"Do you want to go right now?" I squinted at the sky, trying to decide if it was going to rain any more today.
"Sure. I think we've had our thirty percent shower, don't you?"
We got our bikes out from under the porch and rode down Clark Road toward town. It was a long way, and I was glad the rain had cooled things off. On a hot day, I would never have made it up some of the hills between our house and Holwell.
We found the library on a quiet street near the park and locked our bikes. Inside it was small and friendly, more like a living room in somebody's house than a library. Except for all the books, of course. There were hundreds of them, jammed into shelves lining the walls and forming alcoves near the windows.
"Can I help you find something?" a woman asked as I began riffling through the card catalogue.
"I hope so." Michael smiled up at her. "My sister and I just moved into an old church out on Clark Road and when we were out in the woods today, we found the ruins of an old house. It looked like it burned down a long time ago. We just wondered if you had any information about it."
"Oh, yes." The librarian smiled. "I know what house you mean."
She led us to a row of file cabinets at the back of the room. "We have several files on historical homes in and around Holwell," she said, flicking through the folders in one of the drawers. "Is this the house?"
She laid a newspaper clipping down on the table where we could see it. "It burned down about a hundred years ago. A terrible fire," she murmured, pointing to a blurred photograph of the house by the pond.
"One of our local historians wrote this article several years ago." Setting the clipping aside before I had a chance to read it, she produced an old photograph. "Here is the house before it burned," she said. "Lovely isn't it?"
I nodded. In the picture I saw a big stone house, standing on a hill with a lawn sweeping down to a pond. On the terrace sat three people: a man, a woman, and a girl. The man and woman sat close together, their hands clasped, but the girl sat apart, her face turned away. I stared at it, wishing the people were bigger and easier to see.
"That's Mr. and Mrs. Miller," the librarian said, pointing to the man and woman.
Michael nudged me, and I smiled, relieved that their name was Miller, not Harper. But the librarian wasn't quite finished. "And this," she went on, her finger lingering on the girl, "is Mrs. Miller's daughter, Helen."
"Helen?" I stared into the woman's face, my heart thumping.
She nodded and turned the picture over. Someone had written in a spidery, old-fashioned hand, "Mabel, Robert, and Mabel's girl, Helen. Taken in June, 1886, at Harper House."
"Harper House?" It was Michael's turn to ask questions now. I was sure I couldn't have said a word if my life depended on it. "Are you certain that's what it's called?"
"Why, of course. It's written right here." The librarian looked at the writing again, as if she were double-checking. "You see, the house was built a few generations earlier by Harold Harper. It stayed in the family till Mabel's first husband, Joseph Harper—that would be Helen's father—died. When Mabel remarried, her name changed to Miller, but folks kept on calling it Harper House. Unfortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Miller didn't live there long before it burned down."
"Were they caught in the fire?" Michael leaned across the table toward the librarian, his eyes big behind his glasses. In the silence following his question, I could hear a fly buzzing against the window behind me.
"Yes, the whole family was killed." The librarian pushed the old newspaper clipping across the table toward us. "You can read Miss Hawkins' article. It's a very complete account, right down to the ghost stories people tell about the house."
I backed away from the clipping, thinking that I had heard all I wanted to, but Michael bent over it eagerly. "Listen to this, Molly," he said, his voice rising in excitement. "Mr. and Mrs. Miller's bodies were never found. They must be buried somewhere under the wreckage. No wonder people think the place is haunted!"
I stared at him, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck quiver. "What about Helen?" I whispered. "What happened to her?"
"Oh," the librarian said, answering for Michael. "She apparently escaped from the house and ran into the pond. It was dark, and I suppose she was confused or frightened. At any rate, she drowned. According to the newspaper account, her body was buried in Saint Swithin's graveyard."
"Where's that?" Michael asked.
"Why, it's just where you live." The librarian smiled at him. "Surely you've noticed the little burial ground behind the church."
As Michael nodded and told her about the tombstone under the oak tree, I watched the fly struggle to find a way out of the library. I wanted to find an escape too, but every word I'd heard confirmed my fear that Heather had somehow allied herself with a ghost. What I wasn't sure of was the danger—was Helen as wicked as Heather made her out to be, or was she merely a lost child looking for someone to love her?
Edging a little closer to the librarian, I said, "What kind of ghost stories do people tell about Harper House?"
"It's all in the clipping," she said a bit impatiently, flicking her fingernail at the article which Michael was still reading. "But, if I remember correctly, people claim the child's ghost haunts the graveyard and the pond."
A frown crossed her face. "They actually believe the poor girl is responsible for some of the drownings in the pond, but you know how people are. They're always looking for some sort of supernatural cause for the simplest things."
"People have drowned in the pond?" I thought of Heather standing at the water's edge in the pouring rain.
The librarian nodded. "It's a pretty place, and it's tempting on a hot day. Children don't need ghosts to lure them into a nice, cool pond." She smiled at me and added, "A child drowned last summer in the municipal pool, but nobody blamed that on a ghost."
"In other words," Michael said, "you don't believe the stories." From his tone of voice, I could tell he was looking for an ally.
She smiled and shook her head. "I've picnicked by Harper Pond many times, and I never saw a thing but birds and butterflies." As she began gathering up the papers on the table, she paused and gazed at the picture of the Millers and Helen sitting on the porch, innocent of the terrible event that would soon destroy them. "Nevertheless, it was certainly a tragedy, wasn't it?"
As soon as Michael and I were outside, I turned to him. "Well, what do you have to say now?"
He shoved his glasses into place on his nose and frowned. "Heather must have talked to somebody, Molly. The last time Mr. Simmons came to mow the graveyard—he must have told her about Harper House."
"But, Michael, he didn't even know Helen's grave was there. He couldn't have told her what those initials stood for."
Michael shook his head and began to pedal his bike down the street toward home. "She's made it all up somehow," he yelled back at me. "I know it's not a ghost, Molly. It's just not possible."
"Wait for me, Michael," I shouted, pumping hard. "Don't go so fast!"
He slowed down and let me catch up, but I could tell he didn't want to talk about Harper House or Helen. The little wheels in his brain were spinning round and round, trying frantically to come up with a rational solution. I had a feeling that he was just as scared as I was, maybe even more scared because science didn't have an explanation for something like Helen.
All of a sudden, Michael slowed to a stop beside a road sign almost hidden by the honeysuckle climbing over it. "Look, Molly, this is Harper House Road." He pointed at a narrow dirt road curving up out of sight over a hill. "Let's see where it goes."
Before I could tell him that I'd had enough of Harper House for one day, if not for the rest of my life, he took off in a cloud of dust. Not wanting to ride home alone, I followed him, hoping the hill wouldn't be too steep for me. By the time I had huffed and puffed my way to the top, Michael was vanishing around a sharp curve at the bottom. Putting on my brakes, I flew after him, my hair blowing straight back from my face,
sure I was going to shoot over my handlebars and split my head open. By a miracle, I managed to skid safely to a stop on a narrow stone bridge just behind Michael.
Mr. Simmons was so startled by our sudden appearance that he almost dropped his fishing pole. "Well, well," he said, "where did you two come from? Straight down out of the sky?"
"That house," Michael said, pointing to the ruins just visible through the trees. "Did you tell Heather about it?"
"Heather?" Mr. Simmons fiddled with his pipe for a moment, then puffed a fragrant cloud of smoke into the air. "You mean your little sister, the one who found the gravestone?"
Michael and I nodded, but Mr. Simmons shook his head. "I haven't seen her since then. And why would I tell her about Harper House? It ought to be torn down, if you ask me. It's a haven for all sorts of goings-on—a disgrace to the town of Holwell. No place for a child to play, that's for sure."
I looked at Michael, but his eyes shifted away from mine. From the frown on his face, I knew he was struggling to invent a new theory to explain Heather's knowing so much about Helen. Turning to Mr. Simmons, I asked him if he knew Harper House was haunted.
"Who told you that?" he asked.
"The lady at the library," Michael answered. "She showed us some old newspaper articles." Using his scornful scientist voice, he told Mr. Simmons what the librarian had said.
"Miss Williams told you all that?" Mr. Simmons laughed and shook his head. "She ought to have more sense. A grown woman scaring kids with ghost stories."
Michael frowned at Mr. Simmons. "She didn't scare me! I don't believe in that kind of stuff." Jerking his head toward me, he added, "She's the one who's scared to death of Helen. I don't know which one's worse, her or Heather."
"You're just fooling yourself, Michael!" Gripping the handlebars of my bike, I leaned toward him, angry that he'd made me look foolish in front of Mr. Simmons. "Helen is every bit as real as you are, and you know it!"
Mr. Simmons looked from me to Michael and then back at me. Pausing to fiddle with his pipe, he said, "Ghost or no ghost, you kids stay away from Harper House. The walls are about to cave in, and at least three children have drowned in the pond. The water's not fit for swimming; it's murky and full of weeds."
"The librarian told us that some people think Helen's ghost lures children into the pond." I gazed past Mr. Simmons at the water's surface shimmering through the leaves. It looked very peaceful in the afternoon sunlight.
"Well, now, I don't know about that," Mr. Simmons said, "but I do know a girl drowned three years ago. She was one of these lonely little creatures. No friends, nobody who seemed to care much about her—you know the kind. Well, she disappeared one day, and this is where they finally found her." He gestured through the trees at the glittering water.
"Ten feet under," he added, "and all tangled up in weeds. I hope I never see anything that sad again."
I looked at Michael and shivered, but he was staring at the ground, his forehead wrinkled.
"Well, now, I didn't mean to upset you," Mr. Simmons said a little too loudly. "I just thought you should know the pond's no place to play." Pulling a watch out of his pocket, he mumbled, "My goodness, it's after five already. Time I got myself home."
He tossed his rod and reel into the back of his pickup truck and turned to Michael. "Do you like to fish, boy?"
Michael shrugged. "I don't know how."
"Well, I'll tell you what. Next time I come over to mow the graveyard, I'll bring along an extra rod and teach you how. Would you like that?"
Michael grinned and said he'd love it. Mr. Simmons got into his truck, threw it into gear, and bounced away in a cloud of dust.
"See? He doesn't believe in those old stories either," Michael said.
Without answering, I got on my bike and started pedaling slowly back up the hill. No matter what Michael or Mr. Simmons thought, I believed in Helen, and I was afraid she had some sort of hold on Heather. They were linked, I thought, in so many ways: by their initials, by their loneliness, by their mothers' deaths.
Like the girl Mr. Simmons had just told us about, Heather was one of those lonely little creatures, friendless and unhappy, and I was frightened. Not for myself—but for Heather.
9
AS MICHAEL AND I rode our bikes down the driveway, we saw Mom standing on the back porch, her hands on her hips. "Where have you been?" she said as we braked to a stop.
"At the library," I said, wheeling my bike to its place under the porch.
"And then we saw Mr. Simmons." Michael was too excited to notice that Mom was not smiling. "Guess what? He's going to take me fishing the next time he comes to cut the grass."
"But you were supposed to be here watching Heather." Mom folded her arms tightly across her chest and frowned at me. "Didn't we talk about that just the other day?"
"She was out in the carriage house with Dave when we left," I said. "You were painting, and I know you don't like being disturbed, so Michael and I just decided to go. I thought it would be all right."
As Michael started to say something in my defense, he was interrupted by Dave. He stepped out on the porch to join Mom, and Heather was right behind him, peering around his legs, her pale eyes on Michael and me.
"Do you two have any idea what a scare you gave us?" Dave asked, his voice rising. "We couldn't find any of you! We called and called. Finally I found Heather way down on the other side of the creek near that ruin you told your mother about. She said you took her there and then ran off and left her."
I stared at him. "We didn't take her anywhere!"
But he went right on talking. "Why do you treat her so badly? You've made her life miserable ever since we moved out here." He was yelling now, and his face was red. "Heather's just a little girl, a very sensitive little girl! Why can't you treat her decently? What's wrong with you two?"
As Dave continued to accuse us of tormenting Heather, the poor little victim peeked at us, smiling slyly. She was enjoying every minute of his tirade.
"Dave, please." Mom laid her hand on his arm, trying to calm him down. "Don't talk to Molly and Michael that way. There must be some misunderstanding."
Dave turned from us to Mom. "That's right, Jean! Take their side as usual!" Brushing Mom's hand away, he led Heather down the steps, past Michael and me, and strode across the driveway toward the van.
"Where are you going?" Mom called after him, her voice quavering. "Dinner's ready, Dave." She started to follow him, but stopped, halfway down the steps.
"You all eat it. I'm taking my daughter out for dinner. She needs to get away for a while." Without looking at us, Dave slammed the van door and gunned the motor. As he roared down the driveway, I saw Heather smile at us.
"I hate him!" I looked at Mom, but she had already turned away from me. I followed her up the steps. "We didn't take Heather into the woods, Mom. She lied!"
Mom paused at the doorway and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "But you could have stayed here or taken her to the library with you," she said. "None of this would have happened if you had done what I asked you to."
Michael grabbed my arm and stopped me from following Mom into the kitchen. "Drop it," he whispered. "She's really upset, and you'll just make things worse." His face wore its worried expression, making him look more like a little old man than usual.
Pulling away from him, I crossed the kitchen to the stove. Mom was stirring the stew she'd cooked. "I'm sorry," I said softly.
"It's all right." She watched the stew bubble and poked it with the spoon.
"Are we going to eat?" Michael asked.
"Go ahead, help yourselves." Mom handed me the spoon.
"How about you?" I asked as she walked to the door.
"I'm not hungry." Pushing the door open, she stepped outside.
"Where are you going?" Michael ran out on the porch behind her.
"For a walk." Her voice was sharp. "You eat your dinner. I'll be back soon."
Silently I filled two plates with stew, whi
le Michael poured our milk. After we'd eaten a few mouthfuls, Michael said, "She was crying."
"I know." We looked at each other. "It's all Heather's fault. Did you see the way she was grinning when Dave was yelling at us?"
Michael nodded. "It's just what she wants—to cause enough trouble to ruin things for Mom and Dave."
"Why can't Dave see what she's doing? He's blind to everything she does." I pushed my plate away, half my stew uneaten. The kitchen was getting dark, and I felt sad looking at the three empty plates stacked on the counter. "Do you think we should go find Mom?"
Michael polished off the last of his stew by wiping his plate with a piece of bread. Then he gulped down his milk and brushed away the white mustache it left on his upper lip. "I guess so."
Turning on the kitchen light to make the room look cheerier, I hesitated in the doorway. The sky was gray and the trees were dark shapes, glittering with lightning bugs. A breeze shushed through the grass, rustling the leaves and bringing with it the scent of honeysuckle. The night seemed very still and private, and I wasn't sure I really wanted to leave the safety of the kitchen.
"Molly, are you going to stand there all night?" Michael stared at me from the driveway; the kitchen light shone on his glasses, giving him an owlish look.
"I'm coming." Folding my arms across my chest, I followed him across the yard. The grass was cold and wet, and I could feel it soaking through my running shoes. Glancing back at the lit windows, I felt homesick for Baltimore.
"Michael," I said, getting him to stop for a minute. "It was never this bad before we came here. Heather was pretty awful, but not like she is now. And we got along with Dave all right. He and Mom never had fights then."
"I know. I was thinking that too."
"It's living out here." I looked past him, at the oak tree's dark, shaggy shape dominating the sky, towering over everything else. It was Helen's influence, I thought. Whether Heather had dreamed her up or not, she had made things worse. Day by day, our lives seemed to grow unhappier, as if she had the ability somehow to reach out from the grave and touch us all with her misery.
Wait Till Helen Comes: A Ghost Story Page 6