“Thanks, Mom.”
“Bye, sweetie.”
As she and Dub walked up the main street of town toward Dub’s house, Allie thought how strange it was that her new desk came from the Stiles house, and her mind flashed on the image of Lucy Stiles’s lonely grave.
When they arrived at Dub’s house, he opened the door with a key he wore around his neck. No one was home. Dub’s mother traveled a lot for her job with a computer company, and his father was still at work. It was because of his mother’s job that Dub always had the most up-to-the-minute computer and programs.
They got a package of cookies and some milk and sat side by side in front of the computer. Dub turned it on. While it clicked and whirred, he said, “Let’s try typing in the key word ‘ghost’ and see what we get.”
“Okay,” said Allie. She watched, fascinated, as Dub used the mouse and keyboard to skip from screen to screen. Mumbling to himself, he said, “Space ghost, no. Ghost towns, no. Chinese hopping ghosts…”
“That sounds interesting,” said Allie.
“I know, but we can’t get distracted. It’s not really what we’re looking for,” said Dub, continuing to scroll through the list of ghost-related topics.
“What are we looking for?” asked Allie.
“Here we go! Ghost stories are us…Ghosts around the world…True ghost stories…Let’s try that.” He clicked the mouse on the third entry.
Allie read aloud, quickly jumping from one paragraph to another: “‘True ghost stories…gathered from over two hundred people and twenty countries…Brief text of each story…followed by an analysis of common elements…’ Okay, keep going.”
Allie and Dub scanned screen after screen of tales told by people who claimed to have been visited by ghosts. Amid the fantastic tales were repeated references to both whispered and written messages from the ghost. Often, people told of feeling shivers or chills in its presence. Ghosts appeared to people in many different ways, and their powers were quite varied. Sometimes they caused events, sometimes they encouraged a living person to make things happen.
At last, Allie and Dub reached the end of the stories.
“Wow,” said Dub. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
Allie shifted uneasily in her chair. “Let’s see what it says here at the end.” She continued reading aloud: “‘Many of the stories suggest that the strength and ability of a ghost are related to the age and power of the person at the time of his or her death. The ghost of an infant, therefore, is often said to be weak and ineffectual, perhaps making its presence known only by the faint sound of its cries. The ghost of a forty-year-old woman, on the other hand, may be able to make itself known to humans in many different ways in order to influence earthly events.’”
Allie looked at Dub. “Strange, huh? Now listen to this: ‘In almost every case, the ghost is an unwilling spirit who was treated unfairly in life and who can find no rest until the wrongs against him or her are redressed.
“‘Some ghosts seek revenge, others seek justice. Some appear to the person who wronged them; others choose a person, often a stranger, whom they believe can make things right again. Then, and only then, can the spirit be at peace and leave the human world behind. This theme is the most common feature of all human encounters with ghosts, regardless of the country or culture of origin.’”
Allie sighed. “Well, if I’m going crazy, at least I’m not alone. Actually, reading all these other people’s stories makes me feel less crazy. It makes me think we’re on the right track. But you know what I wonder most of all?”
“Who the ghost—if it is a ghost—is?”
“Yes, that. But, even more…” She paused. “Why did it pick me?”
Dub thought for a moment. “Good question.”
Allie glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Oh! It’s after six. I’d better call Mom and tell her I’m on my way.”
“Go ahead,” Dub said. “The computer’s on a separate line.”
She picked up the phone and dialed, while Dub kept clicking from one screen to another. “Dad? It’s me. Dub and I were working on the computer and lost track of the time. Yeah. I’m leaving right now. Okay. Bye.”
To Dub she said, “I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow.”
But Dub was deep in cyberspace again. “Okay, Al,” he said, without taking his eyes from the screen. “See you later.”
Allie walked home, feeling excited, but jittery. Every few moments she looked back over her shoulder, half expecting to see or hear something. It appeared, at least so far, that the ghost meant her no harm. Still, she couldn’t help feeling thankful that nightfall was at least an hour away.
Eleven
After dinner, Allie and her parents unloaded the desk from the car, carried it upstairs to her room, and arranged it against the wall in place of the old plywood-and-block table.
Mrs. Nichols squinted critically at the desk, shifted it slightly to the right, then to the left. Finally, she said, “It looks nice right there, don’t you think?”
“It’s perfect,” said Allie.
Michael appeared at the door, holding a tablet and a box of crayons. “Can I color at your new desk, Allie?” he asked.
Allie smiled when she saw his serious expression. “You have some important work to do?” she asked.
Michael nodded.
“Okay. Come here,” said Allie. She pulled out the chair for him, and Michael sat down and opened his crayon box.
“Don’t you have any homework, now that you have an official desk to do it on?” asked her father.
“Nope,” said Allie happily. “We don’t even have to write in our journals tonight. Mr. Henry collected them today. He’s probably reading them right now.”
Allie glanced up and caught a look passing between her parents. They sat down, Mr. Nichols in the chair opposite Allie’s, Mrs. Nichols on the bed. Michael, seated in Allie’s new chair, was concentrating on his paper.
“If you don’t have any homework, honey,” her mother said gently, “would you like to talk about what happened with Karen and Pam?”
Allie sighed. “Not really,” she said.
“It’s not always easy for three people to be friends,” said Mrs. Nichols. “Someone usually ends up feeling left out.”
“Yeah,” said Allie. “Like me.”
“Your mother said they called you a liar,” said her father. “What was that all about?”
Allie groaned inwardly. She was going to have to go through the whole thing all over again. Her parents were both looking at her with earnest, serious expressions. She knew they only wanted to help, but she really didn’t feel like talking about it.
“We were talking at lunch about a teacher at school, Mr. Pinkney, and about Ms. Gillespie and Mrs. Hobbs—she’s this really crabby cafeteria lady—and trying to figure out how they ended up working at our school. I mean, that’s what I thought we were doing: just fooling around and making up theories,” she explained as patiently as she could.
Her parents sat listening, their eyebrows lifted with interest and concern, waiting for her to say more. When she didn’t, her father said, “So these theories of yours about Ms. Gillespie and the others—were they true?”
“I don’t know,” said Allie, trying not to sound as exasperated as she felt. “Probably not. That’s what I’m trying to tell you: we were just speculating. And I was being kind of silly, on purpose. Trying to imagine, for example, what a guy like Mr. Pinkney is doing teaching gym.”
Mr. and Mrs. Nichols met with Mr. Pinkney each year at Open House Night at school. Allie’s father was trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin. “I can see how you might wonder,” he said.
“So I was trying to think of possible reasons,” Allie went on. “I like to try and figure people out.”
“But you were just guessing,” said her mother.
“Well, yeah,” answered Allie. “Of course.”
“And sometimes your theories are so convincing that you believe they’re real?
” her mother probed.
Allie squirmed uncomfortably. “No. But some things I just know. The basic facts are obvious to anybody with eyes.”
“You’ve always been mighty observant, Allie-Cat,” her father said with a smile.
“Just so you keep the facts separate from the theories,” said her mother.
“I know the difference, Mom,” said Allie.
“Maybe you need to explain it to Karen and Pam,” said her mother.
“Maybe,” said Allie doubtfully. “I’ll try.” It sounded like a good idea. But how did you explain something to people who didn’t even want to talk to you?
Her parents left the room, her father patting her shoulder reassuringly, her mother quickly kissing her cheek. Allie sat where she was and sighed, feeling her excitement over the new desk slowly leaking away. She looked at Michael, who was sitting on his knees on the desk chair, leaning over his coloring.
He carefully folded his paper in half and handed it to Allie. “Here,” he said. “I made it for you.”
Allie opened the page and saw that Michael had drawn two figures. One was obviously a girl, with straight brown hair like Allie’s and a big red smile. The other was a boy wearing Michael’s favorite X-Man shirt. The two figures were about the same size and seemed to be holding hands.
“That’s you,” said Michael, pointing to the paper. “And that’s me. Except it’s when I’m grown up and I’m eleven, too.”
Allie smiled. She didn’t tell Michael that when he was eleven years old, she would be eighteen, hard as that was to imagine.
Michael continued his explanation of the picture. “See? We’re friends.” He looked at Allie very seriously. “And I never, ever call you a liar.”
Allie felt tears spring to her eyes. She grabbed Michael in a fierce bear hug so he wouldn’t think it was his picture that had made her sad.
“Thanks, Mikey,” she whispered in his ear. She breathed in his little-boy smell, a combination of No More Tears shampoo and some peanut butter that she saw was stuck in his hair. “I love it. It’s going right here,” she said, and taped the picture on the wall over her desk.
Mr. Nichols put his head in the door to tell Michael it was time to get ready for bed, and Allie sat down at the desk to think. It was clear that she saw and heard things that others didn’t. Like the face of a girl with curly black hair. Like the voice of a girl saying, “Help me.”
Her parents tried to understand, but they didn’t really get it. How could she tell them now that she was pretty sure she was being visited by a ghost?
Twelve
Later that night Allie lay on her back in bed, still and helpless, as someone’s hands tightened menacingly around her neck. Slowly and with great strength, the hands closed tighter and tighter. Allie felt her lungs about to burst in her chest. Finally, in a frenzy, she managed to struggle free. She had a brief moment of relief before, gasping for air, she felt herself falling, falling, falling from a great height.
She fell for a long, long time, it seemed, and as she fell, a peculiar thing happened. At some point, it was no longer she who was plunging through the air, but someone else. Allie was standing above, watching another girl drop slowly from a high precipice. Black curly hair blew about in a tangled mass, then fell away to reveal the girl’s face. Her eyes were wide and filled with fear—and something else, a terrible anger.
Allie was vaguely aware of a threatening presence somewhere near her, but she couldn’t pull her eyes away from the awful, mesmerizing figure of the tumbling girl, who was about to hit the ground.
Allie’s hands flew to cover her eyes and she awakened with a cry, her nightgown soaked in sweat, her heart pounding wildly. She tried to rise, but she was tangled in the covers and had to fight her way free. With a gasp, she threw the blanket to the floor and sat up on the edge of the bed. She shuddered as the cool breeze from the window hit her damp skin.
Struggling through the hazy layers of sleep, she realized that she’d been dreaming. She reached to touch her throat, and the nightmare came rushing back. She remembered the feeling of hands closing around her neck, the desperate struggle for breath, the sickening sensation of falling. Allie moaned. “What a horrible dream.” She rubbed her eyes. It had seemed so real. The girl herself had seemed real.
It was the same face that had appeared to her the day her journal arrived in the mailbox.
Who was she?
Allie got up and headed down the hall to the bathroom. She heard the murmur of her parents’ voices as she passed their bedroom. On her way back to bed, she heard her own name and stopped to listen.
“—think she should see someone about it?” said her mother.
“What do you mean, someone?” said her father. “Like who?”
“Like a counselor.”
“A psychiatrist?”
“Or a psychologist.”
“Do you think it would help?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s really a problem. She’s always had an active imagination. It’s not something I want to discourage, exactly. It’s just that I hate to see her lose friends over it.”
“So do I. And I worry sometimes that she doesn’t know the difference between what’s real and what isn’t. This thing about the words appearing in her journal…”
“I know. It’s peculiar, to say the least.”
There was silence for a minute. Allie waited expectantly.
Her father spoke again. “Let’s give it a while. She’s really such a levelheaded kid. And she seems okay except for this thing with Karen and Pam.”
“You know, sixth-grade girls can be cruel to one another for no good reason,” Mrs. Nichols said thoughtfully.
“Maybe that’s what’s going on,” said Mr. Nichols.
“She gets along fine with Dub.”
“And her teacher seems quite fond of her. Her grades are good.”
“You’re right,” said Allie’s mother. “I’m probably worrying too much, making a mountain out of a molehill.” There was a long silence, during which Allie anxiously held her breath. Finally, her mother said, “Let’s keep a careful eye on her for a while, though, shall we?”
“Good idea.”
Quietly, Allie let out a sigh of relief. Her parents weren’t going to make a federal case out of the situation—at least for the moment. She tiptoed back to bed, vowing not to give her parents any further reason to worry about her.
Thirteen
At school the next day, Mr. Henry handed back the students’ journals. The room grew quiet as everyone studied Mr. Henry’s comments. Eagerly, Allie read:
Nice job, Allie. This story is very intriguing. I like the way you began with the mysterious message: “I am L.” Right away, I was curious to read more. This shows good imagination! I can’t wait to see what will happen next.
Allie smiled. Mr. Henry had liked her journal entry. He had praised her imagination! Of course, she thought, he doesn’t know I’m writing about things that really happened. He thinks I’m making up a story. But he found it “intriguing.” Allie thought that was a good word to describe what was going on.
She raised her head as Mr. Henry began to speak again. “I noticed that some of you had a little trouble getting started,” he said. “I’m hoping that writing in your journals will come to be a pleasure, not a chore. I really meant it when I said you may write about anything you like. You’re not writing to please me but to stretch your imaginations and to talk to yourselves about the things that are going on in your lives.
“Some of you wrote about private thoughts and problems, which is fine. Others of you wrote very unusual pieces.” He looked at Allie. “Allie, how would you feel about reading your entry out loud? You don’t have to say yes. I was just thinking that your story would be a good example of an entry that was a little different.”
Allie hesitated. Mr. Henry’s request had caught her by surprise. She felt torn between pride and embarrassment.
“Come on, Allie,” said Jo
ey. “Let’s hear it.”
“Yeah, Allie. Read,” other voices urged.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Mr. Henry repeated.
“It’s okay,” said Allie. She looked around at her classmates. Most of them were regarding her with great interest. Dub was grinning encouragingly. She glanced toward Karen and was immediately sorry. Karen’s arms were folded across her chest and she mouthed the words, “Teacher’s pet.”
Allie looked away and, reluctantly, began to read. “‘I am L.’ The words appeared, mysteriously, on the opening page of my journal. I sat down to write and there they were. But that is not the beginning of the story.”
Allie continued reading until she came to the end: “‘Who is L? I plan to find out.’”
There was a brief silence before the class broke into spontaneous applause. All except for Pam, who was looking at Karen, and Karen, who was staring off into space with a bored expression on her face.
“Cool story, Al,” said Brad.
Other voices echoed, “Yeah.”
“What’s going to happen next?” asked Trisha.
“Who cares,” Allie heard Karen mutter.
“I don’t know,” said Allie. Boy, was that the truth!
Mr. Henry was beaming at her. “Thanks, Allie. I enjoyed it even more the second time. After hearing that example of imaginative writing, I hope all of you will cut loose in your journals and express yourselves as freely as you like.
“But now please put your journals away and let’s head down to the library,” Mr. Henry said. “I talked with Mrs. Foster about your interest in Fossil Glen and she had a terrific idea. She suggested that we alternate field-study trips to the glen with research trips to the library. She’s all set to help you find answers to the questions we raised yesterday. So get your pencils and notebooks and let’s go.”
As they walked through the hall to the library, Mr. Henry fell into step beside Allie. “I hope I didn’t put you on the spot, Allie,” he said. “I really wanted the rest of the class to hear your work.”
The Ghost of Fossil Glen Page 5
