Ghostlight

by Sonia Gensler

  Julian groaned. “Lily, how many times have I told you not to listen at the door?”

  Lily popped her head around the doorframe. “But she needs to know.”

  “Know what?” I said.

  “That we didn’t make all of it up.”

  My right hand curled into a fist. “You guys just don’t stop, do you? Mom told me Margaret Anne Hilliard didn’t die in the flood. She didn’t even drown, so I know Julian made that up.”

  “It was a working theory,” he said.

  I narrowed my eyes at Lily. “And you. Pretending to speak to Margaret Anne just to freak me out.”

  “I just…well, I wanted to talk with her so bad, I guess my imagination sort of filled in the gaps.” She bit her lip. “But I saw and heard things, Avery. Felt things. I don’t know if it was Margaret Anne or not, ’cause I know it was a man’s shadow in the mirror last night.”

  I turned back to Julian. “Are you two still trying to scam me?”

  He shook his head. “Lily says there’s something there. And I believe her.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Seriously, Avery. You may still think I rigged the door and light fixture, but you can’t believe that I threw myself against the wall and exploded my own headlamp.”

  He was trying to make me feel guilty for accusing them of lying, which made no sense at all. So I just turned and walked out of the room.

  Lily crept behind me like a shadow as I made my way down the stairs. Mr. Wayne sat in the living room, holding the music stand with one hand and scribbling something on the paper with the other. The guitar sat in his lap, glossy and smug. I wondered if Julian ever wished he could throw that thing in a gully.

  I was halfway down the hall when Lily called my name.

  “What is it now?” I asked.

  Lily pulled the framed photograph of Margaret Anne from her back pocket. The silver gleamed as though she’d polished it. She placed it in my hand, still warm from being so close to her body.

  “I took it from the house,” she said. “I just…I wanted her to be real.”

  I found Mom and Blake sitting on folding chairs under the oak tree, sipping iced sun tea. They’d both showered, and Mom’s hair was curling as it dried. When I handed her the key, she gave my hand a squeeze.

  “Don’t look so grim, sweetie. Now we can put all this behind us.”

  “I know. Julian just…well, he and Lily are still messing with my head.”

  “Do I need to talk to that boy’s father?” Mom gripped the plastic armrests like she was going to stand.

  I shook my head. “The last thing I want is for you to get up in Curtis Wayne’s face.”

  “You were crazy upset last night, Avery,” said Blake.

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I said. “Think I’ll take a walk.”

  I made straight for the copper beech tree and crawled beneath its branches. After settling against the trunk, I took deep breaths of cool air and listened to the leaves whisper in the breeze. All I wanted was to slide back into the woodsy magic of Kingdom—just for a little bit—but it seemed more cramped than usual under the leafy canopy. Plus, something in my pocket was poking my behind. I pulled out the framed photograph and studied the faces of those two girls. Then I turned the photo over and shifted the little metal pieces so I could take the cardboard backing off.

  Someone had written names in sprawling cursive on the back of the photo.

  Margaret Anne & Aileen

  I considered their faces again. Margaret Anne’s dandelion hair had settled into curls by that time. She smiled, but didn’t look directly at the camera. Little Aileen, all pointy knees and elbows, looked straight at me from out of the photograph. She had the sort of face that smiled from the eyes as well as the mouth. Her dress seemed too big for her. I wondered if she was still alive, and if she might have anything useful to tell us about Hilliard House.

  Lily says there’s something there, Julian had said. And I believe her.

  Despite what they’d done to me, I believed her, too. The first day we went inside the house I’d felt that warmth in the parlor. But once we’d focused on Margaret Anne, the place turned weird and dark.

  Just as I put the photograph back in its frame, the branches rustled. A hand parted the leaves and Blake peered through.

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  I shoved the frame back in my pocket. “Did Mom send you after me?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you here, then?”

  “I like this tree, too, you know.” He picked at a shriveled leaf.

  “Come on in, I guess.”

  Blake pushed the branch to the side and squeezed through. “It’s smaller under here than I remembered.” He sat down—not quite next to me, but not too far. “I’ve been thinking about Kingdom. Do you want to work on Princess Etheline’s wedding? I’ve had a few ideas for the treaty.”

  My heart made a little leap in my chest. “That’s nice of you, Blake, but—”

  “I’m not trying to be nice.”

  I glanced at him. “All I meant to say is…you were right before. Kingdom’s not the same anymore.”

  After a moment he nodded.

  “I need different stories now,” I said.

  “Yeah, like what?”

  I braced myself. “Maybe…something to do with Hilliard House.”

  “Jeez, Avery. Are you crazy? Just leave that place alone.”

  I was this close to swearing back at him. But he was partly right. I did sound a little nutty. “It’s just…the house won’t leave me alone.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “There’s something there. I felt it. Julian and Lily felt it. Heck, even Grandma says she felt it a long time ago, and that must be why she freaked out when she found me there.”

  “What kind of ‘something’ are you talking about?”

  I couldn’t look at him. “Something…ghostly?”

  The seconds ticked by, and he didn’t say anything. When the silence grew to a roaring in my ears, I risked a peek at him. I expected him to look disgusted, but he seemed thoughtful instead.

  “Well, it sure seemed like you were talking to someone that time I heard you in the house,” he said.

  I perked up. “Did it sound like I was talking to a girl my age?”

  “I don’t know, maybe? You were very cheerful and chatty.” He frowned. “Except, you weren’t giggling or talking about make-believe stuff, as far as I could tell. It was like someone was asking you questions, and you were replying very politely.”

  “I wish I could remember. It’s going to keep bugging me until I figure it out.”

  “What if you did remember? What difference would it make?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. The thing is, I can’t stop thinking about the cemetery.”

  Blake shook his head. “Now, that’s just creepy.”

  “There’s a real mystery here, Blake. Just give me a second to explain.”

  He shifted, and I was afraid he was getting up to leave. But he was just turning himself to face me. “All right. I’m listening.”

  “Okay…the last owner of Hilliard House is buried in Clearview Cemetery, but in a different grave from his wife and daughter. Why? The daughter died when she was seven, and nobody seems to know exactly how. Who was I talking to at Hilliard House that night you heard me? And why does the house seem angry now?”

  “Uh…how can a house be angry?”

  “Well, last night things got out of hand.” I told him about the exploding headlamp, and how something seemed to push Julian against the wall. “Lily’d been making a big show of talking to the ghost of Margaret Anne, and then she even pretended to be drowned in the bathtub—”

  “She did what? That’s pretty sick.”

  “I know, but she did it because Julian thought Margaret Anne drowned in the flood of 1937. They were trying to scare me for the movie. What I’m trying to say is…maybe it made the house, or whate
ver’s inside the house, mad. Or even hurt.”

  Blake shook his head again, as if he couldn’t quite take it all in. I didn’t want to push it, so I shut my mouth and let my thoughts wander.

  Julian and Lily had made up a story about Hilliard House, but now I wanted to know the truth about Margaret Anne and Joshua Hilliard. Grandma had told me some things, but Mom had actually spent time with Mr. Hilliard. If she’d known Margaret Anne didn’t drown, she must know other things, too. All I had to do was ask. And maybe I could write it all down and make a story out of it. It’d be nothing like Kingdom, no magic or adventure, but this story would have to do with my family, and it would be real. Mom was being funny when she made that crack about me being an investigative reporter, but maybe I really could be a detective uncovering the facts. Maybe that was what the house really wanted—just for someone to tell the truth.

  I sat up straight. “I want to ask Mom some questions about Joshua Hilliard, but first I need to go back to the house for paper and a pencil.”

  Blake raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to interview Mom?”

  “Yeah.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Why don’t you just record her? You could use my phone.”

  “Really?”

  He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and typed in the pass code before turning it toward me. “See this microphone icon? It’s an app for recording voice memos.”

  “I know. Mom has the same phone, and she’s always recording work stuff she doesn’t want to forget.”

  Blake tapped the phone. “Come to think of it, this thing has video, too.”

  Video.

  Why hadn’t I thought of that? I could film Mom answering my questions. I didn’t have much experience with making videos, and filming with Julian’s super-complicated camera had been pretty intimidating. But Blake’s phone was lightweight and simple enough for a toddler to operate.

  After I filmed the interview, maybe I could get my own shots of Hilliard House, the river, and the cemetery. Mine wouldn’t be as good as Julian’s—not even close—but at least I’d have control over the story. I’d have a clear purpose, too. My footage would be used for a mystery instead of a horror story. And this was a mystery I could solve…but only with Blake’s help.

  “Hey, what if I use your phone to film Mom when I ask my questions? That would be quicker, right? And then maybe I could film Hilliard House and all the places linked to the mystery of Margaret Anne and Joshua Hilliard. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

  “So you’re going to make your own movie now?”

  “Well…I’d like to try.”

  “Maybe I don’t trust you with my phone,” he said warily. “What if I miss a text?”

  “From who? Yourself? There’s no signal up here, remember?”

  “Still…”

  “Oh, forget it, then.”

  I drew my knees to my chest and imagined the copper beech tree eating Blake alive. In my head I could hear the satisfying crunch of his bones, but in real life the silence stretched on for a while.

  “Avery?” he finally said. “I should be the one filming since it’s my phone.”

  I stared at him. “You’re going to help me?”

  “Only to make sure you don’t break my phone. When Mom got it for me, she said it would cost hundreds of dollars to replace.”

  Inside I was smiling, but I made sure to keep my face serious to keep up the game.

  “Fine,” I said. “You can work the camera, but I don’t want you taking over my story. We have to discuss things and agree with each other.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Discussing things and agreeing with each other means you have to actually listen to me and not go into meltdown if I have a different idea.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get it.” I grinned. “This could work, Blake. Let’s go find Mom.”

  We found her still sitting under the oak tree, her glass empty and her lap full of Weasley.

  “I meant to get up fifteen minutes ago,” she said, slowly trailing her fingers along the cat’s spine. “But I just don’t have the heart to push him off.”

  “That’s easy enough to fix.” I scooped Weasley into my arms and set him on the ground. He raised his tail and sauntered away, making sure we had a clear view of his backside.

  Mom picked at the fur on her shorts. “What’s up, Avery?”

  “Remember when we were doing the dishes and I asked you about Joshua Hilliard? Is it okay if I ask you a few more questions about him?”

  Her eyes moved to Blake before settling back on me. “Sure, honey.”

  “Great. Now…would it be okay if Blake filmed your answers with his phone?”

  “Are you deposing me, Avery?” Her brow wrinkled. “What’s this about?”

  I tightened my ponytail to stall for a second. When explaining something to Mom, it was important to set things out straight and clear. “You know how Julian and I were making a movie, right? But it turned out bad because he tricked me.”

  She started to say something but then closed her mouth and nodded slowly.

  “Well, I still want to make a movie, sort of like the history I told you we were making, but now it’s become more of a mystery than a history of Hilliard House. I want to get the facts straight, and that’s why I need to ask you some questions.”

  “That sure was a mouthful.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” I muttered.

  She smiled. “So you’re turning Ken Burns on me? At the tender age of twelve?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” she said. “I’m glad to help. Do you want to do this inside?”

  “No. The light’s good out here, and I want the trees behind the house as a backdrop.”

  I hustled Mom to her feet and stuck a chair under each arm. Once I had her settled in the chair on the opposite side of the house with the soft afternoon light warming her face, I placed the other chair at a diagonal from her and sat down.

  “Okay, Blake, when I give you the signal, start filming. But keep me out of the frame. We’ll probably edit out my questions later.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll figure it out. I just want the shot to be Mom from the waist up with the trees behind her. Tilt the phone so the picture is wide instead of tall. And make sure her face is in the center of the frame.”

  Blake grinned. “You got it, boss.”

  I faced Mom. “Okay, I’m going to ask you a couple of questions, and I just want you to answer with all the things you can remember, only make it sound good and smooth and all. Like on TV.”

  “That’s it, huh?” She straightened up and smoothed her hair.

  I turned to Blake. “Ready?”

  He nodded.

  My heartbeat skittered into a trot. “Okay, start filming.” I took a breath. “Mom, I want you to tell us about Joshua Hilliard. Start with how Grandma and Grandpa, and, you know, the folks in the community, saw him. Then tell us how you saw him differently. Because you did see him differently, didn’t you?”

  She nodded and stared into the distance for a moment. Mom had always told Blake and me to think before speaking, and nobody was better at that than her. When she opened her mouth, she spoke in a cool, calm way.

  “By the time I met Joshua Hilliard, he was in his eighties and living on his own in that big, lonely house. He didn’t go to church or socialize with the family—that much is true. He kept to himself, and people thought he was strange. My father said he was a good-for-nothing atheist who lost his child through neglect, and who later drove his wife to an early grave.”

  I couldn’t help a little shiver at that.

  “But the man I talked to was kind and gentle,” she continued. “Terribly sad, though. He told me he left the church because it didn’t make sense to him anymore—not after what he’d seen in France during the war. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in God. He just longed for peace and forgiveness, and Dad’s faith was too much about fear and judgment.”

  “What about Margaret Anne?” I
asked.

  “Oh, he adored her. She meant the world to him.” Her eyes held mine. “You’ll understand when you have kids of your own.” She turned back to the camera. “For all he suffered in the war, I think her death was a much greater tragedy. One he could never quite get over.”

  “How did she die?”

  “It did have to do with the floods, but not a drowning, like your friend Julian thought. Mr. Hilliard told me she contracted typhoid from contaminated water, which happened a lot back then when it flooded. His wife had been visiting family on the other side of the river and couldn’t get back right away because the water was too high and the ferry wasn’t running. By the time she got back, Margaret Anne was on her deathbed. Mr. Hilliard told me his wife blamed him.”

  “Why?”

  “She said he hadn’t boiled the water properly, hadn’t watched Margaret Anne closely enough, hadn’t called the doctor soon enough. Basically, he got everything wrong.” Mom shook her head. “I’m sure it was just her grief, but she made her feelings known to everyone in town. She stayed with him a year after Margaret Anne was buried, but then moved back with her folks. The poor man lived alone with the blame for the rest of his life.”

  “That’s pretty tragic,” I whispered.

  Mom wiped her right eye. “Does that answer all your questions?”

  “Yeah…I guess that’s a cut, Blake.”

  “Man.” Blake lowered the phone. “This mystery of Hilliard House is already starting to bum me out.”

  “But it feels like I’m finally getting somewhere,” I said. “Like we might actually be getting close to something true.”

  —

  That night after supper I asked Grandma for a higher-watt bulb for my bedside lamp, and I had my speech all prepared.

  “Blake and I are working on a project together, and I need to do some planning tonight. It would help to have a brighter light. So I don’t permanently damage my eyesight or anything.”

  Grandma clucked her tongue. “No need to be dramatic, Avery May. Can’t you just work at the kitchen table? The light is very bright in there.”

  “Grandma, I need to work in private, where it’s quiet, so I can concentrate.” I’d also be staying up late, but I didn’t tell her that.