All the Lovely Bad Ones

by Mary Downing Hahn

  The bike riders sat down nearby and spread out their maps to plan the next day's ride. "I say we go this way."

  "After today," the other said, "I was hoping to take it easy tomorrow. How about this road along the river?"

  "We came up here to get in shape, Tim."

  As they argued about their route, the screen door opened and Mrs. Jennings stepped out, Haunted Inns of Vermont in her hand.

  "Excuse me, Mrs. Donovan," she said, "but my husband and I read about Fox Hill in this book, and we were just wondering—"

  Grandmother smiled and shook her head. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but no one has seen a ghost here for at least three years. Maybe they took their little ectoplasmic selves down to North Carolina with the former owners."

  Mrs. Jennings sighed. "According to the author, you have to be in tune with the spirit world to see ghosts. Just because no one has seen them doesn't mean they're not here."

  "I'm glad I don't have such an ability," Grandmother said pleasantly. "The real world's scary enough for me."

  Mr. Jennings joined us just in time to hear the end of the conversation. "How about you kids?" he asked. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

  Corey and I put on serious faces. "Definitely," I said.

  "I've seen a ghost," Corey added.

  "Really?" Mrs. Jennings drew in her breath, obviously ready to believe anything. "What was it like? Can you tell us about it?"

  I hid a grin behind my hand. Could she tell them about it? The Jennings didn't know how much my sister loved an audience.

  "Well," Corey began, "last winter, I was sleeping over at my friend Julie's house, and something woke me up in the middle of the night. This old lady was standing at the foot of the bed and staring at Julie."

  Corey paused a moment to let the suspense grow, I guessed.

  "When the old lady realized I was awake," she went on, "she smiled at me and put a finger to her lips. Then, real slowly, she backed away from the bed and walked out of the room, watching Julie all the while, like she was never going to see her again."

  The Jenningses hung on every word. Grandmother listened, too—but in her case, she seemed to be wondering what my sister was up to.

  "The next morning," Corey said, playing to the Jenningses, "I expected to see Julie's grandmother, but when I asked where she was, Julie's mother said she lived in Pennsylvania. 'Then who was that old lady in Julie's bedroom?' I asked. They all looked at me like I was crazy—even Julie. 'There's no old lady here,' her father said. 'You must have been dreaming.'" Corey paused to swat a mosquito. "Just then the phone rang," she said, "and Julie's mother went to answer it. First she said, 'No, oh, no.' Then she asked when. And then she started crying."

  She took a deep breath and dropped her voice to a whisper. We all leaned closer to hear her. "It turned out Julie's grandmother had died just about the time I saw the old lady. She'd come to say goodbye."

  Mrs. Jennings grabbed her husband's hand. "Oh, I'm all over goosebumps."

  "Me, too." Corey rubbed her arms as if she were cold. "I can still see that old lady smiling down at Julie."

  "Incidents like that are often reported," Mr. Jennings put in. "It's a well-documented phenomenon—the last farewell."

  Mrs. Jennings turned to Grandmother. "What do you think now? Surely you believe your own granddaughter."

  Grandmother was staring at Corey. "I must admit I didn't know she was such a good storyteller."

  Corey wasn't a good storyteller—she was a brilliant storyteller. No matter what Grandmother thought of Julie's grandmother's last farewell, the Jenningses totally believed Corey. In fact, I almost believed her myself.

  While Grandmother rocked silently, the Jenningses told a few ghost stories they'd either read or heard about—last farewells, phantom limousines on deserted roads, old-fashioned ladies in brown who appeared and disappeared in dark hallways.

  The bike riders stopped arguing and listened. Tim even threw in a story of mysterious blue lights that hovered over a mountain down south somewhere. His buddy, Robert, said he didn't believe in that stuff—which earned him a nod of approval from Grandmother.

  Tracy joined us and claimed her grandfather had seen his dog's ghost at the very spot on the road where he'd been killed by a car. And her sister once visited a friend's house and saw a lady in a long gray dress walk through a wall and vanish. "The house was really old," she added. "And the people who lived there had seen the ghost themselves."

  Gradually, the stories faded away and we sat together silently, each of us thinking our own thoughts—about ghosts, I guessed. Some believing, some not, and some not sure. The moon was almost full, and stars studded the sky—thousands, maybe millions, more than I'd ever seen in New York.

  "It's getting chilly." Mrs. Jennings got to her feet with a shiver and headed for the door with Mr. Jennings behind her.

  The bike riders yawned and followed the Jenningses. "Big day ahead," Robert said. "At least seventy-five miles."

  Tim groaned.

  As Tracy started to leave, Grandmother asked her to tell Mr. Brewster she needed him.

  A few moments later, a short, bearded man crossed the lawn toward us. For a moment, I thought an ancient garden gnome had come to life, but it turned out to be Mr. Brewster. He wore a frown as permanent as Mrs. Brewster's, made even sterner by his drooping mustache.

  "These are my grandchildren, Corey and Travis," Grandmother told him. "They'll be sleeping in the two rooms on the first floor in the back. Can you help them with their luggage?"

  Mr. Brewster got our suitcases from the truck and carried them inside as if they were packed with feathers instead of books and shoes and clothes that weighed a ton. Like Mrs. Brewster, he didn't say a word to anyone, just sort of grunted an acknowledgment of Grandmother's request.

  "Henry's a bit taciturn," Grandmother said. "But he totes luggage up and down the steps, fixes everything that breaks, and keeps the grounds in shape. In some ways, the two of them run the place."

  She laughed as if the Brewsters were lovable characters in a sitcom, but I thought it would be annoying to depend on such cranky people.

  We followed her and Mr. Brewster through the kitchen and into an annex built onto the back of the inn.

  "This used to be the servants' quarters," Grandmother said, "but the Cornells made it into a modern apartment for themselves."

  At the end of a hallway, Mr. Brewster set our luggage down and walked away without a word.

  Grandmother opened the doors to two small identical rooms. "I meant to paint the walls and hang new curtains, but somehow I never got around to it. The season started with a dozen bicyclers and then a busload of senior citizens, which was good for business but took all my time."

  "It's great," I said. "A bed, a bureau, a table, a chair, and a lamp. What more do I need?"

  Corey nodded. "You should see the cabin I had at camp last summer—four bunk beds, eight girls, and an outhouse a mile away."

  Grandmother smiled and excused herself. "It's been a long day. If you two don't mind, I'll go to bed and leave you to unpack."

  As soon as she left, I followed Corey into her room, almost identical to mine. "Where did you come up with that granny story?"

  "I saw it on a TV show about ghosts. The Jenningses really ate it up, didn't they?"

  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

  Corey grinned. "Ghosts are about to reappear at the inn," she said. "In fact, I predict the Jenningses will have their own experience with the supernatural before they leave."

  "They'll go home and tell other people," I said, "who'll come to the inn hoping to see ghosts. They won't be disappointed."

  "Soon Fox Hill will be booked up every night," Corey went on. "Grandmother will have to turn people away."

  "They'll camp out in the yard."

  "They'll look in the windows."

  "There'll be a traffic jam from here to Burlington."

  "The Learning Channel will send a team of psychics and ghost hunters."<
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  "We'll be on the evening news."

  "Anderson Cooper will do a week long special on CNN."

  "Someone will write a book like The Amityville Horror!"

  "It'll be a bestseller."

  "They'll make a movie of it!"

  "We'll star in it!"

  "We'll be famous!"

  By this time, we were shouting and laughing and jumping on Corey's bed.

  "Travis!" Grandmother shouted from the doorway. "Corey! What on earth is all this ruckus?"

  We tried to stop laughing. "We're just fooling around," I said while Corey hiccupped hysterically.

  "Well, please calm down," Grandmother said. "You'll disturb the guests."

  That made Corey and me laugh again. Grandmother had no idea how disturbed the guests were going to be.

  "It's almost ten, and you haven't even started unpacking," she said with a frown. "At the risk of sounding like a camp counselor, I suggest you save that task for tomorrow, put on your pajamas, and go to bed."

  "We're sorry," I said, making a real effort to sound sincere, but I hadn't quite gotten the laughter out of my voice.

  "Don't be mad," Corey added, faking much better than I had. "We're just so excited to be here. I guess we got carried away."

  Grandmother came into the room and gave us each a kiss. "I'm not mad. Just tired. Now settle down and go to sleep."

  After she left, I went to my room and put on my pajamas. When I tapped on Corey's door, she said, "Come in."

  Still wearing her shorts and T-shirt, she was rummaging through her suitcase, scattering clothes everywhere. At last she found what she was looking for.

  She held up a white nightgown and swirled it in front of me. "At breakfast, I'll tell the Jenningses I saw a ghost in a long white dress, flitting around under the trees—like the ghost in the haunted inns book."

  "How do you know they'll believe you?"

  "They believed the granny story, didn't they?" Corey smoothed the gown. "People like the Jenningses are easy to fool because they want to see ghosts. You don't have to convince them—they already believe. All I have to do is go outside tomorrow night wearing this and they'll think they're seeing a real ghost."

  "But won't they recognize you?"

  Corey sighed the way she always did when she thought I was too stupid to be her brother.

  "We'll ride bikes to Middlebury and buy white makeup and that black stuff teenagers use on their eyes. Maybe we can find a long filmy scarf to hide my hair. After Grandmother goes to bed tomorrow night, I'll smear my face dead white and make big dark circles under my eyes, like empty eye sockets. I'll put on my nightgown and dance around under the trees in a scary way, moaning and groaning. Maybe I'll even shriek." She frowned. "Too bad I didn't bring my Vampira costume from last Halloween. It would've been perfect, but who knew I'd need it up here?"

  "So that's the plan—you impersonate a ghost and scare the Jenningses, and they go home and spread the word?"

  Corey grinned. "It's a start. We can think of more stuff, like footsteps and moans and groans and crying babies."

  "And howling dogs and rappings and tappings and strange blue lights."

  By the time I went back to my own room and climbed into bed, I was too excited to sleep. I lay awake a long time, my mind racing with ideas. With Corey's and my help, Grandmother would be a rich woman by the end of the summer.

  3

  The next morning, Corey and I found the Jenningses on the patio, drinking coffee. I leaned against the trellis, slightly embarrassed, but Corey sat down between them. Without hesitating, she whispered, "Did you see it last night?"

  "See what, dear?" Mrs. Jennings nibbled at her croissant, her eyes fixed on my sister.

  Corey drew a deep breath and somehow managed to look pale. "The ghost."

  "Ghost?" Croissant in midair, Mrs. Jennings gasped. "You saw a ghost last night?"

  "Shh," Corey hissed. "Grandmother told me not to tell anyone. She insists I imagined it, but I swear I saw it."

  "After that story you told, I knew you were sensitive to the spirit world." Mr. Jennings looked at Corey with awe.

  "Tell us everything. Don't leave out a single detail." Mrs. Jennings kept her voice so low I had to move closer to hear her.

  "Something woke me around three A.M.," Corey said. "That's the demons' hour, you know—halfway between midnight and dawn."

  "Yes, yes." Mrs. Jennings patted Corey's hand. "Go on."

  "Well, I went to my window," Corey said. "At first, I didn't see anything, but I heard sort of a low moaning sound." As she spoke, a gust of wind skittered across the table, blowing the paper napkins onto the lawn. Mrs. Jennings shivered.

  "Then I saw this woman in white," Corey went on, "flitting about under the trees. For a moment, she looked toward the house, straight at me, and I ducked behind the curtain. When I got the nerve to look again, she was gone."

  Mrs. Jennings leaned toward Corey. "What did she look like?"

  "She was wearing a long white dress, and her face was really hideous—white as a skull with dark circles where her eyes should be." Corey shuddered. "She moaned and groaned and then shrieked, like a banshee or something."

  "I heard it, too!" Mrs. Jennings whispered. "But I didn't know what it was."

  "You must have been terrified," Mr. Jennings said.

  "I'm still shaking." Corey held out her trembling hands as proof. "It was definitely evil. Not sweet like Julie's grandmother. Wicked."

  "Oh, my goodness." Mrs. Jennings stared at my sister. "Oh, my dear, how absolutely dreadful."

  The breeze danced in the flower bed, shaking the blossoms. Wind chimes clinked like someone laughing. For a moment, I thought I saw something move in the shifting shadows under the trees.

  Mr. Jennings turned to me. "Did you see it, too, Travis?"

  This was my sister's show, so I shook my head. "Corey ran into my room and woke me up. I've never seen her so scared. In fact, she scared me. She's really psychic, you know." Psycho was more like it, but why spoil things with the truth?

  "Do you think the ghost walks ... every night?" Mr. Jennings asked, voice low, practically quivering with excitement.

  "Ghosts usually do the same thing over and over again," Corey said. "Like they're atoning for something they did—or didn't do—while they were alive."

  Mrs. Jennings sighed with envy. "Sometimes I get feelings, sensations, a sort of shiver. But I've never actually seen anything."

  "Nor have I," Mr. Jennings admitted sadly. "We've gone to many so-called haunted inns, but we've been disappointed every time."

  To keep from laughing, Corey avoided looking at me. "Get up at three A.M. tomorrow and watch those trees." She pointed at a grove of oaks. Even in the morning sun, the shadows they cast seemed denser and darker than anywhere else. "That's where I saw the ghost," she said.

  The Jenningses stared at the grove as if they hoped to catch a glimpse of the ghost in broad daylight. "We'll be watching," Mrs. Jennings promised.

  Mr. Jennings set his coffee mug down with a clink and got to his feet. "In the meantime, Louise and I have sightseeing plans."

  "And some shopping to do," Mrs. Jennings put in. "I want to visit the glass factory near Quechee and browse in a few antique shops on the way. There's a cheese store, too, and an artist's studio...." We watched them get into their car and drive away. Corey grinned at me. "They won't be disappointed tonight."

  A couple of hours later, we parked our bikes in front of a tourist-bait shop on Middlebury's main drag and went inside. We found white and green face makeup, black stuff for Corey's eyes, dark purple lipstick, and a bunch of other junk—rubber eyeballs that glowed in the dark, plastic spiders and rubber snakes, spray-on cobwebs, a haunted-house sound-effects CD, a lantern, candles, and flashlights that cast a blue beam. In a secondhand store, Corey bought a long white filmy scarf.

  By the time we'd eaten a couple of slices of pizza and washed them down with bottles of soda, we'd spent about a quarter of our entire summ
er's allowance. And we had a fifteen-mile ride back to Fox Hill, mostly uphill this time. Balancing our shopping bags on the handlebars, we set off for the inn.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon at the pool. We'd swim for a while, then lie in the sun and plan our ghost act, then dive back into the water. We had the place to ourselves. The bike riders had pedaled off to add more muscle to their legs, the Jenningses were still touring the countryside, and Grandmother was sitting on the patio dozing over a novel. Every now and then, Mr. Brewster cruised past on a riding mower, pretty much ruining the peace and quiet. He never looked our way.

  At dinner, a new guest joined us. Mr. Nelson was short and skinny. He reminded me of a really strict math teacher who gave me a C and ruined my report card in sixth grade. He sat at a table by himself, reading a science book propped open with his saltshaker—Global Warming in Our Lifetime: Fact or Myth? It was clear he had no wish to be sociable. Why make friends when the world is about to end?

  The Jenningses talked Tracy's ear off with tales of their day of shopping, the lovely lunch they'd eaten, the bargains they'd found. Cheese! Barn-board paintings! Pure Vermont maple syrup! A rusty child's wagon for the garden back home!

  While they chattered, the bike riders discussed their ride—seventy-five miles in five hours, a near miss with a logging truck, an eagle sighting, a flat tire. Tim was making a major effort to stay awake, but Robert looked ready to hop on his bike and ride another fifty miles before bedtime.

  After we'd eaten, everyone congregated on the porch again. Mr. Nelson sat at the end of the row of rocking chairs and kept his nose in his book. While Tim dozed, Robert studied his map, obviously planning another grueling ride. The Jenningses darted little looks at Corey and me, probably eager to talk to us alone.

  When it was too dark to see the map, Robert woke Tim up. Mr. Nelson closed his book. They said good night and went to their rooms. A few minutes later, Grandmother excused herself.