"You don't understand, Mom!" I threw myself at her, trying to climb into her lap. "There's something awful here, and it's making everything worse. It's not Michael and me. It's not even just Heather. It's something out there—" I gestured out the door toward the graveyard. "Under the oak tree, a grave."
"What are you talking about?" Mom grasped my shoulders and held me away from her, staring into my eyes.
"It's Helen," I screamed. "It's Helen!" Then I began crying too hard to talk.
"She thinks Heather has called up a ghost or something," I heard Michael tell Mom, using his mature, scientific voice. "Heather talks about a girl named Helen all the time, but Helen's just something she's dreamed up. You know, to scare us with—not me, actually. Just Molly."
"Oh, Molly, Molly." Mom rocked me, trying to make me stop crying. "Not that ghost business again. If I'd known having a graveyard on our property was going to upset you so much, I'd never have moved us out here."
"It's not my imagination," I gulped. "I saw Helen."
Mom sighed. "Dave says you have a terrible fear of death," she said, "and it's manifesting itself in your belief in ghosts."
"Why don't you ask Heather about it?" I pulled away from Mom, angry that she would turn to Dave for an explanation of my behavior and then actually believe him.
"Ask me what?" Heather and Dave appeared in the kitchen doorway.
"Tell them about Helen." I jumped off Mom's lap and confronted Heather angrily.
Shrinking back against Dave, the little girl looked up at me, her eyes wide and clear. "Who?"
"Helen, your great friend. Tell them what she's going to do when she comes!" I glared at her, furious. "Tell them how you meet her in the graveyard and in the ruins of the Harper House!"
"Daddy, Daddy, what's she talking about?" Heather turned away from me and pressed her face against Dave's side, her arms encircling his waist. "Make her leave me alone. She's scaring me!"
"That's enough, Molly." Dave gave Heather a hug. "It's all right, honey." He and Mom looked at each other as if they were unsure what to make of me. "Are you ready to leave, Jean?" he asked.
"Leave?" I turned to Mom. "Where are you going?"
"Oh, we thought we'd take Heather with us when we go shopping. Dave needs to go to the clay supplier, and I'm low on some of my paints." Mom toyed with her coffee cup as if she were ashamed to meet Michael's and my stare. "We'll be back sometime this afternoon."
"But what about us?" I asked. "Why can't we go?"
"We thought it would be better to separate you two and Heather," Dave said. "You're old enough to take care of yourselves."
As I started to protest, Michael interrupted. "That sounds like a good idea. Come on, Molly." He picked up his empty cereal bowl and glass and carried them to the sink. "Have a nice time," he said to Mom. "With her."
He left the room without looking at anybody, obviously expecting me to follow him. I hesitated for a moment, thinking Mom might change her mind and stay home with us, but she stood up and slung her purse over her shoulder.
"You and Michael behave yourselves," she said. "We should be home around three." Giving me a quick hug and kiss, she whispered, "And please, Molly, no more talk about ghosts." She looked at me as if she were worried about my sanity. "I know you're a very imaginative girl, but don't get carried away."
I stood in the doorway watching them get into the van. As Dave pulled away, Heather peered out of the back window. When she saw me, she stuck out her tongue.
"Molly?" Michael came up behind me, carrying his collecting gear. "Want to go down to the swamp with me?"
Normally I would have said no, but I didn't want to stay in the house by myself. Not today. Not with Helen so close. So I helped him pack lunches, and we set off for the swamp, following the creek away from Harper House.
Although I couldn't help worrying about snakes, Michael assured me we were safe, and slowly I began to relax and enjoy myself. I actually helped him catch a couple of salamanders. He had brought along a plastic bowl which he lined with moss. Adding a little water and a rock, he put the salamanders into their new home and fed them a few insects.
"Are you hungry?" he asked me.
"Sure." We sat down on a fallen tree and ate our sandwiches. A bullfrog boomed every now and then from somewhere in the swamp, and I watched a snapping turtle hoist himself out of the water to bask in the sunlight. Overhead a bluejay screamed and a crow answered.
"Do you really think I imagined seeing Helen?" I asked Michael, unable even here to forget what had happened in the graveyard.
"You must have." Michael took a big bite of his sandwich and chewed it noisily.
"Then why do you think she seemed so real?" I watched the turtle flop back into the water. "She was just as real as you are."
"Maybe—and, believe me, I hate to say it—Dave is right about your being scared of dying."
"But aren't you scared? Isn't everybody?"
Michael poked a stick into the water and watched the long-legged skater bugs skitter away from it. "It's like nuclear war, Molly. If I think about it, I get really scared, so I don't let myself. There's no sense in worrying about things you can't change."
I envied the way my little brother could dismiss scary thoughts. "What do you think happens when people die, though? Do you think part of you lives forever?" I watched him stir the water with his stick, frowning down at our reflections. "Or do you think it's just like going to sleep and never waking up?" I persisted.
"I don't know." Michael turned to me. "I told you I don't like to think about things like that."
"Then you are scared. Just like me."
"Maybe. But I don't go around claiming I saw a ghost."
"No." I gazed out across the water. "But suppose you did see one, Michael. If Helen is real, it means something. Think what it would be like to be alone for all eternity." I shivered and drew my knees up to my chest. Hugging them, I realized how unhappy Helen must be. How afraid. How alone.
"If she's alone," I mused more to myself than to Michael, "she must want a friend, someone to keep her company. Those children, the ones Mr. Simmons told us about, suppose Helen lured them into the pond so they'd stay with her forever?"
Michael took off his glasses and rubbed them on his tee shirt. "You're really getting morbid, Molly."
"Suppose Helen wants Heather to be with her too?" I remembered the struggle she had put up when we dragged her away from the pond. "Heather could be the one who's in danger, Michael, not us."
Michael sighed in exasperation. "If I hear much more about Helen, I'm going to get as crazy as you and Heather are!" Rising to his feet, he picked up the bowl of salamanders. "You're really a lot of fun," he added when I started to cry. I just couldn't help it.
"Where are you going?" I called as he walked off into the woods.
"Back to the church," he said without looking at me.
11
AS SOON as I came out of the woods behind the church, I knew something was wrong. The air shimmered with heat, and it was very still. No breeze ruffled the leaves of the maples; no bird sang; no car sped down Clark Road. The clouds in the sky seemed to hover overhead, silent witnesses waiting and watching as I followed Michael toward the back door.
"Wait," I called to him. "Wait for me, Michael!" I ran across the grass and caught up with him at the steps. "Don't go in there!" I grabbed his arm, almost making him drop the bowl of salamanders.
"What's the matter with you?" Michael yanked his arm free and stared at me, almost as if he were afraid of me. "Are you going off the deep end or something?"
"There's something wrong." I stared at the back door, my heart pounding wildly and my knees shaking. "There's something in the house!"
"Molly, stop it." Michael's eyes widened behind his glasses, but he didn't move toward the door.
Before he could say more, we heard a crash from somewhere inside. Then another. As the noise increased, we clung to each other, too frightened to move.
"Let's
get out of here!" Michael cried after a resounding thud from inside seemed to shake the entire house.
Running after him, I glanced back once, just in time to see a pale figure emerge from the back door. It hesitated on the steps for a moment, looking after us, then vanished.
"Did you see her?" I clutched at Michael's shirt, making him stop for a moment.
"Who?" He looked back at the house from the edge of the woods.
"Helen," I cried. "Helen! She was in the house, I saw her on the back porch."
He shook his head. "You must have seen heat waves or something," he whispered. "Whoever's in our house isn't any ghost. It's probably a motorcycle gang or something. What are we going to do, Molly?" He edged backward into the woods, putting a screen of trees and bushes between us and the church. "I wish Mom would come back."
Sinking down next to him on a log, I shivered. "I know what I saw, Michael. She was standing on the porch looking at us, and laughing. Why won't you believe me?"
"Because this is the twentieth century, and I don't believe in ghosts!" His voice shook and he moved farther away from me.
"What about poltergeists? I've even read stuff in the newspaper about them. They throw furniture and destroy stuff, and scientists don't have any explanation for them."
"Yes, but you never see them. They cause a lot of destruction, but they don't manifest themselves the way you claim Helen does." He stood up and began walking away from me.
"Where are you going?" I leapt up and crashed through the bushes behind him.
"I think we should wait up the road for Mom and Dave. The worst thing you can do is come home while the burglars are in your house. That's how people get killed."
"She's gone now," I told him. "I saw her leave."
Ignoring me, Michael pushed through the woods, still carrying the salamanders. "It's almost three o'clock," he said. "They should be coming along any minute."
We plunged through trailing vines of honeysuckle and stumbled out into the sunlight by the side of the road. Without saying a word to each other, we sat down in the shade and watched for the van.
After a half hour or so, I heard the sound of a motor. Jumping to my feet, I saw the van bouncing toward us: Dave at the wheel, Heather beside him, and Mom sitting in the back. He braked quickly when he saw Michael and me, kicking up a cloud of white dust.
"What is it? Is something wrong?" Mom struggled to open the side door as Michael and I jostled each other, anxious to get inside.
"Somebody broke into the house!" Michael gasped. "We heard them when we came home from the swamp."
"Are you sure?" Dave craned around from the front seat, frowning as if he thought Michael was lying.
"Of course I'm sure!" Michael leaned toward Dave, his face flushed. "They were making a lot of noise. I think they've wrecked the house."
Mom put her arm around me, holding me close, her face buried in my hair. "Thank goodness you didn't go inside," she murmured.
Dave put the van into gear and drove toward the church. "If they're still inside, I'll keep on driving into Holwell and call the police," he said.
"Don't worry, they're gone," I said, glancing at Heather as I spoke. She was looking out the window, her face turned away from Dave, smiling past her reflection at the green trees.
Sure enough, when we pulled into the driveway we saw no sign of anyone. The little church sat silent and deserted in the shade of the maples.
"It looks all right to me," Dave said. "This better not be your idea of a joke, Michael."
Michael stiffened beside me, a scowl on his face, but he didn't say anything. Silently he followed Dave up the steps and into the kitchen, with the rest of us close behind.
"It's freezing cold in here," Mom said, folding her arms across her chest and shivering.
Again I glanced at Heather, who had pushed her way to Dave's side. Catching my eye, she smiled. "I told you so, Molly," she whispered, never letting go of Dave's hand.
Dave led us down the hall. Everything seemed to be in order until we reached Michael's room. When Dave opened the door, we stepped back as cold air rushed out to meet us. Hesitating on the threshold, we stared at the room in horror. Everything that Michael cherished lay in a heap of rubble in the middle of the floor. His books, his specimen cases, his fossils and rocks, his microscope, his aquarium—all were smashed and broken, ruined. His bureau lay on its side—its drawers emptied, its mirror shattered. Not even his bed had been spared. The blankets and sheets had been hurled across the room, and the mattress leaned against a wall, his clock radio in fragments beside it.
"Oh, Michael!" Mom put her arms around him and let him cry great, gasping sobs that shook his whole body.
"My insects, my butterflies, everything's ruined," he wailed. "Everything."
Dave rested a hand awkwardly on Michael's shoulder. "The police will get to the bottom of this. Whoever is responsible will pay, believe me he will."
Then he turned to me. "We'd better take a look at your and Heather's room," he said.
But Heather was there ahead of us, sitting on her bed, still smiling. Her side of the room was untouched, but mine was destroyed. My books, my diaries and journals, my teddy bears had been ripped to bits. Like Michael's, my bed had been torn apart, my clothes scattered about, my china and glass unicorns shattered.
"They must have heard you and Michael," Dave said. "You scared them off, I guess, before they wrecked the entire house."
But I wasn't listening. Instead I was staring at a scrawled message on the wall over my bed. Written faintly in an old-fashioned hand, it said, "I have come. H.E.H."
"What did I tell you?" Heather whispered. Without my noticing, she had crept to my side. One cold hand touched my arm as she smiled up at me, her back to Dave.
Pulling away from her, I ran to Mom who was standing in the doorway, one arm around Michael. "It's all her fault," I cried. "She made this happen!"
"What are you talking about?" Mom drew me to her side.
"Good God," Dave said, exasperation darkening his voice. "Heather tries to comfort you, and you turn around and try to blame it on her." He lifted Heather, and she buried her face in his beard, sobbing.
"Molly, I can't believe you said that." Mom sounded shocked. "I know you're upset, but Heather couldn't possibly have had anything to do with this."
"Look!" I pointed at the wall. "See that?" But, even as I spoke, I saw Helen's message fade away like letters written in the sand as the tide rises. What had been words, letters were now meaningless cracks and scuffs on the wall.
"Darling," Mom drew me closer, caressing my back. "It's all right, Molly. We'll get it all put back together somehow."
Frightened, I collapsed against Mom, letting her stroke my back, my hair, crying as if I would never stop.
"We should check the rest of the house," Dave said after a while. "And our studios. Then I'll call the police."
Silently we followed him through the house. His and Mom's room, the living room, the kitchen, the bathrooms—nothing had been touched. Relieved, he walked down the driveway toward the carriage house, towing Heather behind him like a pull toy. A glance inside told him nothing had been disturbed. His bowls and mugs, his vases and platters sat on their shelves, either glazed or waiting to be glazed. The kiln and the pottery wheel stood silently in their places. Overhead in the rafters, a barn swallow twittered and flew back and forth, worried that we would disturb its nest.
Satisfied, Dave led us across the yard to the side door of the church. Once again we recoiled from the cold air, and I clasped Mom's hand, knowing what we would find.
Mom's big canvases had been slashed and thrown to the floor. Her easel was smashed, and her oil paints were smeared all over the walls. For a moment, I was sure I saw Helen's initials scrawled there, but, as before, they vanished too quickly for me to point them out.
Mom fell against Dave, too upset to speak. He put his arms around her and stroked her hair as if she were a child, letting her tears soak his shirt.
Heather hovered near her father, obviously displeased by the attention he was giving Mom.
"Don't cry, Jean, don't cry," Dave whispered. "If I can't fix the easel, I'll get you another one."
"But we can't afford it," Mom sobbed. "We were counting on the sale of my paintings to get through the winter. Now they're ruined. How will we pay the mortgage? How will we heat the house?"
"Don't worry, Jean. I can teach a few classes. And we've got insurance. I know it won't replace your paintings, but it will help." As Heather tugged at his trouser leg, he turned to her. "Not now, Heather!"
She recoiled from the anger in his voice. "You love her more than me," she whimpered.
Dave either ignored her or failed to hear. He started toward the house, his arm around Mom's shoulders. "We'll call the police," he said.
As Heather hung back, frowning at Mom and Dave, Michael turned to her. "Poor little Heather," he said. "Left out in the cold by Daddy."
She stared up at him. "Do you believe in Helen now?" she hissed. "I told you she'd make you sorry! The next time it will be much, much worse. You just wait!"
"You little creep!" Michael grabbed her and shook her. "You know perfectly well you're lying about Helen. What makes me mad is the way you enjoy seeing us unhappy! You just love it, don't you?"
"I hate you all." Heather tried to pull away from him. "Now let me go! Let me go! Daddy! Daddy!"
Dave turned back just in time to see Heather and Michael struggling. Running toward us, he pulled Heather away from Michael. While she clung to him sobbing, he caught Michael by the neck of his tee shirt. "Don't you ever do anything like that again!" he yelled. "Aren't things bad enough without your picking on a kid half your size?"
Wait Till Helen Comes: A Ghost Story Page 8