Took: A Ghost Story

by Mary Downing Hahn

  “Auntie.” Erica stretched her arms toward the old woman. “Auntie. I’m sorry. Don’t leave me. I only meant to stop him from hurting the boy.”

  Seizing my sister’s arm, I yanked her down the trail. She was still struggling when she looked back and screamed, “The cabin’s on fire. It’s burning! Put it out! Save her!”

  I spun around. At the top of Brewster’s Hill, flames leaped into the air, lighting the bare trees with an orange glow, sending sparks shooting toward the winter sky.

  With a burst of strength, Erica broke away from me and ran up the trail. I ran after her, but this time she was too fast for me. I caught up with her at the cabin.

  Or what was left of it. The old rotten wood had exploded in flames and burned so fast that the fire was already flickering over charred logs. Smoke blew sideways in the wind. Embers scattered. I kept a firm grip on Erica to keep her from running into the ruins to rescue Auntie.

  “She’s gone,” I said. Dead and gone, I hoped. Burned to ashes. “You can’t do anything for her now.”

  Erica collapsed against me, sobbing. “Now I got nobody. No home. Nothing.”

  The fight had gone out of her. I held her tight and wondered if I’d ever hugged her before. I couldn’t remember, but I kind of doubted it. Right now, though, I wanted to hold her for a long time, never let her go, never let anything bad ever happen to her again.

  “You have me,” I told her, “and Mom and Dad.”

  She shook her head and snuffled. “I ain’t got nobody,” she insisted. “No brother, no sister, no mother, no father.”

  In tears, she pulled away from me and stumbled down the trail. She had nothing more to say, and neither did I.

  As we came out of the woods, I pointed to our house, a dark box in the field, moonlight glinting off the glass in its windows

  “That’s where we live,” I told her. “You and me and Mom and Dad.”

  “I never saw that house. I never lived there.” Her voice was as dull and lifeless as Selene’s, but she let me lead her into the kitchen.

  “Mom, Dad!” I shouted. “Come down here.”

  Upstairs, a bed creaked, footsteps crossed the floor, a door opened. “Daniel,” Dad called, “what are you shouting about? It’s three a.m.”

  “Come see!” In a few seconds I’d be a hero, the boy who rescued his sister from the old conjure woman. They’d be so happy, so proud of me. I could hardly wait for them to see Erica.

  Dad fumbled with the hall light and came slowly downstairs, barely awake, from the sound of it. He stopped halfway and stared at Erica. “What’s that girl doing here? I thought she was staying with the O’Neills. Your mother won’t—”

  I stared at him, shocked. “Dad, it’s Erica. I found her!”

  “Are you crazy?” Dad asked. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

  Mom appeared behind him. “Why did you bring that creature here? I won’t have her in this house!”

  Erica scowled at me. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m not your sister. They don’t want me. They don’t love me. It’s just like Auntie said.”

  She pulled away from me and ran toward the back door, but I grabbed her before she opened it. Holding her tight, I made her face Mom and Dad.

  “Please look at her,” I told them. “She’s been living with a crazy old woman up on Brewster’s Hill, and she doesn’t remember anything about us—just like Selene. But she’s Erica.”

  “She can’t be,” Mom whispered. Dad shook his head. With his back to Erica and me, he stared out the kitchen window at the black night.

  How could they not recognize their own daughter? Yes, she was dirty, her hair uncombed. She was thin and pale, obviously in the same state as Selene, but under it all, she was my sister and their daughter, the one they’d been mourning for almost a week.

  Erica began to cry. “Let me go,” she begged. “I don’t belong here, I don’t belong anywhere, I might as well be dead.”

  “Please don’t talk like that.” Slowly Mom reached out and touched Erica’s shoulder. “I don’t know who you are, but I can’t bear to see a child so unhappy.”

  Erica collapsed against Mom’s side. Her bare feet were blue with cold. Her face was bruised, and she was shaking hard enough to make her teeth chatter. “I’m so tired,” she whispered. “Please can I sleep by your fire till morning? I promise I won’t be no bother. If you got work for me to do, I’ll do it. I’ll sweep. I’ll scrub floors. I’ll chop wood.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Mom said. “You’re in no condition to work for us or anyone else.”

  “And you certainly won’t sleep by the fire,” Dad said.

  “Auntie says my place is on the hearth,” Erica said, “by the fire. It’s warm there, and I don’t mind the hard floor no more.”

  “You poor child. I don’t know who your aunt is, but she’s not fit to take care of you.” Dad bent down and picked Erica up. She lay as limp as a kitten in his arms, her eyes half closed. “She hardly weighs anything,” he said.

  I watched him carry her upstairs to her room. She was asleep before Mom covered her with her lavender checked comforter. Mom and Dad stood together, looking down at her, their eyes full of questions.

  Nineteen

  At dawn, Erica’s cries woke me with a jolt that nearly knocked me out of bed. “Mommy!” she screamed. “Mommy!”

  I ran into the hall and followed Mom and Dad into Erica’s bedroom. My sister flung herself at Mom, crying hysterically. Over her head, Mom stared at Dad, her eyes wide with shock. Both looked as if they were sleepwalking—groggy, unsteady, trembling.

  “Erica, oh, Erica,” Mom cried. “It’s you. It really is you. Oh, darling, you’ve come home at last.”

  “We thought we’d lost you,” Dad whispered. “And then, when Daniel brought you home, we, we”—his voice broke for a second—“we didn’t even recognize you.”

  I don’t think Erica heard a word my parents said. She was still caught in the snares of her dream. “Hold me tight, Mommy. Don’t let Auntie come for me. Keep her away.”

  Mom rocked Erica as if she were a baby, murmured to her, held her tight. “We won’t let anyone take you away.”

  Gradually Erica stopped crying, but she shivered and shook and looked around fearfully, as if she expected to see Auntie’s face at the window.

  “You’re safe now,” Dad said. “Don’t be afraid. It was just a dream.”

  It was then that Erica noticed her hands. “Why are my hands so dirty?” Pulling away from Mom, she stared at her reflection in the mirror over her bureau. A wild-eyed girl with tangled hair and a dirty, bruised face stared back at her. “What’s happened to me?”

  Mom looked at Dad as if she wasn’t sure what to say.

  “You’ve been missing for almost a week,” Dad finally said.

  “Daniel found you on Brewster’s Hill last night,” Mom added, “and brought you home.”

  “What were you doing up there in the cold?” Dad asked. “We’ve searched every square inch of the woods, the creeks, the lakes, and no one found a trace of you. And now you’re here. It’s a miracle.”

  Erica looked puzzled. “I was looking for my doll with Daniel. We couldn’t find her—someone took her.”

  Pausing to catch her breath, Erica spread her fingers and studied her broken nails and the dirt ground into her skin. With a shudder, she flung herself back into Mom’s arms. “And then someone took me.”

  Mom held Erica, hugging her and stroking her hair. “No, no,” she murmured. “You were lost, but now you’re home. We’ll never let anyone take you from us.”

  We sat with Erica for a long time, soothing her, calming her. At last, just as morning light filled the room, she relaxed and fell asleep.

  Mom told Dad and me to go to bed. “I’ll stay and watch over her,” she whispered. “I don’t want her to wake up frightened again.”

  Even though it was morning, I did what Mom said. I was warm and safe. I’d brought my sister home, and she was sleep
ing in her own bed. As soon as I pulled up the covers, I dropped into sleep like a stone falling into a well.

  When I came downstairs, Dad was in the kitchen. While I’d been sleeping, he’d shaved, showered, and exchanged his sweatpants for jeans and his sweatshirt for a wool sweater. He’d washed the dishes and taken out the trash. He’d swept the floor and scrubbed the countertops. The smell of freshly made coffee filled the air.

  “You must not have gone back to bed,” I said.

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I cleaned up the place.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. “I apologize for not believing you, Daniel,” he said, “but you have to admit your story sounded like something out of a fairy tale—old conjure women roaming the mountains, stealing children, keeping them for fifty years. I’m a practical man, a rational man. I’ve never believed in the supernatural.”

  He frowned and rubbed his chin. Except for the uncertainty in his eyes, he looked like himself. “I’d never have believed in Old Auntie when we lived in Connecticut, but here, well, crazy as it sounds, I can’t come up with any other explanation.”

  I looked at him, surprised. “You believe me?”

  “Like I said, what other explanation is there? Erica couldn’t have survived on her own in this cold. There’s no evidence that she was kidnapped by a passing stranger. Her dream fits in with what you’ve told me about that conjure woman or witch—or whatever she is or was.”

  He drank more coffee and stared past me at nothing in particular. “And then there’s Selene,” he added. “Surely the O’Neills are too sane to believe in old stories unless there’s some truth to them.”

  Before I could say a word, someone began pounding on the back door. “Mama,” a voice cried. “Daddy, it’s me. Let me in, let me in!”

  Dad was so startled, he almost spilled what was left of his coffee, but I jumped up and flung the door open. Selene stood on the porch, staring at me.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “What are you doing in my house? Where’s my mother? Who’s that man at the table?”

  “Don’t you remember me?”

  “I’ve never seen you in my life.” Pushing me aside, she headed toward the back stairs. “Mama, Daddy, it’s me,” she called. “Where are you?”

  Before Selene was halfway up the steps, Mrs. O’Neill followed her into the kitchen. “Wait,” she cried to the nearly hysterical girl. “I need to tell you something.”

  Selene ignored her. “Mama!” she screamed. “Mama!”

  Her eyes darted around the kitchen. “What have you done with our table? Where are our chairs? And the clock on the wall and the calendar by the door and the curtains Mama made?”

  Dodging Mrs. O’Neill, she ran into the hall. We heard her go from room to room, her feet clattering across the floor. “This isn’t right. This isn’t our couch, not our chairs—where’s the wallpaper? Mama! Daddy!” Her voice rose with every word.

  Mrs. O’Neill caught her at the foot of the front stairway. “Selene, Selene, I know everything seems wrong and you’re scared, but you must be still and listen to me.”

  “What are you and those other people doing in my house?” Selene cried. “Why have you changed all the furniture? Where’s my mother and my father and Nadine?”

  “Please, please, Selene, let me explain.”

  Mrs. O’Neill managed to lead the girl into the living room. “Here,” she said gently. “Sit with me, and I’ll tell you the best I can.”

  Selene sat on the edge of the couch and stared at Mrs. O’Neill. Her face pale, her eyes huge, she asked, “Has something terrible happened to them? Is that it?”

  “Oh, my dear child,” Mrs. O’Neill said sadly. “I hardly know where to begin.”

  Silently I went back to the kitchen. Dad had made another pot of coffee. Upstairs, Mom was giving Erica a bath. In the living room, Mrs. O’Neill murmured to Selene. For now, at least, the house was quiet—the way it used it to be.

  We sat together silently, Dad and I. Neither of us knew what to say. He drank his coffee and stared out the window, his face expressionless.

  I’d had time to adjust to the reality of witchcraft and spells and hogs that walked on their hind legs, but just a few hours earlier Old Auntie had turned my parents’ beliefs about the nature of reality upside down. Maybe they should visit Miss Perkins. She could explain the way things were in Woodville.

  I heard footsteps on the stairs. Scrubbed clean, her hair washed, brushed, and combed, wearing clean clothes, Erica seemed to be exactly the same as before—until you saw the bruises on her face, until you looked into her eyes and saw the shadows there. She’d been somewhere only she and Selene knew about.

  Mom had washed her hair, too, and finally changed her clothes. Like Erica, she seemed her old self, the mother I knew, except her face had wrinkles I hadn’t noticed before and there were new gray streaks in her hair.

  Erica sat beside me. “You look really nice,” I told her.

  She put her hands over her face to hide the bruises. “I look awful.”

  Mom opened a catalog and showed Erica a page. “I know how much you loved your doll,” she said. “We can order another one just like her.”

  With a look of horror, Erica shoved the catalog away so fast she knocked over the glass of orange juice Dad had set in front of her. “Get that picture away from me,” she shouted. “I hate that doll. Throw the catalog away. Burn it up!”

  “But Erica,” Mom began.

  “No!”

  When Erica began to cry, Mom hugged her. “It’s all right, honey. I just thought . . .” Her voice trailed away as she stroked Erica’s hair.

  I glanced at the catalog lying open on the floor. There she was, Little Erica, red hair and all. Oh, Mom, I thought, if you only knew . . . I picked up the catalog and carried it to the garbage can. No more Little Erica.

  Once Erica calmed down, Dad asked, “Who wants pancakes for breakfast?” He seemed to be making a huge effort to act as if this were an ordinary morning.

  Mrs. O’Neill appeared in the doorway. “Did we hear something about pancakes?”

  Pale and quiet, Selene followed her into the kitchen. While Dad stirred the batter, Mrs. O’Neill urged Selene to join us at the table, but she shook her head and held back.

  “Who’s that?” Erica asked.

  “Selene,” Mom said. “She lives down the road with Mr. and Mrs. O’Neill.”

  “She’s your age,” I told Erica.

  Erica slid out of her chair and crossed the room. Taking Selene’s hand, she said, “Come sit beside me. We’re going to be friends, you and me. I just know it.”

  Erica led Selene to the chair next to hers. “Do you like pancakes?”

  Selene nodded. “With maple syrup.”

  “Coming right up.” Dad set plates in front of Erica and Selene, and Mom passed them the syrup.

  Before either girl picked up her fork, they studied each other for at least a minute. They didn’t say a word, but I sensed something flowing back and forth between them. Slowly Erica put her hand on Selene’s hand and smiled at her. Selene smiled back.

  It was the first time I’d ever seen that girl look happy.

  After breakfast, Erica took her new friend upstairs. I heard Selene say, “You sleep in my old room.” Then the door closed behind them.

  I looked around the quiet kitchen, which was neat and orderly again. Sunlight filled corners that once were dark. No whispers disturbed the silence.

  Mrs. O’Neill took a sip of coffee. “I believe those girls will be good friends.”

  Mom smiled. “Erica needs a friend.”

  “So does Selene,” Mrs. O’Neill said.

  After a little silence Mrs. O’Neill added, “Thank goodness, they’ve both forgotten Auntie and all that happened to them in that cabin.”

  Except in dreams, I thought. Except in dreams.

  Twenty

  A few days later, Brody showed up. It was the first time he’d been in our house, and he spent som
e time looking around and making comments like “Your roof’s leaking, that’s why that brown stain’s on your ceiling” or “You better get your dad to put some putty in them window frames. You’re letting cold air in and warm air out. That’ll run your heat bill sky-high.”

  Of course, what he’d really come for was to see Erica, who was helping Mom clean the living room—she’d been doing chores ever since she came back from Old Auntie’s.

  “She looks real good,” he said in a low voice. “Lots better than Selene.”

  “Selene’s fine now,” I told him. “Miss Perkins was right about the spell. She said it would break when the sun came up, and it did. Just like that—Erica knew who she was, and so did Selene.”

  “Must’ve been mighty bad news for that poor girl—her parents being dead and all. Ain’t no fun losing your mom, I can tell you that, brother.”

  “She’s going to be all right. The O’Neills treat her like a granddaughter.”

  While we had a glass of milk and some cookies, I told Brody what he wanted to hear—all the details of Erica’s rescue.

  When I was done, Brody said, “I been telling the kids at school about you going to the cabin and seeing Old Auntie and her hog. Boy, was they surprised you done that. Didn’t think you had the guts.”

  Brody helped himself to more cookies and grinned at me. “When I tell them what you done to get your sister back, they’ll all want to be your friend.”

  I took a handful of cookies and grinned back at him. “You want to climb Brewster’s Hill and take a look at what’s left of the cabin?”

  Brody swallowed a mouthful of cookies and thought about it. “You sure Old Auntie’s really gone, both her and that hog?”

  “I told you, Bloody Bones fell off the cliff and broke into bits, and Old Auntie died in the fire.”

  Brody dipped his last cookie into his milk and shrugged. “You mind if I whistle for Bella? She’s good company.”

  So with Bella leading the way, Brody and I climbed the trail to the top of Brewster’s Hill. The dog acted as if there was nothing to fear in the hollow. In fact, she ran over and peed on the charred wood just as if she were saying it was her place now.