The Ghost Wore Gray

by Bruce Coville

  It was all very elegant. I felt kind of grownup, and a little scared.

  Ten or twelve people had arrived ahead of us, including Arnie and Meg. Arnie was holding a small plate so full of food it was falling off the edges. Meg waved to us to come stand with them.

  We did, and Arnie danced with each of us. It’s not easy dancing with someone who’s six feet five inches tall—especially when you’re not quite five feet tall yourself. But it was good practice. As it turned out, I was glad to have it, because my last dancing partner of the evening was even trickier.

  About the time we were done dancing with Arnie, my father came in with Mona. I think it was an official date. The way they giggled and carried on you would have thought they were back in high school. Mona was wearing a black dress with almost no back.

  Shortly after the two of them came in, Dad walked over and asked me to dance. That was fun. The two of us dance at home sometimes, and we’re pretty good at it. Then he asked Chris for a waltz and left me standing with Mona.

  “So have you been thinking about my offer?” she asked, handing me a glass of punch. “Or have things been too hectic?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve been thinking,” I said. “I guess I’d like to give it a try.”

  “Good,” said Mona. “I think it’s going to be a terrific book. Besides, it will give you guys an excuse to come and visit me!”

  I looked at her. She smiled.

  What the heck? I thought to myself. Dad could do a lot worse.

  I smiled back.

  All in all, it was a pretty good dance. In fact, from Baltimore’s point of view, it was wonderful. The articles about the treasure in that afternoon’s papers had brought out a huge crowd. “This is it, girls,” he said at one point, sitting down next to us. “This is the break we needed to get people coming back here. We’re going to make this inn work after all!”

  I thought that was nice, since it meant he would be able to pay my father, which meant my part of the finder’s fee Chris and I would get for locating the treasure could stay in my college fund where it belonged.

  But even with all the good news, it was basically a grown-up dance. So we found it a little dull, at least until just before midnight, when Captain Gray floated into the room and asked me to dance.

  Actually, he didn’t ask me in so many words. He just stopped in front of me, held out his arms and smiled.

  I don’t care if he had been dead for a hundred and twenty-five years. Who could resist an offer like that? I stood up and put out my arms. He took my hand in his. Even though it wasn’t really there, it seemed as if I could feel it, cool and firm against my palm.

  The music started, and we began to dance. It was like magic. A ghost can’t lead, of course; he can’t tell you where to go with just a bit of gentle pressure on your hand or your back. But I knew, anyway, knew exactly where to turn, where to move. It was as if he was telling me with his eyes, which were locked on mine. And it was as if I was seeing another time through his eyes, because even though I was still in the room at the Quackadoodle, at the same time I was back in Charleston, a hundred and twenty-five years before. I saw the Quackadoodle, and I saw another room, filled with dashing officers in gray uniforms and beautiful women wearing long, elegant gowns—and I was sweeping around that room in the arms of Captain Jonathan Gray, the most handsome man in the state. Even though I was wearing a modern dress, I could feel the layers of crinoline rustle around me as my long skirts whirled and whirled while we danced.

  The people at the Quackadoodle must have thought I was crazy. I didn’t care. It was wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.

  And then the music ended, and Captain Gray took me to my seat. Then he put out his arms to Chris. A good thing he did, too, or she would never had forgiven me!

  It was wonderful all over again, because as I watched, I still felt as if I was in two places at once.

  And then the music was over. Chris sat down beside me. The ghost stood nearby. He had a distant look on his face. I could sense his sadness, and I wondered what was wrong.

  “Maybe he thought he could leave after the treasure was found,” whispered Chris.

  That made sense. Ghosts are supposed to be restless spirits, tied to this world by some unfinished problem. With the discovery of both the treasure and the will, Captain Gray’s problem seemed to be finished.

  “I wonder why he’s still here,” I whispered back.

  Chris shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t know the way home.”

  And then the clock struck midnight, and it didn’t matter anymore whether Captain Gray knew the way home or not, because someone had come to get him.

  Chris was the first to see him. She grabbed my elbow in the usual way and pointed to the entrance to the dining room, where a man stood, looking around the room and smiling.

  I’ve never seen so much sorrow and so much joy wrapped together in one face. I’ve never seen such eyes.

  I recognized him at once, of course. It had only been a day since Chris and I had stood in his house and looked at his garden, his bed, his papers.

  It was Samson Carter, come to take Johnny Gray home.

  He floated across the floor, weaving between the dancing couples, a smile as big as Christmas on his face. Captain Gray turned and saw him, and I could feel his burst of joy in my own heart.

  Captain Gray nodded. Samson Carter nodded back, and put his hand on Captain Gray’s shoulder. Side by side the two men turned to leave.

  Chris and I followed them across the dance floor, through the lobby, onto the porch.

  That was as far as we went, because it was clear the rest of the way was a path we could not travel.

  Samson Carter put his arm around Captain Gray’s shoulder. Together the two men stepped off the porch. They continued walking, rising higher into the night air with every step they took.

  I had never heard a ghost speak before. But now I heard one sing—not with my ears, but somewhere deep inside me. It was Samson Carter. His voice was deep and rich and low, and its powerful tones filled me with the old, sweet song that had been a cry for freedom for his people: “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home.” The words seemed to burn inside me. I thought my heart was going to split in two.

  I watched as the two men crossed the lawn, their forms fading from sight with every skyward step, until there was nothing left but the mist and the final note of that old song. Then even that was gone, and Chris and I just stood there, staring and listening, our faces soaked with tears.

  I have never been so happy in my life. And I knew, deep inside, that I would probably never receive a gift that would match the privilege of being allowed to watch the last run of the Underground Railroad, when Samson Carter came back to guide one more soul along the Glory Road to freedom.

  “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home.”

  Good luck, Captain Gray, wherever you are.

  A Personal History by Bruce Coville

  I arrived in the world on May 16, 1950. Though I was born in the city of Syracuse, New York, I grew up as a country boy. This was because my family lived about twenty miles outside the city, and even three miles outside the little village of Phoenix, where I went to school from kindergarten through twelfth grade.

  Our house was around the corner from my grandparents’ dairy farm, where I spent a great deal of time playing when I was young, then helping with chores when I was older. Yep, I was a tractor-ridin’, hay-bale-haulin’, garden-weedin’ kid.

  I was also a reader.

  It started with my parents, who read to me (which is the best way to make a reader)—a gift for which I am eternally grateful. In particular it was my father reading me Tom Swift in the City of Gold that turned me on to “big” books. I was particularly a fan of the Doctor Dolittle books, and I can remember getting up ahead of everyone else in the family so that I could huddle in a chair and read The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle.

  I also read lots of things that people consider junk:
Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, and zillions of comic books. In regard to the comics, I had a great deal going for me. My uncle ran a country store just up the road, and one of the things he sold was coverless comic books. (The covers had been stripped off and sent back to the publishers for credit. After that, the coverless books were sent to little country stores, where they were sold for a nickel apiece.) I was allowed to borrow them in stacks of thirty, read them, buy the ones I wanted to keep, and put the rest back in the bins for someone else to buy. It was heaven for a ten-year-old!

  My only real regret from those years is the time I spent watching television, when I could have been reading instead. After all, the mind is a terrible thing to waste!

  The first time I can remember thinking that I would like to be a writer came in sixth grade, when our teacher, Mrs. Crandall, gave us an extended period of time to write a long story. I had been doing poorly at writing all year long because we always had to write on a topic Mrs. Crandall chose. But this time, when I was free to write whatever I wanted, I loved doing it.

  Of course, you think about doing many different things when you’re a kid, but I kept coming back to the thought of being a writer. For a long time my dream job was to write for Marvel Comics.

  I began working seriously at writing when I was seventeen and started what became my first novel. It was a terrible book, but I had a good time writing it and learned a great deal in the process.

  In 1969, when I was nineteen, I married Katherine Dietz, who lived around the corner from me. Kathy was (and is) a wonderful artist, and we began trying to create books together, me writing and Kathy doing the art.

  Like most people, I was not able to start selling my stories right away. So I had many other jobs along the way, including toymaker, gravedigger, cookware salesman, and assembly line worker. Eventually I became an elementary school teacher and worked with second and fourth graders, which I loved.

  It was not until 1977 that Kathy and I sold our first work, a picture book called The Foolish Giant. We have done many books together since, including Goblins in the Castle, Aliens Ate My Homework, and The World’s Worst Fairy Godmother, all novels for which Kathy provided illustrations.

  Along the way we also managed to have three children: a son, Orion, born in 1970; a daughter, Cara, born in 1975; and another son, Adam, born in 1981. They are all grown and on their own now, leaving us to share the house with a varying assortment of cats.

  A surprising side effect of becoming a successful writer was that I began to be called on to make presentations at schools and conferences. Though I had no intention of becoming a public speaker, I now spend a few months out of every year traveling to make speeches and have presented in almost every state, as well as such far-flung places as Brazil, China, Ethiopia, and Bangladesh.

  Having discovered that I love performing and also that I love audiobooks, in 1990 I started my own audiobook company, Full Cast Audio, where we record books using multiple actors (sometimes as many as fifty in one book!) rather than a single voice artist. We have recorded over one hundred books, by such notable authors as Tamora Pierce, Shannon Hale, and James Howe. In addition to being the producer, I often direct and usually perform in the recordings.

  So there you go. I consider myself a very lucky person. From the time I was young, I had a dream of becoming a writer. With a lot of hard work, that dream has come true, and I am blessed to be able to make my living doing something that I really love.

  Hey, baby! You looking at me? I was born on May 16, 1950, in Syracuse, New York. In this picture I’m one year old.

  As a farm boy, I learned to drive a tractor when I was quite young.

  Reading was always important to me—anytime, anywhere.

  I planned to be a cowboy …

  But I ended up a boy scout. (From the look on my face, I think I just got away with something …)

  In 1969 I married Kathy. She lived right around the corner from me. She’s an artist and has illustrated twenty of my books. We have three children—Orion, Cara, and Adam.

  Here’s me at Buckshot Lake. Apparently no one told me I was supposed to sit in the boat.

  As a young father, I often functioned as a piece of furniture.

  Here’s me with my daughter. I swear I did not steal her candy!

  A rare sighting of my half-mad brother Igor (on the right), star of Goblins in the Castle. When I was an elementary school teacher, Igor would visit my classroom every Halloween to celebrate his birthday. For some reason the two of us were never seen together. It was a puzzling mystery. This is a picture of Igor posing with my wife’s little brother.

  Something has clearly gone very, very right!

  Often I give speeches about reading and writing. But sometimes I get a little carried away.

  No, seriously, I meant it when I said I get carried away …

  I not only write books, I read them aloud, too. Here I am recording an audiobook for my company, Full Cast Audio. Whatever I just read has clearly surprised me!

  I love my books … they make me happy! I hope they do the same for you. Photo courtesy of Charles Wainwright.

  Turn the page to continue reading from The Nina Tanleven Mysteries

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Caffeine Poster Child

  You could say I met the ghost of Cornelius Fletcher because of my father’s three-dollar coffee maker.

  My dad had just bought the coffee maker at a garage sale. Personally I thought this was a dumb idea; in my opinion, drinking coffee is a lot like sucking old sweat socks.

  My father, however, was very pleased with himself. “Three dollars,” he said with a chuckle as we started walking home along Westcott Street. “I can’t believe she sold it to me for only three dollars!”

  “I can’t believe you bought it,” I replied.

  “That, my little pookanilly, is because you have underdeveloped taste buds.”

  My search for a killer response was interrupted by someone shouting, “Henry! Henry Tanleven! What are you doing, walking down Westcott Street with a coffee maker under your arm?”

  We turned to our right. “Norma Bliss!” my dad exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here—as of two months ago.”

  “Come on,” my father whispered to me. “You’ll enjoy this.”

  I followed him up the steps of a pale green house. The woman who had called out to us was very pretty. She had skin the color of chocolate, huge eyes, and a smile like a sunrise over a lake. Her voice was deep and raspy. She was sitting on a porch swing. Near the swing stood a round white table. On the table sat a big cup of coffee and a coffee maker.

  As we stepped onto the porch, she said, “To tell you the truth, Henry, it was your coffee maker that got my attention. I saw you with that machine, and I said to myself, ‘Norma, there goes your kind of man.’ Then I realized it was you!”

  She threw back her head and laughed. It was a wonderful laugh. Even so, I was not totally amused. The last thing I needed right now was another woman going after my father. Ever since my mother left, I’ve had this problem with him.

  Dad is pretty bright about most things. But when it comes to women, he needs a lot of help. Of course, at the moment he was focused on his coffee maker. Patting it fondly, he gave me a triumphant smirk, then turned back to his friend.

  “Norma, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Nine.”

  “Nine?” asked Norma, managing to lower her chin and raise an eyebrow at the same time.

  “It’s really Nina,” I said. “But everyone calls me Nine, because of my last name.”

  Norma thought for a second, then grinned. “Nine Tan-Leven!” she said. “I like that!”

  A point in her favor. Most adults say, “Isn’t that cute?”, which makes me want to barf.

  “Norma’s an antique dealer,” my dad said.

  “Bliss in Brass,” she said proudly, pointing to the red pickup truck that sat in her driveway. The store name was painted on the door, inside an oval
design. “Actually, I handle a lot of wooden stuff, too, but ‘A Broad and Her Boards’ just didn’t have the same ring.”

  “Nine’s kind of interested in antiques.”

  That was my father’s idea of a joke. What he meant was that I’m interested in ghosts. I suppose you could call them antiques, but it seems to me that’s really stretching things.

  I didn’t start out to be a ghost specialist. Oh, I liked ghost stories as much as any other kid I’ve ever met. But it wasn’t until my best friend Chris Gurley and I started running into the real thing that I began to take them seriously.

  Our first experience was with the Woman in White, the ghost who haunted the Grand Theater. We figured one ghost could happen to anyone. But after we met Captain Jonathan Gray, the ghost of the Quackadoodle Inn, Chris and I began to wonder if we had some kind of special spirit-spotting ability.

  Norma was looking at me with new interest. “Do you think you might want a job?”

  “What kind of a job?”

  “I need an extra hand at the shop. Nothing major—I’ve already got an assistant. What I’m looking for is someone who likes antiques but doesn’t need work on a regular basis. Sounds like you might fill the bill.”

  “But I’m only eleven,” I said, ignoring the fact that we had been talking about different kinds of antiques anyway.

  “That’s okay,” said Norma. “I’m not prejudiced.”

  Which is how I ended up with a part-time job at Bliss in Brass—and how I met my next ghost.

  “You are so-o-o-o lucky,” Chris said when I called to tell her about the job. “First the book, now this.”