she had seen.
She knew.
I inhaled and then blew the breath out slowly.
Hardly able to concentrate, I spent the next two class periods wondering what Briar knew and more importantly, how she knew it. Was she a far better psychic than everyone thought? But why hate me? I didn’t know her. I’d never done anything to her. How had she known what had really happened in the car the night Kira died?
I shuddered.
I hadn’t admitted the details to anyone and the thought someone could see into me that easily made me sick. So sick, it was all I could think about until lunch when Waylon asked if I’d read the article yet.
“Half.” I feigned a smile. “Interesting stuff.”
His gaze darkened a little as if he had expected more genuine enthusiasm from me. He’d been so nice and so sincere, I couldn’t bear to disappoint him.
“I…I can’t wait until I get home and get a chance to really read the whole magazine,” I admitted truthfully. In fact, I was dying to finish the article about Ransom’s Run.
* * * * *
I was right about having to wait until I got home that afternoon to find time to read the article.
When I got on the bus, Laura excitedly waved me to the seat.
“What?” I slid around my little sister to get to Laura’s seat.
“Look!” She pointed toward the student parking lot.
Dropping into the seat, I leaned across her. Briar stood with her hands on the hips of her black pants. An angry look marred her face. One of the coaches bent under the propped open hood of her faded blue sedan to study the smoking engine. The coach finally straightened and said something to her. She ranted but he shook his head and wiped the grease from his hands on an old rag.
Briar’s face flushed crimson. She stamped her platform boot on the pavement and then, even though I sat several yards away in the safety of a school bus, her gaze riveted to mine. Stunned, I read the unmistakable look of condemnation, of accusation in her eyes. She thought I’d done it!
But why? I wasn’t the sort of girl who slashed tires or jimmied brakes—as if I’d know how, anyway. Still, the thought of making an enemy of a Goth chick during my first week at a new school unnerved me. I wanted to blend in. At the very least, I longed to disappear in the vast sea of faces.
Laura cackled and Briar’s eyes narrowed even more. Shrinking back into the seat, I attempted to divert Laura’s attention. I didn’t want Briar thinking Laura and I shared a cruel joke at her expense. “Did you finish your trig homework in class?”
Just as I’d thought, Laura had the attention span of a butterfly. Immediately, she ripped her trig book out of her backpack to show me what she’d done. She didn’t mention Briar or her sabotaged car again on the bus ride home.
And when the bus rumbled to a stop at the end of my driveway, I jumped up and got off and had made it halfway up my long driveway before the bus pulled away again.
Ella and I called our hellos to Mom as we burst through the big front door and up the stairs.
Dropping my backpack just after I crossed the threshold to my bedroom, I belly flopped onto my bed. After rubbing a drowsy Mr. Stella’s black head, I eagerly thumbed the magazine open to the article.
“Finally!” I exclaimed aloud.
Squinting, I stared again at the photo of the house. A man sporting a long, white beard stood on the front lawn next to a squat little lady who wore her hair parted down the middle and pulled severely off her face. A black lady with her head wrapped in a cliche looking doo-rag, stood nearby, corralling three little white children. Two were little girls in white dresses, dark stockings and high top shoes. The other was a little boy clad in what appeared to be a sailor suit. Several other adults were present in the photo. One was a handsome young man wearing glasses who stood alongside a bright faced woman in a skirt with a bustle. On the corner of the photo, the year 1888, had been scrawled in white ink.
A closer look disclosed a bright light glancing off the fanlight. The sun? The tremor that rattled through m
y limbs told me differently.
Had my ghost died prior to 1888? Perhaps sometime during the Civil War?
I held my breath, growing very still, wondering if he watched me now—if he stood in this very space with me.
When I turned the page, the noise it made seemed exceedingly loud in the otherwise silent room. Even Mr. Stella deigned to lift his head off his inky paws to rebuff me with an annoyed look. I scratched him behind the ears and then, with interest, I began reading a section titled, The War Years.
The builder’s son, James Ransom, had inherited the house shortly before the Civil War. Andrew Ransom had died and was buried in the family cemetery behind the house. Gooseflesh broke out along my arms, reminding me I’d seen that very cemetery through the window on the landing of the stairs.
I rolled onto my back, dragging the magazine with me. The article stated that James Ransom had three sons, all of whom fought for the Confederacy during the Civil War. The two eldest sons, Dewey and Jasper, fought under the command of their neighbor, Lucius Polk. Dewey was killed at the Battle of Chickamauga and Jasper fell in the fighting around Atlanta.
After both brothers died, the youngest son, Jeremiah Ransom, ran away from home against his parents’ wishes and joined the Twentieth Tennessee Infantry Regiment near Decatur, Alabama, in 1864.
I brushed my fingers along his name. “Jeremiah Ransom,” I whispered. An unexplainable knowing took root in my soul.
Jeremiah Ransom was the ghost I had seen.
I bit my bottom lip and continued reading.
Bedraggled and war-weary, the Army of Tennessee had passed through Mt. Pleasant and Columbia on their way north to the ill-fated Battle of Franklin where they marched into virtual slaughter at the hands of Union forces. Jeremiah’s parents had pleaded with him to leave the army but he’d refused, determined to avenge the deaths of his brothers.
During the fighting in Franklin, Jeremiah had been struck in the temple with a minie ball, which I assumed was some sort of Civil War bullet. Delirious, he’d survived only long enough to be brought back home.
