The Ghost in the Big Brass Bed

by Bruce Coville

  I was dying to know what they were. But part of me was enjoying the suspense: It was a little like unwrapping a present very slowly, to keep yourself waiting.

  The papers kept wanting to curl back onto themselves.

  “Hold down this end,” Byron said to my father.

  My dad leaned on the end of the paper and watched as Byron rolled it along the table to reveal what was inside. “Holy Moses!” he whispered.

  The top sheet of paper held a Cornelius Fletcher drawing. I knew it was Fletcher’s work, because by this time I could recognize his style. The drawing was one of his more pleasant pieces—a street scene in what looked like a little French village.

  Byron leaned over to trace some of the lines with his fingertip. But he kept his hand about an inch above the paper, so that he wasn’t actually touching it. “He was so good,” he whispered, his voice filled with awe.

  My father nodded.

  Working slowly and carefully, they pulled apart the pages. There were a dozen drawings in all. We spread them around the table, holding them down at the corners with things from the kitchen—candlesticks and salt shakers, cream pitchers and spoon rests.

  “You know what these are, don’t you?” Byron asked after a minute.

  “I’ve got a feeling,” my father said.

  I looked up. “Plans for his last painting?”

  Byron nodded. “The Lost Masterpiece. What a tragedy he never finished it.”

  “Do we know that?” my father asked. “The rumor I always heard was that it had been painted but then disappeared somehow.”

  Byron shrugged. “Lost, stolen, or strayed—whatever happened to it, the world has lost a great piece of art.”

  I walked around the table, examining the pictures. I didn’t stand too long in front of any of them—I was afraid they might start to draw me in, in the same way “Early Harvest” had done those other times. I was afraid of what I might see or feel if I let that happen.

  I was afraid because even in the form of sketches, Cornelius Fletcher’s art was almost too powerful to bear. It was filled with despair, but also with a fiery anger at a world that allowed the things he had experienced to happen.

  “Look at this,” whispered Chris. She was standing in front of a sketch of a hungry child with wide eyes. The work was savage and angry.

  We moved on to the next sketch. Before I could examine it, the phone rang.

  “Be back in a minute,” Byron said. But it took even less time than that for him to return. He was pulling on his coat as he entered. “That was the hospital. Phoebe has taken a turn for the worse, and she’s asking for me. Henry, I don’t want to wait for a cab. Could you drive me over?”

  “Of course,” my father said.

  “Do you want us to come?” I asked.

  “I’d rather you took care of the sketches,” said Byron. “I don’t want to leave them lying out like this.” He turned to my father and added, “That is, if you don’t mind, Henry.”

  “No problem,” said my father. “I’ll be back here in a few minutes anyway. Come on, let’s go.”

  They started for the front door. Chris and I followed them. My dad was halfway through the door when he turned back and said, “Look, don’t do anything outlandish, will you?”

  Normally I would have given him a wide-eyed look and played the “Who, me?” game. But this wasn’t the time for that kind of thing, so I just shook my head.

  He nodded, then turned and followed Byron out of the house.

  “Poor old lady,” Chris said. “I hope she’s okay.”

  We started back down the hall. As we did, Chris grabbed my elbow. “Listen,” she whispered.

  Somewhere below us a thin, reedy voice was singing “‘Over There.’”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Enough Rope to Hang Himself

  “That’s what I heard last night!” I whispered.

  “Is it another ghost?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s go see if we can find out.”

  Before I had time to worry about whether heading for the cellar would break my promise not to do anything outlandish, we had to scrap our plan, because something more urgent came up.

  “Look,” whispered Chris. “Up there!”

  At the top of the stairs stood the ghost of Alida Fletcher. She stared at us for a moment, then gestured for us to come to her.

  “Should we go?” asked Chris.

  “Does this qualify as outlandish?” I asked.

  Chris took a deep breath. “It would be outlandish if we went upstairs on our own. But since we’re being invited …”

  I shivered, remembering the feel of Alida’s hands passing through me. “Do you think it’s some sort of trap?”

  Chris’s eyes were locked on the top of the stairs. “No. You told her we wanted to help. I think she took you seriously.”

  “Me and my big mouth,” I muttered as Chris started up the stairs—still holding me by the elbow.

  The ghost waited until we had nearly reached her. Then she turned and began to climb the next flight of stairs, moving in that odd style ghosts have, something between walking and floating.

  When we reached the third floor, we found another hallway, this one more narrow than the one below. The doors were all closed. Alida turned to the right, paused outside one of the doors, then passed through it. After a moment a translucent arm reached through the door and beckoned for us to follow.

  Chris opened the door. On the other side was another stairway, clearly leading up to the attic.

  “Just like with Captain Gray,” I whispered, thinking of our adventure in the Quackadoodle Inn.

  “Lots of secrets in old attics,” Chris whispered back.

  We followed the ghost up the stairway. The attic was dark. Since we hadn’t brought a flashlight, our only light came from the faint glow of the ghost. She floated on, about ten feet ahead of us. Then she pointed at the floor and vanished, leaving us in the dark.

  I made a squeak of fear. Chris tightened her grip on my elbow. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “We know the way back. Let’s see if we can figure out what she was pointing at.”

  “I don’t think see is the right word.”

  “Well, then, we’ll feel it,” said Chris crossly. “Come on.”

  We inched our way forward. When we were close to the spot where the ghost had disappeared, I stepped on something that rolled beneath my feet.

  “Snake!” I cried, jumping back in terror. I fell and lay in the darkness, gasping for breath.

  “Nine, don’t do that to me!” cried Chris. Then she started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” I snapped.

  “Here’s your snake. It’s a pile of rope.”

  I laughed a little, too. Then I stopped. “Chris, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Jimmy.”

  “‘I hung him,’” I whispered, repeating Jimmy’s words.

  I shivered and looked around, half expecting the ghost of Cornelius Fletcher to come floating out of the darkness.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  It took us a moment to find each other in the dark. While I was groping around, I had the sense that we were surrounded by rope. The coils seemed to be everywhere. For a moment I was tangled in them.

  “Here!” Chris grabbed my hand. “Let’s go.”

  Clinging to each other, we made our way back to the attic stairs. We continued to hold on to each other, even after we had made it to the third-floor hall, where there was enough light from below so we could at least make out shapes and doors.

  On the next floor we considered taking a peek in the tower room, to see if the ghost was there. “Forget it,” said Chris. “If she wants anything else, she can come and get us.”

  I nodded, and we continued to the ground floor. I hoped my father would be back soon. I had had enough for one night.

  “The sketches!” Chris exclaimed, “We’re supposed to put away the sketches.”

  S
he headed toward the dining room. I started to follow, then stopped. The door to the parlor was open, and the little light that was mounted above “Early Harvest” was on. I shuddered. I didn’t particularly want to look at the picture again.

  On the other hand, I was sure it held at least part of the key to what was going on in this house.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself standing in the parlor, staring at the picture.

  Soon I could feel the change begin. I tried to break away, but before I could move, the past reached out and took me in. Once more I heard guns booming in the distance, smelled the smoke and the blood. Nearby, men were screaming. We were in retreat.

  I ran, too. But my flight to safety came to a stop when a hand reached out and grabbed my leg. Spinning around, I saw a man staring up at me. He was young, hardly more than a boy, really. His face was smeared with blood.

  “Help me,” he gasped. “Cornelius, for the love of God, help me!”

  I reached down and pulled him into my arms.

  I was startled to realize that my arms were much stronger than they should have been. It wasn’t until later that I understood I was reliving the events that had brought Cornelius Fletcher to paint “Early Harvest.” When I spoke, I repeated the words he had spoken; when I moved, I was making the movements he had been remembering as he painted.

  Trapped in someone else’s memory, I carried the wounded man away from the battle. My heart was pounding with the fear of death, and I wanted to drop him so that I could save myself. Shells continued to explode around us, but still I held on to the wounded man.

  I was not being heroic—I was reliving Cornelius’s act of heroism. I was also reliving his feelings. So I knew just how scared he had been when this happened—as scared as I was now. For the first time I really understood that bravery doesn’t mean not being afraid; it means doing what has to be done even if you’re terrified.

  The force of an exploding shell threw me to my knees. With great effort I stood up again. The noise around us was deafening. I wanted to get away, but I couldn’t, couldn’t go fast enough, far enough, because death was everywhere.

  Suddenly the young man I carried cried out. I looked again at his horrible wound, and I knew that if I didn’t stop to bind it, stop here, now, in the middle of the shelling, the explosions, the fire, he would be dead by the time I got him back to the medics.

  I knelt—which means that Cornelius knelt—and used my knife to shred my shirt, which I bound around his wounds.

  I was glad it was really Cornelius binding the wound, and not me, because I don’t think I could have managed without fainting. I won’t describe what it looked like; even now remembering the sight makes my stomach start to churn.

  At last I was on my feet again, heading for the trench. I passed other dying men. Many of them. I began to weep, in sorrow, and in rage, because there were so many young men dying here, and I could save only one—carry only the one I already held out of the bloodbath surrounding us.

  The tears belonged to Cornelius. But they were my tears, too.

  I staggered on. Finally the trench was in sight.

  I cried out for help. Two men scrambled forward. As they did, a shell exploded behind me.

  I felt my legs twist and tear, and I screamed in agony.

  Then everything went black.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Hanging Around

  When I opened my eyes, Chris was standing over me. She looked worried. After a moment I realized that my head was being held off the floor. It wasn’t until I heard my father say, “Nine! Nine, are you all right?” that I realized he was kneeling behind me, holding my head in his lap.

  I blinked. “I think so,” I said at last.

  “What happened?” asked Chris.

  “I got caught in the painting again. Only this time I saw the whole thing. It’s about what happened to Cornelius the day he was wounded.” I paused. “Remember what Marcus told us—that Cornelius saved Hiram Potter’s son?”

  Chris nodded, looking puzzled.

  “What he didn’t say—didn’t know, I imagine—was that it was taking the time to save Potter’s son that got Cornelius crippled.”

  “No wonder Potter felt so guilty when he learned the whole story!” said Chris, her eyes wide.

  “Come on,” my father said, lifting my shoulders. “We’re getting out of here.”

  “What about Phoebe?” I asked as he helped me to my feet. “How is she doing?”

  “We won’t know for a while,” he said, his face troubled. “She’s on the edge. The doctor says if she makes it through the night, she has a fair chance of recovering. Unfortunately, that seems to be a pretty big if. Anyway, you’re the one I’m worried about right now.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Just a little shaken up.”

  As it turned out, I was more than a “little” shaken up. The events I had seen while in the spell of Cornelius Fletcher’s painting seemed to haunt me as the days went past. Every night my dreams replayed his fight to save Hiram Potter’s son. Every night I woke up screaming.

  The painting haunted me. The little girl in the bed haunted me. The voice in the cellar and the ghost outside haunted me. A neat trick, since all of them were at the Watson house, which I didn’t go anywhere near for the next several days. But they seemed to circle constantly in my head, demanding that I solve their mystery, put the picture together, untie the knot that kept the two—or was it three?—ghosts tied to the house.

  On the fourth day my father put his foot down. “Look, Nine, I know you’ve got a lot on your mind. But what goes on at Phoebe Watson’s house is really not your business. School is, and I expect you to start concentrating on your work and getting things done on time again.”

  This speech was brought on by a note that came home from my teacher.

  I couldn’t really blame my dad. I had always been a pretty good student. (Not great, but not bad, either.) But I had become so obsessed with Phoebe’s home that I had really let things slide. I wanted to go talk to Phoebe, but she was in intensive care and couldn’t have any visitors besides Byron.

  We called every day to ask about her. She was getting better—slowly, but more surely than the doctor had expected.

  Dad had several long talks with Mona Curtis. I wasn’t sure, but I think they were about me. At least, I know he told her what had happened, because Mona asked me about it once when she was talking to me.

  “Hard to tell what’s going on, exactly,” she said after I had told her the story in my own words. “My guess is that when Fletcher was painting ‘Early Harvest,’ he poured all his memories of that event into the work. The sensitivity you’ve been developing because of your experience with ghosts allowed you to tap into that energy and relive the experience.”

  As if experiencing the painting wasn’t enough to cope with, I had to deal with the fact that Chris was upset because she hadn’t been there with me.

  “I can’t believe you did that!” she said.

  “It wasn’t like I meant to,” I replied. “It was almost as though the picture was calling to me. I think that I was more linked into it because I had already seen it a second time, the night I went over there during the storm.”

  Chris understood that. But it didn’t make her any happier about having missed out. I kept trying to tell her it wasn’t the kind of thing she necessarily wanted to experience for herself.

  Even though she was slightly miffed, the two of us spent hours on the phone, trying to straighten out the tangle of information we had gathered.

  “All right, the ghost in the bed is Phoebe’s little sister,” said Chris one afternoon as we were sorting through what we knew for the umpteenth time.

  “Big sister.”

  “How can she be Phoebe’s big sister? She’s a little kid.”

  “Yeah, but she was born before Phoebe, so that makes her the big sister.”

  “Let’s just say she’s Phoebe’s sister and leave it at that,” Chris said imp
atiently. “Now the guy outside is her father. What I don’t get is this: If the kid is hanging around because she’s waiting for her father to come get her, why doesn’t he just come inside and settle things?”

  “Mona thinks he can’t,” I replied. “He feels guilty because his daughter died while he was outside, trying to get in. Now he’s reliving that tragedy—still trying to come through for her. But he’s trapped outside by his own failure.”

  “I don’t know,” said Chris. “I’d buy that if he had actually died out there. But he made it back inside the next morning and lived there for a while. Doesn’t sound to me like the way a ghost would operate.”

  What she said made some sense. But I wasn’t sure if she really believed it or if she was just resisting the other idea because it came from Mona.

  “The other question is, who’s in the cellar?”

  “That reminds me,” said Chris, “I found out about the song.”

  “What song?”

  “The one we heard coming from the cellar. I asked my father.”

  That made sense. Chris’s father has a real thing about musical theater, so he knows lots about old songs, even ones that haven’t come from Broadway shows.

  “It was kind of our unofficial anthem for World War One,” she continued. “All about how the bright and brave Americans were going to go ‘Over There’ and save Europe. He’s got a record of it—I’ll play it the next time you’re over.”

  “That may be Saturday,” I said. “Norma called last night and asked if I wanted to work.”

  I had been a little hesitant about saying yes. I had found out Phoebe was coming home on Wednesday, and what I really wanted to do that weekend was go back over to her house and snoop. But under the circumstances it seemed a little tacky. Besides, working at Norma’s would give me a chance to spend the night with Chris. So I had said yes.

  Norma, of course, wanted me to fill her in on everything that had happened—even though she had already heard most of it from my father. “That’s not the same as hearing it from you,” she said. “Your dad doesn’t really like to talk about it. I think it embarrasses him a little. You’re much better on details.”