The Ghost's Grave

by Peg Kehret

  Details of the disaster are still meager.

  * * *

  The article ended with the names of the dead, including Emil Davies and Wilber Martin. I stared at Willie’s name. I had talked to him that very afternoon, yet here was proof he had died more than a century ago, and his death took place exactly where and when he had described it.

  Why could I see a ghost when others couldn’t? Did I have special psychic powers? Mom sometimes watched a TV show where a man helped people talk to their dead relatives. I liked to watch the show with her, but it gave me the creeps to think I might have such ability.

  If I could see one ghost, maybe I’d see more of them, and what better place for them to show up than a graveyard? What if all of the dead miners decided to pay me a visit? I regretted my promise to go to the cemetery the next morning.

  I put the two pamphlets in my own room. Then I went down to talk to Aunt Ethel.

  “Why did Aunt Florence think the tree house was haunted?” I asked, hoping I sounded casual and not overly curious.

  Aunt Ethel put down the book she was reading. “Florence claimed a ghost visited us whenever we were in the tree house—a coal miner who had died in one of the explosions. I never saw him, but Florence swore up and down he’d come inside the tree house and talk to her. She even described his clothes, and she said he smelled of coal dust. At first I thought she made it up to annoy me because I didn’t see him, but when she got frightened, I knew she wasn’t pretending.”

  “Why was she scared of him?”

  “She wasn’t at first. She liked seeing him when I couldn’t. It made her feel special. Later it bothered her that he always came when we were there. She feared he might start popping up other places, and she wouldn’t be able to get rid of him. So she quit going to the tree house.”

  “Did she know his name?”

  “If she did, I don’t remember it. I do remember he had only one leg, which seemed odd.” She put a bookmark in her page and looked directly at me. “Why are you so interested in Florence’s old ghost? You didn’t see anything like that today, did you?”

  Who, me?

  I shrugged. “I’m curious. I like ghost stories.” My reply wasn’t the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but it wasn’t a lie, either.

  “Did you find any history books in Florence’s room?” Aunt Ethel asked.

  “A couple. I’d like to visit the coke ovens sometime.”

  “They’re overgrown and crumbling now, but you can still find them. When we go to town for the mail next week, I’ll show you where they are.”

  “You only pick up mail once a week?”

  “No need to go more often. It’s mostly ads and bills.”

  “Maybe I’ll hear from my parents.” Since Aunt Ethel did not have e-mail, Mom had made arrangements with Mrs. Arbuckle, Steven’s office manager in Minneapolis, to forward letters between India and Carbon City. When I wrote to Mom and Steven, I was supposed to mail the letters to Mrs. Arbuckle, who would scan them and e-mail them to Mom and Steven. They would e-mail to Mrs. Arbuckle all their letters to me, which she would print and send to Aunt Ethel’s post office box.

  Aunt Ethel shifted in her recliner and looked closely at me. “Do you miss your folks?”

  I didn’t answer right away. I still felt angry at Mom and Steven for shipping me off for the summer, but I missed them, too.

  Seeing my hesitation, Aunt Ethel stood up. “I have the perfect cure for being lonely,” she said. “Rocky road ice cream.”

  “Can I have mine with another piece of that chocolate cake?”

  She beamed at me. “You like your Welcome cake?”

  “It’s the best cake I ever ate.”

  “Good cake is one of life’s great joys,” she said. “Cake making is an art, you know. You can’t dump a mix out of a box and expect to create a delicate cake that melts on the tongue. It takes practice—and sour cream.”

  “You can practice as much as you want while I’m here,” I said.

  “I’m glad you came,” Aunt Ethel said. “I hadn’t realized how much I missed having someone else in the house. Muriel comes two or three times a week, but she never stays overnight. It’s good to have a companion.”

  As we ate, I said, “I read about the Carbon City cemetery in one of Aunt Florence’s books. I might go there tomorrow to look around.”

  “It isn’t far. You can walk there.”

  I nearly said I know; the ghost told me, but caught myself before the words came out. “It’s the cemetery we passed on our way home from Carbon City, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. The road goes past it, but from here it’s safer to walk on the old railroad bed. The rails were torn up years ago, but the ground they were on is hard. It’s used as a trail by hikers and horsemen. Follow the trail and go right at the Y; you’ll end up in the cemetery. Florence is buried there.”

  Yikes. Maybe going to the cemetery wasn’t such a great idea. I wasn’t sure I could handle Willie’s leg AND Aunt Florence.

  Aunt Ethel went to bed as soon as she finished her ice cream.

  I sat in bed reading old newspaper accounts of the coal mines until I fell asleep.

  * * *

  After I did the breakfast dishes the next morning, I went to the tree house. Mrs. Stray, or some other animal, had eaten the cat food so I refilled the bowl, but I didn’t see the cat. I didn’t see the ghost, either.

  I headed the direction Willie had pointed the day before, looking for the old railroad bed. Every so often I saw deer droppings, but I didn’t see any animals.

  I had hiked about ten minutes when I spotted a trail. I consulted my compass, then turned south on the trail. A weathered wooden pole stood at the side of the trail, with a cross pole about seven feet up. The old newspaper stories told about telegraphs sent after the mine explosions; this must be the remnant of a telegraph pole.

  I’d gone about half a mile when I spotted a piece of rusty metal sticking up out of the dirt. I dug around it with my fingers, then pried up an old railroad spike. The spike was six inches long and looked like an overgrown nail, except the shaft was square instead of round with a flattened end, much like a chisel. I knew it would have been used to nail down the old railroad tracks for the train cars that hauled the coal. I stuck the spike in my pocket and walked on, feeling as if I were hiking backward into history.

  From then on, I kept my head down as I walked. Maybe I’d find more old railroad spikes or even a piece of rail.

  A mile or so after I found the spike, the path split. One part went straight; the other veered to the right, up an incline. I turned right and soon looked down on an old cemetery.

  Once-white gravestones were dark gray; some had toppled to the ground. There were a few large markers, but most were about two feet high—flat slabs with rounded tops.

  I went to the back row where fourteen identical grave markers stood side by side, sticking up like concrete headboards. I read the names, including Emil Davies, and saw they all had the same date of death: May 9, 1905. All of the miners from that explosion were buried there except Willie.

  Some fast subtraction from the dates of birth told me most of the men had lived less than thirty years. Emil Davies, at thirty-seven, was the oldest. His son, Victor, age sixteen, was the youngest.

  Sadness for these lost lives brought a lump to my throat. The newspaper account I’d read last night had seemed far removed, a tragedy in a past century that had nothing to do with me. Seeing these names and dates made the disastrous explosion vividly real in my mind.

  I turned away from the last row and surveyed my surroundings. Faded plastic flowers and a few small American flags—probably left from Memorial Day—decorated half a dozen graves. The rest were unadorned.

  No one else was visiting a grave, no joggers ran past, and no cars drove by on the road that bordered the far side of the cemetery. Willie was right; I could dig here unobserved if I wanted to.

  Did I?

  Back home, I would not h
ave considered such an action for one second, knowing the trouble I’d be in if I got caught. Why should it be different here?

  Although I was still angry at Mom for going to India and sending me here for the summer, I wasn’t so mad that I wanted to get myself hauled off to juvenile detention.

  Still, now that I’d seen the cemetery, the idea of helping the ghost appealed to me. It was Willie’s leg, and he wanted it moved. Shouldn’t this be his decision?

  There are laws against digging up graves because grave robbers steal jewelry or other valuables that were buried with the body. I only wanted to find Willie’s leg bones so I could grant his wish to have his leg buried with the rest of his body.

  A voice in my head whispered, Tell that to the police if someone sees you.

  Since other people couldn’t see or hear Willie, there would be no way to prove my story if I got caught.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I walked up and down the rows of graves, arguing with myself as I searched for the spot where Willie’s leg was buried.

  I didn’t find it. I did find Florence’s grave, though.

  FLORENCE HODGE

  BELOVED DAUGHTER, SISTER, AND TEACHER

  “Ethel misses you, Florence,” I whispered, “and Steven remembers you fondly.” I thought, so does Willie, but I decided not to mention him.

  Of course, I didn’t believe Florence could hear me, no matter what I said to her. If Aunt Ethel was right, Florence was now perched on the porch rail. If Willie was right, Florence had moved on and was an angel by now. Either way, she wasn’t lying under the sod, listening to me. Still, it seemed natural to talk to her.

  I retraced my steps, reading each marker carefully, still searching for Willie’s leg. I was about to give up when Willie appeared beside me.

  “There it is,” he said, pointing at a flat marker about four by eight inches big that I hadn’t noticed at the edge of the graveyard.

  “It’s about time you showed up,” I said.

  I knelt beside the marker he pointed to. It was far smaller than the others, and grass had encroached along the edges, giving it an uneven look. I bent to brush a fallen leaf from the marker and saw W.M.M. etched on the top.

  “No wonder I missed it,” I said. “I was looking for your name or the nineteen-oh-three date.”

  “Didn’t want my whole name put on. Only my initials.”

  “What’s your middle name?”

  “Michael.”

  “That’s my middle name!”

  We smiled at each other.

  “Will you do it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Willie. I could get in big-time trouble if I’m caught.”

  Visions of being grounded for a year floated through my mind. On the other hand, I had no friends in Minneapolis yet, so what did it matter if Mom and Steven took away phone privileges and made me stay home all the time?

  I considered discussing the situation with Aunt Ethel—but she hadn’t been able to see Willie when Florence did and had never believed the tree house was haunted, so she probably wouldn’t believe that I saw him now. Or, if she did, she’d make me stay away from it.

  Most actions that are against the law are obviously wrong—things like shoplifting or arson—and I’d never, ever do them. This was different. Digging up Willie’s leg was probably illegal, but I didn’t think it was immoral. I thought it was the right thing to do.

  “I’ll be your lookout,” Willie said. “I can warn you if anyone’s coming.”

  “I hope I won’t regret this.”

  “You’ll do it?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  A grin spread across Willie’s face, making him look lit up from the inside. “Go get a spade. You can dig right now.”

  “Not so fast. Before I dig up your leg, I need to know where I’m going to take it. Once I have it, I’ll want to get it buried again as quickly as I can.”

  “Follow me. I’ll show you where I’m buried.”

  Oh, man. It’s so bizarre when he says stuff like that. I hoped I wasn’t making a huge mistake.

  “How far is it from here?” I asked. I was already a long way from Aunt Ethel’s house, and my legs were still sore from the bike ride to Carbon City plus all the hiking I’d done.

  “It’s two or three miles up the hill. There’s a gravel road that fishermen use.”

  I considered.

  “It’s all downhill going home,” Willie said. “I went there yesterday after you left, so I know I can find the place.”

  Despite my aching legs, I decided it was better to go now than to put it off another day. I followed Willie out of the cemetery.

  He led me up the road toward Aunt Ethel’s house. She needn’t have worried about safety; no cars came along. We continued past her driveway, where the road narrowed. It soon became a gravel road impassable by anything other than an off-road vehicle. The average school desk would have fit in some of the potholes. I picked my way around them, hoping I didn’t slip and fall. If I injured myself here, I wouldn’t be found for months.

  Having only one leg didn’t hinder Willie at all. While I stumbled up the rutted road, he glided over the surface without ever touching it. Twice he disappeared. He was like a patch of fog, here one minute and gone the next.

  Once when he was visible, I said, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to do this. I had hoped I could ride a bike to the cemetery. After I dug up your leg casket, I planned to tie it to the bike, then ride the bike to where the rest of you is buried. Forget that plan. I’ll never be able to ride a bike up this road. It’ll be a tough walk carrying a shovel and a small casket.”

  “You can leave the casket. Just bring the bones.”

  “No way. I’m not opening up that coffin and taking the bones out.”

  Willie snorted, as if to say, Huh! What a wimp. “They’re only bones. They won’t bite you.”

  “I can still change my mind, you know.” I kicked a small stone to one side. “I don’t have to do this.”

  He stopped gliding. His expression looked the way I’d felt when I heard Mom say I couldn’t be on the summer baseball team. “You promised,” he said. “You told me you’d help me.”

  “Oh, all right, I won’t back out, but let me do it my way. The leg stays in the casket.”

  “The rest of me isn’t in a box. I want everything together.”

  I glared at him. “You are the most demanding ghost I’ve ever known.”

  His eyes crinkled at the edges. “I’m also the nicest ghost you’ve ever known. Friendly. Talkative. Willing to share information. I’d give you the shirt off my back, only you probably don’t want it.”

  Looking at his coal-smudged shirt, I couldn’t help laughing.

  “You could bring the casket up here,” Willie suggested, “then open it and dump the leg bones in with the rest of me. You wouldn’t have to touch them.”

  “What’ll I do with the casket?”

  “Throw it away. Keep it as a souvenir. Take it back to the cemetery and rebury it. Who cares? It’s only an old wooden box.”

  Before I could respond, he vanished again.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” I muttered.

  I sat on a boulder to catch my breath and rest my own legs, which felt as if they would fall off any second. I wished I’d brought drinking water.

  I thought about Willie’s casket. If it was wooden, as he said, it might be rotted by now. I might have no choice but to pluck the bones from the dirt.

  I wondered how many bones there were. Willie’s knee, leg, ankle, foot, toes—would they all still be connected?

  Grossed out by my imagination, I stood and plodded on up the hill. There were fewer trees now and more rocks. I heard water rushing ahead of me; the river wasn’t far.

  The trees ended, replaced by rocks and sand, which led to the river. It gurgled over the rocks, shallow at the edges.

  As soon as I saw it, I removed my shoes and socks, rolled up my jeans, and waded in. I splashed some of the cold water
on my face and rubbed it on my arms.

  It was too cold to stay in long. I sat on the rocky beach, letting the sun dry my feet.

  “This is where I used to fish.”

  I no longer jumped when Willie reappeared, which shows you can get used to most anything.

  “Caught many a trout in this river. There’s nothing like fresh trout, panfried over a fire.” He sighed and sat beside me. “I miss eating,” he said. “When you’re alive, you don’t give it a second thought. Oh, you might wonder what’s for dinner or look forward to a favorite meal now and then, but you don’t appreciate being able to put a fork in your mouth and actually taste the food. I miss Sarah’s bread the most. That woman baked the best bread—crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside.”

  “Sometimes my mom bakes cinnamon rolls. The whole house smells good while they’re in the oven.” Suddenly, I yearned for home. I longed to sit at the kitchen table with Mom and Steven, all of us eating cinnamon rolls before they cooled, joking about what pigs we were.

  I wondered if Mom and Steven were safe in India. Did Mom enjoy the job? What was New Delhi like? Was the food good?

  “There’s my grave,” Willie said. “Right where the river bends.”

  I put on my shoes and socks, then followed him to a patch of ground about thirty feet from the river’s edge, where a tangle of pricker bushes sent thorny branches crawling over the rocks.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sarah planted a rosebush there. It blossomed the first few years; then it got scrawny and went wild. Now it looks dead from lack of water.”

  Some of the branches were more than an inch thick and covered with thorns the size of Mrs. Stray’s toenails. I wondered if there might be a small saw in Aunt Ethel’s barn.

  I’ll need to wear long sleeves, I thought, and gloves. Gloves seemed a good idea, anyway, especially if the wooden box had rotted.

  “Let’s go,” Willie said. “We have work to do.”

  “I’m not coming back today,” I said. “It’s too far.”

  “It’s only a few miles.”