Ghostlight

by Sonia Gensler

  “Does it look the same to you, Avery?”

  I jumped a little at Julian’s voice. “I was younger than Lily back then, and I barely remember anything except Grandma walloping my backside.” I turned to find him checking his camera. “So what’s the plan? Are you taking photos today?”

  Julian strapped the camera around his neck and set the backpack by the door. “I thought I might start filming.”

  “Filming what? We haven’t even started the script.”

  And I’d really been looking forward to writing that script because it would finally get us to my specialty.

  He stared past me, his brow wrinkling. “I want to improvise as much as possible. The film will look more natural that way. Today I’ll just film you and Lily exploring the house.”

  “I thought that camera was for taking pictures.”

  “Did you think I’d be rolling in a full-size camera on a dolly or something? This camera also shoots HD video. And it’s all we’ve got.”

  I held up my hands. “Fine.”

  He attached a long, foam-covered object to the top of the camera. “On a real set you have a boom operator who holds this big fuzzy microphone on a long stick. His job is to get close enough to pick up the sound while still keeping the boom out of the frame.” He nodded at the foam microphone. “This is the best I can do with what we have.”

  “Your camera has a horn!” said Lily, grinning.

  “Anyway…” Julian gave her a sidelong glance. “Let’s go back outside so I can film you two unlocking the door. We might use it later, or we might not, but best to get it done now. Just remember to act like you’re doing it for the first time.”

  After we took care of that, Julian told me to lead the way through the dining room. The windows had those old-fashioned paper shades rolled halfway down. Both were torn and crooked, and the windowsills were full of fly corpses. I turned back to the large table, running my hand across its surface to trace the scars and burns. A battered hutch stood against the wall, but it held no plates or glassware.

  The mildew and mouse smells were stronger in the kitchen, and some of the cabinet doors hung off their hinges. There was a fridge, but it looked about a hundred years old. I bet Joshua Hilliard spent as little time as possible in the kitchen after his wife died. Probably ate out of cans or made cold-cut sandwiches. The room seemed lonely, as if it didn’t know what to do with itself.

  “Ewww.” Lily pointed at the floor. “There’s a dried-up mouse over here. Get a shot of this, Jules.”

  I glanced at Julian. “What does a dead mouse have to do with anything?”

  “No, she’s right,” he said. “Look how it’s mummified.”

  He took about twenty close-ups of the mummy mouse. When he turned back around, I raised an eyebrow at him, but he just shrugged.

  After that we passed by an empty room and a sad little powder room—more mildew stink and rust stains in the sink—and then made our way back to the parlor.

  This room was different. I could feel something shift inside me when we walked through the wide doorway. Maybe it was the huge brick fireplace or the yellowed curtains that still had some prettiness to them, but this room lifted my spirits. Like it was haunted by the ghost of happiness.

  Which made no sense at all. Why would a happy person stick around after death?

  I went to the fireplace and touched the wood mantel. Dusty cobwebs stretched beneath it, but above it was a framed photograph of an old house with white wood siding and a two-level porch that stretched all the way across. I’d seen a small version of this photo in Grandpa’s album.

  “This was the first house on the farm,” I said to Lily. “The one that burned down.”

  “Did anyone die in the fire?”

  “Grandma didn’t know.”

  Lily frowned. “There could be ghosts here from the old house.” She walked to the window opposite the fireplace. “Was this where the light was shining?”

  Julian was still filming, so I answered Lily with a nod. We all stood quiet for a moment, and a nervous twinge started up in my belly. The two of them seemed to be waiting for something exciting to happen, as if the old kerosene lamp on the table would suddenly light itself. A part of me wanted that to happen because Julian would be impressed.

  Another part of me knew I would pee my pants if that lamp decided to light itself right before our eyes.

  Lily yawned. “This room is boring. Let’s go upstairs.”

  Julian let the camera run a moment longer and then lowered it. “I want to film you two walking up the staircase, but first let me make sure the stairs are safe.”

  After testing the steps, he made us walk up the staircase slowly, saying it’d be more dramatic that way. I swear the temperature rose a couple degrees with each step, and by the time we got to the top I felt a little dizzy and a lot sweaty. There were two doors at our left and three at the right. The nearest door opened to a small bathroom with a pedestal sink, a toilet, and a dirty tub.

  Lily turned the knob at the sink. After some creepy glugging noises, a glop of brown water spurted out. We both jumped at that. After more sputtering, the water flowed stronger and mostly clear.

  Julian lowered his camera. “You’d think the water would be turned off since no one lives here.”

  “Grandma must have told the water company to turn it on since she’s selling the house,” I said. “We may not have much time to film. She already got someone to trim the weeds outside, so she’ll probably be sending someone here to clean any day now.”

  Julian fiddled with the tub faucet. Again, there was a spell of glugging before the water spurted out.

  “Interesting,” he said. “Once your grandma gets in here and cleans up, the house won’t look right for the film. We really can’t waste any time.”

  Taking this to heart, Lily marched toward the first bedroom on our right, and I followed her lead. This bedroom, and the next, and the one after that, had peeling floral wallpaper and dusty braided rugs on the floor. Each contained some part of a bed—a headboard or frame—but no mattresses. In one room, the old bed frame stood near a fireplace and was draped with a quilt. The binding was frayed and torn, and the quilt needed a good washing, but it was still pretty. Lily shook her head at the old bed and marched right out of the room, but Julian stayed in the doorway filming.

  I leaned over the quilt to get a closer look. The quilter had stitched initials in a corner block—S.F.—but I couldn’t match those letters to anyone in our family. The entire thing was handmade, just like the ones at Grandma’s house, and probably made from the scraps of old clothes. The one on my bed in Grandma’s attic still had all its stitches and was softer than any blanket you’d ever find in a store. I patted this quilt like it was kinfolk and wondered why it was here instead of in some cousin’s home.

  “Hey, come in here!” Lily shouted from the other side of the house.

  Julian was still filming, and he gestured for me to go around him.

  I found Lily in the small corner bedroom, which was papered with a delicate pattern of rosebuds. A twin bed frame stood in the corner next to a chest of drawers.

  “This was propped up against the bed.” Lily held out a doll in a pink dress. “Watch the head. It’s coming loose.”

  I took the doll, cradling her head carefully. She was made of china, with molded golden waves for hair. Her small eyes and mouth were painted on, along with large pink circles on the cheeks. Her arms and legs were china, too, and plain brown boots were painted on her tiny little feet. The pink dress was dusty and faded but not stained, though it did smell mousy.

  “Isn’t she creepy?” Lily’s eyes glowed with excitement.

  “Not really. Maybe if she had eyes that opened and closed, or if she spoke—”

  “Look under the dress,” Lily interrupted.

  I slowly lifted the skirt, only to find a yellowed petticoat and bloomers underneath.

  “Lift it higher,” she urged, “but don’t drop her, Avery!”
<
br />   The torso of the doll was cloth filled with stuffing. Or at least it had been once. Something had torn the belly open and pulled the stuffing out. The cavity was dotted with mouse droppings.

  “It’s like a doll murderer ripped her guts out,” Lily stage-whispered.

  I’m not really the squeamish type, but for some reason I had to turn my head away from the doll to take a breath. “You watch too much late-night TV,” I finally said. “A mama mouse made a home in her belly, is all. Maybe some baby mice were born here, all warm and cozy.”

  “Ugh! Remind me to wash my hands.” She took the doll and set it on the chest of drawers. “I also found this in the bottom drawer.” She pulled a small frame of tarnished silver from her pocket and handed it to me.

  The photo was a faded black-and-white shot of two girls squinting as if they faced the sun. One was small with straight dark hair and a body that was pointy all over—sharp chin, knees, and elbows. The other girl had a little more flesh to squeeze, and I pointed at her dandelion hair, round and light gold, just like the china doll’s hair.

  “That’s Margaret Anne,” I whispered.

  “I know,” Lily said quietly.

  I glanced at her. “How?”

  “This was her room, and that was her doll,” said Lily. “I can feel her here.”

  I looked around me. “I don’t feel anything.”

  Only that was a lie, because goose bumps were crawling up my arms.

  Julian stepped through the doorway to film Lily as she walked around the room. Her fingers trailed along the wallpaper and plucked at the yellowed curtains.

  When she’d walked the entire room, Lily turned to face me. “I think she likes me.”

  “What?”

  “She wants me to be her friend. I’m close to her age, after all.” Her mouth curved in a coy smile. Julian kept filming, even though Lily was now still and silent. I squirmed as a blob of sweat traveled down my spine.

  A creaking broke the silence. I turned to see the bedroom door slowly swinging toward the doorframe.

  All on its own.

  A strange pressure filled my ears, almost like when an airplane starts its descent before landing. Time seemed to slow down as I watched that door inching along. When it shut, it slammed, and my ears popped so hard I nearly bit my tongue.

  “What the heck?” I blurted.

  We’d each frozen in place, not one of us within arm’s length of the door, and my heart was thumping like crazy.

  Julian moved first, lowering his camera and reaching for the doorknob. Taking a breath, he opened it and peered outside.

  “There’s no one there,” he said.

  I craned my neck to see beyond him to the hallway. “Did either of you hear footsteps?”

  “I didn’t,” said Lily. “The door slammed all by itself.”

  “But something happened to my ears,” I said. “What was that?”

  Julian took his hand off the knob, and the door swung closed again, very slowly and this time without latching. “It was probably a draft,” he said. “The floors might be uneven—that’s pretty common in old houses.”

  “Or maybe Margaret Anne slammed the door,” said Lily.

  “Oh, come on!” I said. “Why would she do that?”

  Lily’s eyes widened. “Maybe she’s trying to tell us something.”

  On our way back to Hollyhock Cottage, Lily skipped ahead as if nothing weird had happened. Julian walked beside me without saying a word. I knew he was thinking hard, though, because he was frowning.

  “What happened back there?” I finally asked. “Was Lily just playing?”

  He shrugged. “The door is easy to explain. It’s hard to say about Lily. She’s pretty sensitive.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She picks up on things others don’t.” He turned to me. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  A fresh crop of goose bumps sprang up on my arms. “Before this summer, I just tried not to think about them. The idea of ghosts scares me a lot, though.”

  He nodded as if he understood.

  I took a breath. “You know how I told you about sneaking into Hilliard House?”

  “Yeah, and your grandma took a belt to you, right? Which seems totally over the top, but whatever.”

  “Well, I didn’t tell you the whole story.”

  Julian raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

  “I actually fell asleep in the house, and Grandma ended up calling the sheriff. There was even a search party.”

  “Wow. What did you say when they found you?”

  “I don’t know. All I remember are flashing lights and Grandma’s face. She was full of wrath, Julian. I mean, Grandma can be strict and kinda preachy, but inside she’s got a soft heart.” I looked him straight in the eye. “That night when we got home? She became a different person with that belt. She’d never hurt me before. Come to think of it, she never has since.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Well, you’re a little too old for a spanking, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  “There’s more—something my brother told me just a few days ago. I used to go to the house a lot. I don’t remember it, but Blake said he followed me once. And when he was standing on the porch he heard me talking to someone inside. But no one else was there.”

  Julian’s eyes brightened. “You mean you talked to a ghost? Was it Margaret Anne?”

  “It could have been.”

  He looked thoughtful. “Maybe it’s a good thing for you to go back to the house. My therapist would say it’s therapeutic.”

  I blinked. “You have a therapist?”

  “Yeah. So do half the kids at my school. Anyway, you’ll be able to meet us at the house again tomorrow, right?”

  “Sure.” I paused. “No, wait. Tomorrow is Saturday. Mom’s flying in from Dallas to spend a few days.”

  Julian sighed. “Well…that’s okay, really. Lily and I can get some footage on our own. You just have to loan me the key.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “You’d film without me?”

  “We’re running out of time. Tomorrow and Sunday Lily and I can get some of the boring stuff out of the way—you know, establishing shots and other stuff like that. The three of us can finish up on Monday or Tuesday. And I think we’ll have enough footage for a cool short film. I never meant it to be longer than ten or fifteen minutes.”

  The thought of being left out of two days of filming—even two hours of filming—made my stomach feel hollow and achy. “So…what exactly is the story? Two girls wandering around a house?”

  “Don’t worry, Avery. You and I will find the story when we edit the footage. Right now all I need is the key.”

  —

  I was extra glad to have Weasley in bed with me that night. He was pretty chilled out for a cat, and his rumbling purr always settled me down when I was agitated. But even with him curled up against my belly, my brain still raced.

  Lily’s whole act about “sensing” Margaret Anne had given me the heebie-jeebies while we were at the house, but over dinner I’d shrugged it off as a little kid’s overactive imagination. That was a lot harder to do in the near dark of the attic. I replayed that slamming door over and over in my head, wondering what Margaret Anne might be trying to tell us. Was she warning us off? Or telling us to pay closer attention?

  After Weasley moved to the foot of the bed, I tossed and wriggled until I fell into another strange dream about Hilliard House. This time I was inside the house…in the parlor, actually, sitting on the rug and looking up at the mantel. That old china doll sat there, staring straight ahead. When my eyes moved to the framed photograph, something flickered on the glass—a reflection of movement. I heard a scratching sound behind me, but I couldn’t seem to turn. I couldn’t move at all.

  I woke to the sound of Weasley scratching at the door to get out, and that meant turning on the lamp and stumbling down the stairs—quietly—to let him out of the attic. When I got back to the bed, I pulled the
Kingdom box out, hoping to chase that spooky dream from my mind.

  But the instant I lifted the lid, I knew it wouldn’t work. The pages were limp and musty. Lifeless. The Kingdom magic had pretty much disappeared.

  Crouching there in the near dark, I knew it had been slipping away for a while now. It was kind of like Christmas, when your heart yearned for a time when you really felt the magic. You hadn’t looked for it, it just was. And forever after you were trying to find it again, to relive something you stumbled into and didn’t appreciate while it lasted.

  I shoved the box under the bed again and tried to go back to sleep. Which meant I spent another eternity tossing and turning while the air conditioner’s creepy shudders and wheezes got louder with each minute. Finally I turned on the lamp and checked the clock. It felt like I’d been thrashing around in that bed for twenty hours at least, but it was only a little after midnight.

  And that’s when my bladder decided I really needed to pee.

  I stepped into my slippers and crept down the stairs as softly as possible, somehow managing to avoid all the creaky floorboards on my way to the bathroom. I even got myself on the toilet without turning the light on.

  But for some reason I couldn’t stop my stupid hand from pressing the stupid handle to flush. It totally blew my stealth mode. By the time I’d washed and dried my hands and opened the door, Grandma was standing there in her flowery nightgown and robe.

  “Are you sick, Avery May?”

  “No, ma’am. I just had to pee.”

  Grandma looked more concerned than mad, but my throat started to ache and my eyes were prickling like I was going to cry or something.

  “You want to come sit with me in the living room for a bit?” she asked.

  Once we were settled on the sagging couch with my head nestled in the crook of her arm, that sudden urge to cry dried up. Grandma smelled comfortable—like soap and Jergen’s lotion—and though the skin on her arms was loose and crinkly, her muscles were still strong as she held me tight.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I finally said.

  She gave me a squeeze. “Something on your mind?”