Took: A Ghost Story
Page 15
While Bella sniffed in the ruins, Brody and I kicked at the logs and poked around in the ashes as if we were looking for something. I don’t know what. Just something.
Brody wandered over to the chimney, which was still standing. “Daniel!” he yelled. “Come here!” He was backing away from whatever it was, plainly scared. I ran to see what he’d found. Little Erica lay in the ashes, looking up at me with one eye, almost as if she were winking. The other eye had melted into its socket. Her hair was singed, and her face was black and wrinkled from the fire, but it was Little Erica all right.
Looking at the doll made me feel as if I were about to throw up the cookies I’d stuffed myself with before we’d left the house.
“It’s my sister’s doll,” I told him.
“The one that started all the trouble?” He looked puzzled. “But she’s little, like a plain old ordinary kid’s doll. You told me she growed big and come to life.”
“When the spell broke, I guess she changed back to what she really was—a lump of plastic, mostly melted now.”
“You ain’t going to give her back to your sister, are you?”
“Erica doesn’t want anything to do with dolls anymore.”
I couldn’t take my eyes away from Little Erica. She had a wicked look, like some kind of shrunken mummy—maybe because of the fire, maybe because of something else.
Bella ambled over to see what we were looking at. As soon as she saw the doll, she whined and backed away. She was shivering the way she had the night we’d visited the cabin and seen Old Auntie and Bloody Bones.
“You think it’s okay to leave her here?” Brody asked. He was worried about the doll, too. I could tell by his voice.
I shook my head. Little Erica didn’t seem like a lump of plastic anymore, and I didn’t want someone to find her. What if a bit of Old Auntie was in that doll?
“Let’s bury her,” Brody said.
Using boards from the cabin, the two of us dug a hole by the fireplace, making it as deep as we could. The ground there was soft despite the cold, probably because of the fire.
Neither of us wanted to touch the doll, so we scooped her out of the ashes with one of the boards we used to dig with. We dumped dirt on her, stamping it down with our feet so it was as hard as we could make it. Then we pulled and tugged and pushed stones from the old wall and piled them on top of the grave.
“There,” Brody said. “She won’t never get out now.”
Wiping our hands on our jeans, we whistled for Bella and hiked down the trail toward home.
Summer, Two Years Later
An old woman stands on the hilltop, just on the edge of the green woods, smiling down on the farmhouse below. What she sees pleases her. The house has a new roof and a fresh coat of pale blue paint. The junk in the yard is gone. The barn has been cleaned out and repaired. The woman who lives in the house uses it for a workroom. She’s in there now, weaving a rug on a loom. The old woman hears the music she plays—folk songs, ballads, with fiddles and dulcimers, tunes she’s known all her life.
A man mows the grass in the front yard. He’s riding one of those little tractor things they use now. Flowers bloom along a picket fence—daisies, black-eyed Susans, coneflowers, bright colors, bees swarming. A vegetable garden behind the house grows strong and healthy, just as it ought to. They’ll have tomatoes, squash, beans, lettuce, spinach, even some corn. More than they can eat, but they’ve built a stand at the end of the driveway where they sell the extra.
The old woman watches Daniel play catch with Brody, the boy who lives down the road. She watches Erica and Selene take turns swinging on a tire hung from a high branch. She hears them laugh, all four of them.
She sees the woman come out of the barn and cross the yard, shooing chickens out of her way. A few minutes later she calls the children to come into the house and cool off with lemonade.
“Well, Auntie,” the old woman says to someone she can’t see, someone who once roamed these woods and watched the farmhouse with dark intent. “You been took yourself, and I aim to make sure you stay took. These children don’t recollect a thing about you, except sometimes when they dream. But we all got nightmares, don’t we? Then morning comes and sweeps them away like cobwebs.”
Walking slowly and carefully, the old woman climbs the trail to the top of Brewster’s Hill. Vines and weeds have grown over the charred wood. Wildflowers sway in the breeze. A mockingbird sings in a nearby tree.
With her walking staff, the old woman pokes at the ashes, as if she’s making sure the fire’s out and Auntie and Bloody Bones are still took. She pays close attention to the stones piled up near what’s left of the chimney. A tall clump of Queen Anne’s lace almost hides the burial place. All is as it should be. Calm. Peaceful.
The old woman sits down on the stone wall to rest. She watches a butterfly flit among the flowers. Bees hum in the wild clover.
One of her cats has followed her, solid black except for a little white spot on its chest.
“Cat, come set a spell.” She pats her lap, and the cat curls up on the old woman’s bony knees.
“You and me and that boy, we done good work that snowy night.” She strokes the cat until its whole body vibrates with a rumbly purr. “We made us our own tale, didn’t we—a tale like the tellers told back and back and back to the first tellers sitting around their fires, keeping the dark away with their words.”
The old woman yawns. Before she stands up, the cat jumps off her lap and the two of them disappear into the green woods.
About the Author
MARY DOWNING HAHN is an acknowledged master of ghost stories for young readers. Her popular favorites include The Doll in the Garden, The Old Willis Place, The Ghost of Crutchfield Hall, and Wait Till Helen Comes, which has been adapted for film. Ms. Hahn’s books have received more than fifty child-voted state awards. Formerly a librarian, Ms. Hahn lives in Columbia, Maryland.