Christina's Ghost

by Betty Ren Wright

  Chris clenched her fists. She knew the difference between truth and make-believe. “I saw him! I did! Maybe—maybe he was a ghost!”

  Uncle Ralph sighed. “Come into the study, Christina,” he said. “We’re going to have a little talk.”

  Feet dragging, Chris went with him. A ghost, she thought. Why had she said that? It was a silly idea, and just the kind of thing Uncle Ralph would expect of her.

  Her uncle sat down behind the big desk and motioned her into the chair across from him. It was like being called to the principal’s office at school.

  “Now, Christina.” He even sounded like a principal. “I know you don’t want to be here with me. You realize I’m not exactly thrilled with the situation either. I’m not used to having a child around—”

  “I’m ten years old,” Chris interrupted. “And there’s a little child out there! He must be lost.”

  “Still, we both have to make the best of it,” he went on. “We have to get along until Ma—your grandmother—is home from the hospital. Which, I surely hope, will be soon. When that happens, you can go back to the farm and keep her company.”

  Chris tried not to look impatient. She wanted to go outside and search for the boy.

  “I know you think I’m a stuffy old bird,” Uncle Ralph said. “You may be right, but I am the way I am. I don’t like roughnecks—boys or girls. I like things quiet and orderly. I’ve decided that if we’re going to keep from driving each other crazy, we’ll have to be pretty independent. Do you know what that means?”

  Chris nodded. “I can take care of myself. I like to take care of myself.”

  Uncle Ralph forced a smile. “Well, then, that’s fine,” he said. “I have work to do this summer—research and writing—so I’ll be spending most of my time here in this room. You can just . . . just explore and have a great time by yourself. I’ll be here if you need me,” he added. It was clear that he hoped she wouldn’t need him, ever.

  Chris stood up. Darkness had curtained the windows.

  “Of course we’ll eat together,” Uncle Ralph said. He looked at Chris anxiously. “You don’t have a sensitive stomach, do you? I mean, besides getting carsick. I’m not much of a cook.”

  “I eat anything,” Chris told him.

  “Good.” He seemed to be trying to be friendly, now that they’d had their little talk. “I’ll be in frequent touch with the hospital in Rochester. As soon as your grandmother’s ready for company, we’ll drive down to see her.”

  “Fine.”

  “Then everything’s clear?”

  “Sure.”

  It seemed to Chris that Uncle Ralph’s desk was about a mile wide. Over there on the other side was a calm, neat world where people did the right thing without even thinking about it. Uncle Ralph belonged there, and Aunt Grace. Jenny belonged there, too. But not Chris. She belonged on this side of the desk, where unexpected things happened. Adventures. Mysteries. Maybe even ghosts!

  “See you later,” she said, so cheerfully that Uncle Ralph raised an eyebrow. She darted through the dining room to the foyer and out the front door.

  Night had closed in. Beyond the dark lawn, the beginnings of a moon path stretched across the water.

  Darn it, Chris thought. I’m too late.

  But her disappointment lasted only a moment. She would see the little boy again. She would! If he were real, she’d solve the mystery of where he’d come from. If he were a ghost—she shivered, not believing—if he were a ghost, that would be the scariest thing that had ever happened to Christina Joan Cooper. She wondered if she could bear it.

  4.

  A Warning from the Attic

  The telephone was ringing when Chris came downstairs the next morning. Uncle Ralph was still in his room.

  “Chrissy, is that you?” Mrs. Cooper’s voice was warm and anxious. She might have been right there in the gloomy hallway instead of thousands of miles away in Alaska.

  “Mom!” The word came out in a little gasp.

  “How are you, sweetie? We had a terrible time getting your number. I called Aunt Grace first, and she finally found it in Grandma’s phone book. Uncle Ralph must have sent it to her when he found out where he was going to be for the summer. We were so sorry to hear about Grandma’s surgery.”

  Chris cleared her throat. “She’s doing okay, I guess.”

  “That’s what Aunt Grace said. And how about you, dear? How are you and Uncle Ralph getting along? Are you staying in a nice place?”

  “It’s fine.” Yesterday, in Grandma’s front yard, Chris would have given anything in the world to be able to tell her parents just how miserable she was. Now that she had a chance to do it, the words wouldn’t come. There was nothing they could do to help, way off in Alaska, and besides, she had something exciting to think about now. She had a mystery to solve.

  “Well, I’m glad. Daddy’s very busy, but we’re going to do some sightseeing, too. It would certainly put a damper on the whole trip if we thought you and Jenny weren’t having some good times.”

  Uncle Ralph started down the stairs and stopped short when he saw Chris at the telephone.

  “It’s my mom,” Chris said. “I guess you want to talk to her.”

  He moved in very slow motion down the rest of the stairs. “I guess I do,” he said. “Hello, Jean?” He listened for a minute, screwing his face into funny grimaces. Chris knew her mother must be apologizing for burdening Ralph and Grace. Uncle Ralph would be thinking about how he and Aunt Grace had argued about who was to take the children. His lips were clamped shut, but he was probably wishing he could tell his sister to come home at once and look after her kids herself.

  When he spoke at last, his voice was tightly controlled. “We’ll manage,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. Christina and I have had a talk, and we understand each other.” He paused again. “No, no, everything is all right. Do you want to speak to her again?”

  Chris took the phone and listened to her mother’s beloved voice, edged now with concern. “Uncle Ralph sounds tense,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go your own way as much as possible, dear. Find something interesting to do—that’s the answer. Find a project.”

  Chris nodded into the phone. “I have one, Mom,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’m okay.” She wished she could tell her mother about the little boy, but she didn’t dare; Uncle Ralph was probably listening to every word.

  By the time they said good-bye, he had the table set for breakfast in the kitchen. Rain was falling in a gray sheet beyond the open back door, and the room was dim in spite of the overhead light.

  “I hope you don’t expect eggs and bacon and that sort of thing for breakfast,” Uncle Ralph said. He looked as if his mind were still on the telephone conversation.

  “Cereal’s fine,” Chris said. She pictured the farm breakfast she’d be having if she were at Grandma’s house. Pancakes, maybe, and bacon and warm syrup. Maggie would be under the table, poking Chris’s toe with her nose to remind her that someone down there was waiting for scraps.

  Uncle Ralph looked out at the rain and scowled. “With that going on, I don’t suppose you can play outside today.”

  “I wasn’t going to play, anyway,” Chris retorted. “I was going to look for—I was going to explore. As long as it’s raining, I’ll explore the house.”

  Uncle Ralph nodded. “Good. Just don’t break anything.”

  They were like strangers, stiff and polite. Well, Chris thought, that’s just what we are—strangers. It’s the way I told Aunt Grace it would be. He doesn’t want to know me, and I don’t want to know him.

  As soon as she’d finished her cereal and orange juice, Chris scooted back upstairs to her bedroom. She’d chosen it the night before, after opening several doors of rooms full of heavy furniture, thick, musty carpets, and velvet draperies. This room must have been the housekeeper’s. It looked more like home, with simple, white-painted furniture and a faded rag rug.

  Hurriedly, Chris smoothed her sheets and bla
nket and arranged the white spread with as few wrinkles as possible. The contents of her duffel bag were on the dresser top and the floor. She gathered things in armfuls and dumped them into the dresser drawers. There, she thought. Let him come poking around. He’d see that she could be as neat as anybody else when she chose to be.

  She heard Uncle Ralph cross the foyer and go to his study. As soon as the door closed, she ran downstairs to the kitchen. The house keys were hanging on a hook next to the back door.

  The night before, Chris had discovered one locked door among those she’d tried. It might be nothing but a storage closet, she supposed, but then why lock it? A good explorer would find out.

  The locked room was next to her own. Chris shivered as she tried one key and then another; the hallway was chilly and damp. At last a key turned in the lock, and the door swung open.

  She stepped into a room so different that it seemed part of another world. The floor was covered with a bright red carpet. Most of the furniture was maple and child-sized. Huge posters of real animals and of Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck covered the walls, except where floor-to-ceiling shelves were crowded with picture books, toy cars, and game boxes.

  It was a wonderfully happy room—the only happy room Chris had found.

  She tiptoed across the carpet to the little bed. The covers were neatly folded back, as if waiting for someone. The sheets and pillowcases were yellowed with age.

  She went to the closet. A low rod held shorts and shirts and a shiny rain slicker. Chris pushed back some of the clothes and pulled out a pale blue sailor suit. She stared at it, trembling, and then thrust it back on the rack.

  A sailor suit was what the little boy had been wearing last night. Just like this one, Chris thought, and for a moment she let herself believe the impossible. This was the little boy’s room. Long ago, he’d lived in this house. He was still here, somewhere, watching!

  She slammed the closet door. It couldn’t be true. She was “getting things into a muddle,” just as Uncle Ralph had said on their way to Grandma’s house.

  She moved to the book-and-toy shelf. Most of the books and games were too babyish to interest her, but on the bottom shelf she discovered a stack of comic books. Just what she liked! She picked up the top one and thumbed through it, looking for a Jokes and Riddles page.

  “What did the monkey say when he caught his tail in the lawn mower?” Her voice was loud in the silent room. Quickly, she turned the book upside down to find the answer at the bottom.

  “It won’t be long now.” She giggled. A small sound, like a sigh, made her turn to the door. The little boy stood there, smiling wistfully.

  Chris couldn’t believe it. Where had he come from? How could he have gotten in without making a sound? She tried to say hello, but the word came out in a froggy croak.

  The little boy vanished.

  Chris darted to the door. “Come back, boy,” she called. “You don’t have to be afraid.” She ran down the hall, stopping to open each closed door. The rooms were empty.

  At the end of the hall was a door she hadn’t tried the night before. She ran to it now and threw it open. Stairs led upward into attic shadows. A blast of icy air struck her as she mounted the first step.

  Go! Go away! The words thundered around Chris, a terrible rush and roar that was partly sound, partly frigid cold. She leaped back into the hall and slammed the door with all her strength. In the quiet that followed, she could hear her heart thudding.

  She leaned against the wall. At the other end of the hall, her bedroom door stood open, offering safety, but her legs wouldn’t carry her there. What had happened? she wondered numbly. What was there, on the other side of the attic door? She’d felt as if she were drowning in that avalanche of sound and chilling wind.

  She took a shaky step, then raced to the stairs and down to the front door, her feet pounding furiously.

  “What’s all the racket?” Uncle Ralph shouted from his study, but she kept on running, letting the door slam behind her. Go away! the voice from the attic had told her, and that was what she wanted to do.

  The trouble was, she realized when she reached the end of the pier, there was no place to hide when she stopped running.

  5.

  The Boy Comes Back

  Chris sat on the pier for a long time, watching the raindrops hit the lake in overlapping ripples. The air was warm, and the rain soothed her. By the time it had slowed to a drizzle, she felt oddly comforted. The lake, the gentle rain, the line of still, green pines edging the water were more real than anything that had happened in the old house.

  Maybe nothing did happen, she told herself. A cold wind—was that so scary? And had she really heard a voice telling her to go away? She couldn’t be sure. Maybe I even made up the little boy, she thought, trying hard to believe it was true. When people are lonesome, they sometimes make up a friend.

  True or not, she didn’t want to go back to the house, at least until Uncle Ralph finished working and came out of his study. Even his disapproving company would be better than none.

  Find something interesting to do—that’s the answer. Find a project. Chris sat up straight. That was what her mother had told her on the telephone, and Chris had agreed, planning then to find out more about the little boy. Now she decided she wanted to forget him. She’d find another project. Don’t sit around and mope, was what her mother always advised. Get going!

  Chris narrowed her eyes and looked out over the gray water. What could she do? What would keep her busy during the long hours while Uncle Ralph was working? What would keep her out of that house?

  Suddenly she had the answer. She would teach herself how to swim.

  Chris had taken lessons at the YWCA at home, and she could paddle around a little, but she’d never been able to build up to real distances. Now was the perfect time to learn. If she stayed in shallow water all the time, Uncle Ralph couldn’t object. And by the time her parents came home, she’d be an expert. She might even be a lifeguard some day.

  She kicked off her sneakers and slid into the clear brown water. It barely reached her shorts. Carefully, she waded across the sandy bottom, heading toward the little point of land that marked the end of the lawn. The water was waist-deep; she could see the bottom all the way, and there were no holes or drop-offs to worry about. This would be her practice course every day.

  That afternoon, and for the two days following, Chris worked hard, with disappointing results. She could swim barely half the distance from the pier to the point without standing up. Over and over she tried, until her arms and legs ached and she puffed like a steam engine. At night she could hardly stay awake through supper, and afterward she dozed in a chair while Uncle Ralph read.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he asked toward the end of the week, when she yawned noisily at the table. “I thought you were the top that never stopped turning.”

  “I’m learning to swim,” Chris told him. “In very shallow water.” She wanted to reassure him right away so he wouldn’t object. She needed this project. Swimming tired her out. She didn’t lie awake at night listening for noises in the attic, and she had less time to watch for the little boy.

  The next morning, a remarkable thing happened. From the moment Chris slid off the end of the pier, she felt confident. Her arms and legs moved, smoothly, crisply, through the water. She raised her head to gulp air in an easy rhythm. Almost before she knew it, she was at the point and scrambling up on the beach.

  I did it! She rolled over and lay back, exultant. I wish Jenny was here. She wanted someone to share this good moment.

  When she sat up, the little boy was standing at the end of the pier. The pale blue sailor suit was the color of the sky. As she stared, he raised a hand in greeting.

  He was there! She hadn’t made him up, after all. He was there, and he’d watched her as she swam.

  “Hi!” Chris shouted. “Wait there. Please! I’m coming back.”

  She jumped up and waded into the water, her eyes on th
e little figure. “Watch this!” she shouted and plunged forward to show him how well she could do.

  When she stood up again, seconds later, the pier was empty.

  A cloud passed over the sun. Chris’s legs buckled, and she sat down on the sandy bottom, shivering. He couldn’t have run away that fast. It wasn’t possible. The pier was too long, and beyond it lay an expanse of lawn with no place to hide. Maybe he’d fallen into the water on the other side. Panicked, she began swimming again, moving faster than she would have thought possible. On the far side of the pier, she stood up and waded quickly through the shallow water.

  He wasn’t there.

  When she reached the shore, she looked up and down the beach one more time, then sat down on the narrow strip of sand. A sun-warmed breeze dried her, and the goose bumps gradually faded from her arms. Still, she couldn’t stop shaking.

  Think good thoughts! she ordered herself. Think about her bedroom at home with its cheerful clutter. Think about her last birthday, when her mother had invited three friends for a surprise sleep-over party. Think about . . . but it was no use. All she could think about was the little boy.

  I’ve seen a ghost. The wonder of that was almost too much to bear. She’d seen a ghost, and the ghost looked like somebody’s nice little brother. Then why was she afraid? He was just a little kid, and he was lonesome—she was sure of that. Surely he hadn’t come to frighten her; he’d come because he wanted a friend.

  Gradually the shivering stopped, and she began to feel more excited than scared. This was an adventure. She pictured the little boy standing out on the pier, his hand raised, as if to congratulate her on how well she’d swum. And suddenly she knew she had to see him again. She wanted to help him.

  How could she bring him back?

  Chris thought about it all the rest of the day. She swiveled her head around so often, looking for the boy, that Uncle Ralph asked her if there was something the matter with her neck.