Christina's Ghost

by Betty Ren Wright

  “A little boy! You saw him!”

  “All right, I saw something that looked like a little boy. But there has to be some reasonable explanation—I just haven’t thought of it yet. So let’s not get into a state, okay?”

  “I am not in a state!” Chris jumped up. Just when she was beginning to like Uncle Ralph, he had to act like—like the old Uncle Ralph. “I’m not lying either,” she raged.

  Uncle Ralph held up a calming hand. “I’m not calling you a liar,” he said. “I know you think you’ve been seeing a ghost. Or ghosts.” He closed his eyes as if he were suddenly tired of the whole subject. “Let’s forget it. Why don’t you make that cocoa now?”

  “I don’t want cocoa,” Chris snapped. “I’m going to bed.”

  “No cocoa?” Uncle Ralph shook his head in dismay. For a moment his mock-mournful expression reminded her of the man in the newspaper office.

  “I don’t cook, and I’m glad of it,” she announced, her voice squeaking with annoyance. “And you know what else? I’m going to have a career when I grow up.”

  Uncle Ralph followed her to the foyer and watched her go up the stairs. “What’s that all about?” he asked. He was still standing there when she slammed her bedroom door hard behind her.

  11.

  “Someone—Something—in the Attic”

  Chris lay across her bed and fought back tears. It was too early for sleep—only eight-thirty—but she wasn’t going downstairs again. Every time she thought of Uncle Ralph sitting there smiling at her in that superior way, she gritted her teeth.

  How could he refuse to believe in Russell Charles when he had seen him? If he wouldn’t believe his own eyes, what would convince him? For just a moment, she considered calling him upstairs and then opening the attic door. Maybe if he felt that dead-cold rush of air. . . .

  And what if he didn’t feel it? What if she dragged him down the hall, threw open the attic door, and nothing happened? No cold, no wind, no voice warning them to go away. How he’d laugh then! How he’d tease her!

  She rolled over on her side and put a pillow over her head. Think good thoughts. Think about Grandma getting better. Think about being a lifeguard some day. Think about—

  The pillow must have kept her from hearing the telephone. Suddenly a shaft of light cut across the room and she sat up. Uncle Ralph was at the door, squinting into the dark.

  “On your feet, Christina,” he said. “Telephone call—from Alaska!”

  Think about Mom and Dad! Chris shouted with joy and flew across the room. She nearly knocked Uncle Ralph over in her haste to get down the stairs to the telephone in the hall.

  “Chris, dear, are you there?” This time, her mother’s voice sounded very far off. “How are you, sweetie? Are you and Uncle Ralph managing all right?”

  “Oh, Mom—” Chris didn’t know where to begin. It seemed as if her mother must have known, somehow, how much she needed a loving voice right now. “I’m glad you called!”

  “We think about you and Jenny so much.” The telephone line crackled fiercely. “You are having fun, aren’t you, dear?” There was a pause, while her mother waited for Chris to say something. “Are you there, hon?”

  Chris wondered if Uncle Ralph was at the top of the stairs listening to her part of the conversation. She realized that talking about their problems would be like tattling—and what could her folks do if she told them? She couldn’t expect them to come racing home just because Chris believed in ghosts and Uncle Ralph didn’t.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” Chris said. “Are you and Daddy having a good time?”

  “Absolutely marvelous. We’re taking lots of pictures so we can share it all with you and Jenny. And we’re picking up some pretty nice presents, too. . . . What are you doing to enjoy yourself, Chrissy?”

  “I’m swimming every day,” Chris said, glad to have something she could talk about freely. “And I’m getting really good. I go exploring. And I’m really tanned.”

  There was more crackling on the line, and Chris’s father boomed a greeting. “We miss you, Chris,” he said, shouting, as he always did when he talked on the telephone. “Take care of yourself, kiddo. And tell Ralph not to spend all his time with his nose in a book. I hope you’re making things lively for him.”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  Chris wondered if her parents had talked to Uncle Ralph about her before he called her to the phone. Maybe he’d told them she was making up wild stories. She thought about it and decided that he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t like tattling any more than she did.

  They said good-bye, and Chris put the telephone back on the hook. It had been wonderful to talk to them. Now that they were gone, she was more alone than ever, but she no longer felt like crying. Even if they hadn’t said it in so many words, her parents had let her know how much they loved her. Just the way she was. If she’d told them about the ghosts, they wouldn’t have laughed.

  A floorboard creaked behind her, and Chris whirled around. Uncle Ralph was standing on the stairs. His face was a peculiar grayish-white, and as Chris stared, he sat down on a step with a thump. He looked the way Chris’s father had looked last summer, after she and Jenny had persuaded him to go with them on the roller coaster. He looked frightened to death.

  “Wh-what’s the matter?”

  He cleared his throat. “Someone—something—in the attic,” he said, in a low voice. “I heard footsteps—while you were talking.”

  “Oh,” Chris said. She put her hand on the telephone, as if she could bring her mother and father back again.

  “I’d think it was a tramp—someone who sneaked in—except”—he ran his fingers through his gray hair—“except that it’s getting very cold upstairs. Colder by the minute. I don’t understand it.”

  Chris gulped. “I told you—” she began, but he interrupted irritably.

  “Don’t say I-told-you-so. It’s very rude.” He leaned forward tensely. “We have to do something, I suppose.”

  “Do what?”

  “Find out what’s going on. We’ll have to look around up there.”

  “Not now!” Chris protested. “Not tonight, Uncle Ralph!”

  But he was on his feet again and looking up the stairs. “Now,” he insisted. “You may have nerves of steel, Christina, but I haven’t. I can’t just go to bed if there’s something prowling around overhead or walking up and down outside my bedroom door.”

  A wave of relief washed over Chris. “You believe me now,” she said. “You do, don’t you?”

  Uncle Ralph turned away from her and started up the stairs. “I didn’t say that,” he told her tightly.

  Chris shivered. She could actually feel fear in the air around her. “Please, let’s not go up there,” she begged. “Russell Charles doesn’t want us to.” But she might as well have kept still. Uncle Ralph was already at the top of the stairs, and there was nothing to do but follow him.

  12.

  Behind the Attic Door

  The air in the upstairs hall was both cold and clammy. Uncle Ralph waited for Chris to catch up with him. Then he strode down the hall.

  “Promise me you’ll never tell anybody about this—this ghost hunt,” he said. “I can’t believe I’m taking it seriously.”

  Chris gave his sweater a little tug. “We can wait until tomorrow morning,” she said. “It’s okay with me.

  “Well, it’s not okay with me.” He put his hand on the knob of the attic door. “You can stay down here if you want to,” he said. “I’ll just go up and take a quick look—”

  He turned the knob. The door flew open and crashed against the wall. An icy blast poured into the hall.

  “What’s this!” Uncle Ralph staggered backward. Chris flattened herself against the wall, trying to escape the icy fingers that tore at her clothes.

  Uncle Ralph grabbed the door frame to steady himself. “Stay where you are, Christina,” he bellowed over the roar of the wind. “I’m going up.”

  “Wait for me!” Chris’s cry wa
s lost in the gale, but she wasn’t going to let Uncle Ralph out of her sight.

  As they mounted the first steps, the rush of air grew even stronger. Chris clutched the banister with both hands. Uncle Ralph switched on his flashlight and pointed the beam toward the top of the stairs.

  Crouching against the wind, Chris peered around him. At first she saw nothing but leaping shadows. Then the shadows came together into a single gigantic figure—a man looming spread-legged at the top of the stairs.

  Uncle Ralph stopped. “Who—who’s there?” he shouted.

  The figure stood, unmoving. The wind roared down at them, and Uncle Ralph seemed to be having trouble holding the flashlight steady.

  “Look!” Chris screamed. “Uncle Ralph, look! The light shines right through him!”

  She let go of the railing, and the wind lifted her and flung her down the steps into the hall. Uncle Ralph was right behind her. They landed in a tangled heap on the floor.

  “Close the door!” Chris cried. “Oh, close the door! Quick!” She could hear the thud of descending footsteps.

  Uncle Ralph staggered to his feet. He put his shoulder to the door and pushed against the wind with all his strength. The door swung shut with a bang. In the same instant, the raging wind was silenced.

  Uncle Ralph leaned against the door, panting. Then he grabbed Chris’s hand and pulled her down the hall to his bedroom. Together, they pushed and shoved his heavy oak bureau out into the hall and up against the attic door.

  “I’ll say this much, Christina,” Uncle Ralph gasped as they stepped back from their barricade. “I am now definitely a believer. Your ghost is my ghost.”

  Chris didn’t even think of saying I-told-you-so. It was enough that Uncle Ralph believed her. He wouldn’t accuse her again of not knowing the difference between pretending and the truth.

  “What’ll we do now?” she asked. “Can we go away somewhere? I’m really scared, Uncle Ralph.”

  “So am I,” Uncle Ralph replied. He gave the bureau another shove to be sure it rested snugly against the door, and then he waved Chris toward the stairs. “We’ll talk about it,” he said. “In the kitchen. What I need right now is that cup of cocoa.”

  13.

  “Something Very Strange Here”

  “Wipe your upper lip, Christina,” Uncle Ralph said. “You have a cocoa mustache that’s as big as my real one.” He was beginning to look and sound more like himself.

  Chris rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand. The hot cocoa was warming her insides, and the goose bumps were fading from her arms. Uncle Ralph scowled at the weak overhead light, then brought a kerosene lamp from the cupboard. Its gentle glow made the kitchen almost cheerful.

  “That’s better,” he said. “A little soothing lamplight while we decide what to do next.”

  “Get out,” Chris suggested. “Let’s go to Grandma’s house and stay there.”

  Uncle Ralph shook his head. “It isn’t that simple,” he said. “My friend in Europe is counting on me to stay through the summer. If I leave, I’ll have to give him a reasonable explanation. . . . Besides,” he hurried on, “we’re mixed up in something very strange here. Something very rare. We have to deal with it, not run away.”

  “Deal with it how?” If he said he was going back up to the attic, Chris was going to leave by herself.

  “You told me your ideas of what’s happening here,” Uncle Ralph said. “And I guess I have to agree with you. As of now. The child—the ghost—we saw in the study is a sad little thing. But that . . . that presence in the attic is something else. Dixon, or whatever his name was, must be laid to rest.”

  “Laid to rest?” Chris didn’t like this conversation one bit. Laying Dixon to rest sounded like killing him—but wasn’t Dixon already dead?

  “The fellow clearly wants something. Or else he wants to keep us away from something. I haven’t read a ghost story in forty years, but it seems to me those are the usual reasons given for a ghost to walk. I wonder if it could be those stamps you told me about. You said the police looked for them but couldn’t find them. Maybe they’re still somewhere in this house. That would explain why Dixon is prowling around. He’s keeping his eye on the treasure he died to protect.”

  Chris shivered. “So what should we do?” she asked. “Hunt for the stamps?”

  Uncle Ralph looked at her with approval. “Exactly right, sport,” he said. “Starting tomorrow, we’ll go over the entire house. We’ll save the attic for last,” he added hastily, seeing Chris’s expression. “If we can find the stamps and turn them over to the police, there won’t be any reason for Dixon to stay around. We’ll have some peace, and I can get back to my work. What do you say?”

  “Okay,” Chris said. “I guess.” She wondered how he could expect to find anything as small as a stamp in this huge house, but she was willing to try. It would be nice to do something with somebody instead of being by herself all day.

  They finished their cocoa and rinsed the cups, and Uncle Ralph turned out the lights. Together they trudged to the front hall and looked up the stairs.

  “I don’t know,” Uncle Ralph said after a minute. “Are you going to be able to sleep up there?”

  “I don’t think so.” Chris’s goose bumps were coming back.

  Uncle Ralph ran his fingers through his hair. “Then how about sleeping down here in the parlor tonight? Both of us.” He sounded as if he hoped she’d say yes.

  “Terrific!” Chris said. He really could read her mind.

  She used the little bathroom under the stairs and then curled up on the old couch in the parlor. Uncle Ralph settled in the big chair close to the door.

  It was amazing how much better she felt, just knowing he was there. He’s not very big, and I guess he’s as frightened as I am, she thought, but he’s brave. He opened that attic door and started up the stairs, when all I wanted to do was run!

  She didn’t think her own father could have been any braver.

  14.

  A Warning from Russell Charles

  “We’ll start our search in the study,” Uncle Ralph announced at breakfast. “I’m sure the police did a pretty thorough search at the time of the murders. But there’s a good chance they didn’t open every single book. That’s what we’ll do.” He sounded excited at the idea.

  “Okay.” Chris moved her shoulders in circles, trying to loosen the knots. The couch had made a bumpy bed.

  She was surprised that Uncle Ralph could sound so full of energy. Twice during the night, she’d opened her eyes to see him leaning forward in his chair, listening intently. Each time she’d held her breath, wondering what he’d heard. When he leaned back and closed his eyes, she’d had to force herself to close her eyes, too. Her dreams had been full of dark, towering figures and footsteps thumping down distant halls.

  “You like mysteries!” she exclaimed suddenly. “You like ghost hunting, Uncle Ralph.”

  “Nonsense,” Uncle Ralph said. “Things just look different in the daylight. I want to get this business cleared up so I can get back to work.” He whistled under his breath while they washed the dishes.

  It was strange, Chris thought. They seemed to have exchanged places. She’d been badly frightened the first time she’d opened the attic door, and again the night she’d heard footsteps in the upstairs hall. Still, she hadn’t wanted to run away; she’d wanted to solve the mystery. But that was before she’d seen the spirit of Thomas Dixon. Now she couldn’t stop thinking about that huge, threatening figure at the top of the attic stairs. She wanted to leave, but Uncle Ralph wanted to solve the mystery, no matter what they had to do.

  The study bookshelves, stretching all the way to the ceiling, made her sigh. She was glad the day was dull and drizzly. She didn’t think she could have stood it if the weather had been perfect for swimming or a walk in the woods.

  “Hold each book like this,” Uncle Ralph showed her. “Flip the pages, but don’t strain the binding.”

  By noon, Chris’s arms ached and
her head throbbed. They had searched through all the books on one wall and had checked the back of each shelf to see if anything was hidden there. Books stood in wobbly piles all around them.

  By four o’clock, the second wall had been emptied. “Let’s quit,” Chris begged. “Otherwise, I’m going to hate books forever.”

  “If you say so.” Uncle Ralph slid one more book back onto its shelf. He looked as if he, too, was beginning to lose hope.

  They went out to the kitchen and opened the cupboard.

  “Spaghetti?” Uncle Ralph suggested. He pushed the cans around. “Vegetable soup? Hash? Chili?”

  They settled, without much enthusiasm, on the roast beef hash. Uncle Ralph fried it and poached eggs to go on top, while Chris mixed powdered milk and opened a can of peaches.

  “Now what happens?” she asked when they sat down. She propped her aching head with one hand while she ate.

  “We have a few more shelves to check,” Uncle Ralph said. “And a few hundred books to put back in place.” He scowled. “You know, I was really sure we were going to find something there. After all, Dixon was a teacher as well as a thief. He probably spent a lot of time in the study, when he wasn’t looking after the boy. If he wanted a hiding place for a few stamps, what better place . . . ?” He patted his mustache with a paper-towel napkin. “We may still find them,” he said.

  “But not tonight,” Chris protested. “I can’t look any more tonight.”

  Uncle Ralph grinned. “Not tonight,” he agreed. “I’m going to settle down in the parlor with a good book.” He chuckled at Chris’s pained expression. “Reading books is more enjoyable than flipping their pages,” he told her. “You ought to try it sometime, sport.”

  Chris wrinkled her nose at him. “Not tonight,” she repeated. “You go ahead and read if you want to. I’ll wash the dishes.”

  Alone in the kitchen, she found herself peeking over her shoulder frequently and jumping at every sound. All day she’d felt as if someone were watching them search through the books. She suspected Uncle Ralph had felt that way, too; he’d stopped often and stood very still, as if he were listening.