The Ghost Wore Gray

by Bruce Coville

Without saying a word, we headed for the little bridge. It had become our place to talk, much like the oak tree in the cemetery at home.

  “Well, the ghost wants something from us,” said Chris, once we had settled ourselves against the railing. “That much is clear.”

  I nodded. The question was, what did he want? “There are too many things that don’t make sense here,” I said. “To begin with, why is an inn in New York State haunted by a ghost from South Carolina?”

  Chris nodded. “And does the fact that this place used to be a stop on the Underground Railroad have anything to do with the ghost? I can’t see how they are connected. But they have to be, somehow.”

  “That’s the problem with ghosts,” I said. “You can’t just figure out what’s going on. You’ve got to figure out what went on.”

  “Speaking of goings on, what about the original plans for the inn? The ones stolen from your father’s room? Do they fit into all this, or is that part of something else altogether?”

  This was getting to be too much. I sat on the edge of the bridge and took off my shoes so I could dangle my toes in the water. I thought for a minute, then said, “As far as I’m concerned, the only person around here who’s not a suspect is the ghost.”

  Even that changed as the day went on. Not that we began to suspect the ghost of stealing the plans. But we ended up with more non-suspects. As Porter had predicted, several new people checked into the inn before evening.

  Watching them come in, Chris and I decided we were glad the theft had happened on Wednesday, when there were fewer people around. It kept the possibilities down to a reasonable number.

  The problem was, we couldn’t figure out how to narrow the suspects down any further. By dinner we were as far from figuring things out as we had been when the day began.

  Our second dinner at the Quackadoodle was very different from our first. In addition to the new people registered at the inn, others had come just for dinner, and the dining room was nearly half-full. That meant Baltimore and Gloria were tied up with the customers. Also, Arnie and Meg Coleman chose to sit by themselves that night.

  That left only five of us from the previous night’s party. Of course, Dad, Chris, and I could have eaten by ourselves, like the Colemans. But my father had already asked Mona if she would like to join us. Then Porter Markson wandered into the dining room, and we decided to ask him if he would like to sit with us, too.

  I figured Chris and I should enjoy the company while we could. In another day or so my father would probably be asking us to eat by ourselves, so he could have a private dinner with Mona.

  I was not amused by the idea.

  Actually, I was very confused. I mean, there I was, peacefully feeling cranky and nasty toward Mona, when she went and offered to do this wonderful thing of helping me turn my diary into a book. Now I wasn’t sure how I should feel about her.

  I was trying to sort that out when I heard her ask my father about the little room he had found earlier in the day.

  “To tell you the truth, it wasn’t entirely accidental,” Dad said. He sounded a trifle smug. “When I went over the plans before they were stolen, I noticed that they didn’t quite match the actual construction of the inn. So I thought there might be something there—although I wasn’t expecting what I actually found.”

  “What about the plans?” asked Porter. “Is anything being done about getting them back?”

  Dad shrugged. “Baltimore said that as long as nothing of mine had been stolen, he would prefer not to call the police. He’s afraid it would be bad publicity for the inn. I had mixed feelings about that. But by the time he was done describing how incompetent the local law was, I agreed to go along with him. They were his plans after all.”

  Porter nodded. “I think Baltimore’s right. He’s having enough trouble getting people here now.”

  That got the grown-ups into a discussion of public relations, which became very boring very fast. Chris and I excused ourselves. Normally my father might have asked me to stay at the table for a while. But with Mona there, he was perfectly willing to let me go.

  I didn’t really like leaving him alone with her, but Chris and I had made plans for the evening. The fact that we had Mona to keep my father out of our hair made things a lot easier.

  “What time shall I set the alarm for?” I asked, when we got back to our room.

  Chris thought for a moment. “Two o’clock,” she said. “By then even the night owls should be sound asleep.”

  “Two o’clock it is,” I said, pulling out the little plunger on the back of the clock. I glanced at the face. It was quarter of eight. “I haven’t been to sleep this early in years,” I said.

  “Neither have I,” said Chris. “But then, it’s been a long time since I got as little sleep as I did last night. And tonight’s not going to be any better. So let’s get some rest now. We’ll need it if we’re going to sneak back into the kitchen and figure out what Captain Gray wanted us to see.”

  I nodded.

  It seemed like only minutes later when the alarm went off. I opened my eyes and let out a little gasp. With that quick waking I hadn’t had time to prepare myself for the sight of the ghost standing at the foot of my bed.

  This time I didn’t hesitate. “Chris!” I hissed. “Chris, wake up. He’s here again.”

  She sputtered a bit, and then lifted her head and began rubbing her eyes.

  The ghost didn’t even waver. I figured he must be getting used to us.

  For a moment no one said anything. The two of us lay in our beds, looking at the ghost. He stood there looking back.

  Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. “What do you want?” I asked.

  He smiled. (That ghost had the most gorgeous smile!) Then he crooked one finger and made a gesture that indicated he wanted us to follow him.

  Then he walked through the door.

  “Quick!” yelled Chris. “Grab your flashlight.”

  I jumped out of bed and stifled a yelp. The floor was cold on my bare feet. I started scrabbling under my bed for my slippers.

  “We don’t have time for that!” said Chris impatiently. “Let’s get moving!”

  Unlike Captain Gray, we had to open the door. When we tumbled into the hall, he was waiting for us.

  He nodded and then started walking down the hallway in that strange, floating kind of way that ghosts have.

  I looked at Chris. She looked at me.

  We began to follow him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Attic

  I had expected Captain Gray to lead us back to the kitchen. But when he reached the stairwell, he went up, instead of down.

  Suddenly this expedition didn’t seem like such a good idea. It was one thing to go back to the familiar territory of the first floor. Going up to the third floor, which we hadn’t even seen, seemed far more frightening. I didn’t know what we were apt to find up there.

  I stood at the foot of the stairs, not moving. That was a mistake, since the only move that would get me out of that situation was a swift step backward. I didn’t figure that out soon enough, which gave Chris, who does not believe in hesitating, time to grab my elbow. “Come on,” she said as she began dragging me up the stairs after Captain Gray.

  When I complained about that later, her response was: “You stand around and think and think, and then decide to do whatever it is, anyway. Why should we waste all that time, when we can just go ahead and do it?”

  So there we were, two eleven-year-old girls, dressed in nightgowns and carrying nothing but one flashlight, following a ghost up the stairs of a creepy old inn. When I write about it now, I don’t know how I managed to keep from turning around and running back to my room. I guess it was mostly because of Chris; one thing I’ve learned from all this ghost stuff is that nothing is quite as scary when you share it with a friend. Besides, I wasn’t about to admit that I was too scared to follow her someplace that she was willing to lead. (Please notice, though, the way she grabbed my arm
before she started.)

  We tiptoed slowly up the stairs, trying not to make a sound. If we woke anyone, I didn’t think we could count on the ghost to hang around and prove our story. We’d sound like a couple of idiots. We’d also get in a lot of trouble.

  When we reached the third floor, I aimed the flashlight down the hallway. It appeared much the same as the second floor, except that there weren’t any pictures on the walls. The ghost continued gliding down the hall. We had to scurry to keep up with him. Scurrying isn’t easy when you’re trying not to make any noise.

  At the end of the hallway the ghost faded through another door. Chris and I stopped. The idea of opening that door seemed scarier than anything we had done so far that night.

  For a moment I thought we might turn back.

  I should have known better.

  “Well, here goes nothing,” Chris whispered. She put out her hand and turned the knob.

  The door swung open with a creak.

  On the other side, by the light of the flashlight, we could see a long, dark stairway. The ghost was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at us.

  “M-m-must be the attic,” I stammered. I wasn’t too pleased. I have a thing about attics. I think an attic is the scariest place in anyone’s house.

  As I had expected, the ghost wanted us to follow him. When he beckoned, Chris grabbed my arm and started up the bare wooden steps. They were very cold, compared to the carpeting we had been walking on. The flashlight wobbled in my trembling hand. I wondered what we were getting ourselves into.

  The attic ceiling was low, only a foot or two above our heads. A tall man would have had to duck to walk there. The roof was supported by broad beams. It had never been insulated, and we could see the actual wood of the roof.

  I pointed the flashlight in different directions. The place looked like a giant yard sale. Generations worth of stuff that was broken, worn-out, or just plain out of style was piled wherever we looked.

  The ghost was standing at one end of the attic, waiting for us.

  “Come on,” said Chris again. “I think he’s getting impatient.”

  “Or tired,” I said.

  I have a theory that it’s fairly hard work for ghosts to show themselves. Of course, Chris and I seemed to be able to see Captain Gray when no one else could. But if he wanted to be sure we saw him, I figured he was working at being visible.

  The attic floor was even colder than the stairs had been. I wished I had taken the time to put on my slippers.

  Moving toward the ghost, we walked past broken chairs, boxes of old dishes, battered suitcases, and piles of lumpy mattresses. Nervous as I was, I really wanted to stop and open some of the more interesting looking boxes.

  The ghost was standing next to a large, badly battered trunk. It was made of wood and had a rounded top. The brass latches were undone.

  The ghost looked at the trunk and nodded.

  Obviously, we were supposed to open it.

  I wasn’t particularly thrilled by the idea. For some reason, I expected it to be like one of those trick peanut-brittle cans—you know, the kind where you take off the top and all these fake snakes come flying out.

  I think something like that must have occurred to Chris, too. “Here, I’ll hold the flashlight while you open it,” she said.

  “You have got to be kidding!”

  “Shhh!” she whispered. “Let’s not argue in front of the ghost!”

  I glanced over at Captain Gray. He was starting to look kind of cranky.

  I set the flashlight on a nearby chair, so that its beam fell on the trunk.

  “Here,” I said. “You take one side, I’ll take the other.”

  Chris nodded. We knelt at opposite sides of the trunk.

  “Ready? she asked.

  “Ready,” I whispered.

  We lifted the lid.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Trunk

  Nothing jumped out of the trunk. What did happen was that as soon as we had the lid up, the ghost disappeared. It was as if someone had turned off a light. Click. One second he was there, the next he was gone.

  “My goodness, Toto,” I said, “People come and go in the strangest way around here.”

  “Come back from Oz and let’s get down to business,” replied Chris. “I figure if Captain Gray went to all that work to get us up here, there must be something pretty important in this trunk. So let’s find it.”

  I got the flashlight and pointed its beam into the trunk.

  “I don’t get it,” said Chris.

  I didn’t either. I was expecting something from Civil War times. All I saw was a stack of clothes that looked like things I had seen in pictures of my parents when they were hippy teenagers: paisley shirts, bell-bottom trousers, and fringed vests—things like that.

  “Maybe there’s something else underneath that stuff,” I said.

  We started digging. Ten minutes later we had emptied the trunk. We were surrounded by stacks of old clothes, a complete run of Popular Mechanics from 1963 to 1966, a broken waffle iron, a toothless comb, and fifteen record albums by three groups I had never heard of. With the possible exception of the comb, none of it looked like it was any older than my father.

  “What does any of this have to do with Captain Gray?” Chris asked.

  “You’ve got me,” I said, shining the flashlight into the empty trunk. Something about the way it looked bothered me. Unfortunately, I couldn’t figure out what it was.

  I looked at the stack of clothes again.

  “Pockets!” I cried.

  “Shhh!” hissed Chris. “You’ll wake someone up.”

  “Let’s check the pockets,” I said, pointing to the clothes. “Maybe there’s something in there.”

  “I bet you’re right!” she whispered.

  Ten minutes later we had been through all the clothing. The only thing we had to show for our efforts was a handful of buttons. Two said “Peace,” one said “Frodo Lives!” and three more had words I didn’t know you were allowed to wear in public.

  I looked at the empty trunk. I looked at the mess we had made. I felt we had let the ghost down.

  It made me sad.

  “Come on,” Chris said. “We’d better pack this thing up and get out of here. We can figure out what to do next over breakfast.”

  Slowly we folded the clothes and put them back into the trunk.

  We were halfway down the attic stairs before I finally realized what it was that had bothered me about the trunk. Chris had given me the clue when she had asked if we should go back to our original plan and make our way down to the kitchen to check out the little room.

  Suddenly everything clicked into place. “I think I’ve got it!” I said. Grabbing Chris by the arm, I turned and headed back up the stairs.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Wait and see.” I didn’t want to tell her, because I figured I would look really stupid if I was wrong. By the time I had finished dumping everything out of the trunk again, I realized I was going to look stupid if I was wrong, whether I said anything or not.

  I knelt in front of the empty trunk and put one arm inside it until my hand was resting on the bottom. Then I put my other hand on the floor.

  “I knew it!” I cried in triumph.

  “What are you doing?” asked Chris again.

  I told her to do what I had just done. Looking skeptical, she knelt and repeated my actions. A look of understanding crossed her face as she leaned on one arm, and then the other. When you did that it was easy to tell that the hand in the trunk was almost two inches higher than the hand on the floor.

  “A false bottom,” she said. “How did you figure it out?”

  I shrugged. “It just didn’t look right to me. But I couldn’t figure out why. When you mentioned the hidden room downstairs, I realized it was the same kind of thing: the inside and the outside didn’t quite match.”

  “That’s terrific,” said Chris. “But how do we get into it?�
��

  It was forty-five minutes before we answered that question. In that time we poked, prodded, and pried at that trunk in every way we could think of. We turned it upside down and sideways looking for buttons to press or panels to pull. We shook it. We pressed every one of the brass studs. Nothing happened, until Chris finally slapped the side of the trunk in anger and said, “This is impossible!”

  I was the one who heard the click. Looking into the trunk, I saw that the bottom had tilted up just slightly. I reached in and pressed on the back of it. The front came up more. I pressed a little harder. A gap appeared between the bottom and the trunk wall closest to us. I slipped in my finger and pulled up. It was like opening a door.

  “Nice work!” whispered Chris, who had been holding the flashlight.

  We bent over the trunk and looked in.

  The secret compartment was about an inch and a half deep. It held only two things: a book and a red stone the size of a small grape.

  Chris took the stone out of the compartment and set it in the palm of her hand. I pointed the flashlight at it. It sparkled in the light, which seemed to penetrate right to its center.

  She looked at me in astonishment. “I think this thing is a ruby!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Diary

  Chris and I sat side by side on my bed. The ruby was hidden in the bottom drawer of our dresser. As excited as we were about finding it, for the time being the book had all our attention.

  It was about an inch thick and bound in brown leather. The cover was blank. But when we opened it and saw the words, “The Diary of Captain Jonathan Gray” written on the first page, I felt a tingle skitter down my spine.

  I looked at Chris. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” she whispered. I nodded my head—and turned the page.

  I could tell you about what we read there. But I think it’s time to let Captain Gray speak for himself. So the rest of this chapter is in his words, just as we found them in his diary.

  APRIL 21, 1863

  Today I was given a great responsibility. Some of the finest women of Charleston, knowing of our desperate need for weapons and supplies, have volunteered their gold and their jewelry for the good of the Confederate cause.