by Megan Atwood
Gloria seemed to be satisfied by this and took her sunglasses off completely. She set them down on the table and leaned in. A wind blew from somewhere, making the trees shake and skittering leaves across the ground. Olive shivered a little and wrapped her jacket tighter around herself. She wondered why it seemed just a little darker under the trees all of a sudden.
“All right then. This is the story—never told before—of Verity Wentworth and her tragic end. Long ago, when this orchard was in its much younger days, it belonged to a family called the Wentworths. Now, the Wentworths were a small family—they had one daughter and one younger son. In those days, large families were needed for farming, and the Wentworths were no exception. But their daughter, Verity, was a hard worker. She loved the land and the barn and the animals. She loved planting the trees and watching them grow year after year. She loved her brother and her mom and dad, and she would do anything, anything at all, to keep their lives happy and stable on the beautiful land they called home.”
Now Olive interrupted. “I mean, it wasn’t their home. It was really Native American land, but . . .”
All five of them nodded, and Gloria said, “Indeed.”
They were all silent for a moment, and the wind picked up, making a moaning sound in the trees, leading Olive to shiver again.
Gloria said, “But for now, we will tell Verity’s story.” She cleared her throat and went on, “As she grew older and reached marriage age—what was marriage age then, anyway—many townsmen tried to court her. But Verity wasn’t interested. All she was interested in was planting the trees and the crops, taking care of the animals, and helping out her family for the rest of her life. Nothing meant more to her. Nothing.” Gloria took a dramatic breath. “But then tragedy struck.
“One day, Verity’s father was working the land when a snake came out of nowhere. Verity’s father’s trusty horse reared up and took off out of the field—dragging Verity’s father with him. The reins around her father’s wrists held tight, and her father was dragged for almost a mile before they broke. But the reins weren’t the only thing that broke. When he was finally free, her father had a broken arm, a broken leg, and a serious head wound that knocked him out cold. When they got him back to the house, he could barely move.”
Olive felt herself lean forward across the picnic table too. She swallowed.
“The tragedy was not just that the poor man had been so badly hurt,” Gloria said, “but that the farm and the orchard no longer had its burliest and most experienced worker. Without Mr. Wentworth, the entire season would be lost and the family would surely starve. They needed farmhands immediately. But they had one big problem—they had no way to pay them. Verity lost sleep trying to think of things the family could do to save itself.
“It was around this time that a wealthy banker and nobleman noticed Verity. Baron von Steuben fell in love with Verity—or what passed for love with him—the first time he laid eyes on her. He wanted her to be his wife, and no other. Surely she would marry him, he thought, if only for his money. The family was in dire straits, after all. As he spoke with Verity’s parents, he changed his request into a demand. ‘I’m here,’ he said, looking down his nose at them, ‘to make Verity my wife. I assume you will have no objections. As soon as we are married, I’ll fix up this scrappy little farm, I suppose. Then we’ll see what’s to be done.’ He walked out of the house, not waiting for any response, certain of his future, happiness dancing in his wicked heart.”
Sarah said, “He sounds like a jerk!”
Glory nodded solemnly. “Yes, that he was.”
Lizzie whispered, “I hope she doesn’t marry him. . . .” Olive found herself nodding.
Gloria continued, “Down the path from the house, Baron von Steuben ran into Verity, his soon-to-be wife. ‘Good day, my dear,’ he said, his eyes wide and assured. ‘I’ve just visited with your parents. It seems I have their blessing to ask for your hand, seeing as though this is the only way this scrawny little farm could possibly survive. I’ll let you plan the wedding—I understand that women dream of their weddings their whole lives.”
Gloria shifted on the picnic table bench and leaned back. “Now, remember, Baron von Steuben was rich. Richer than anyone else in town. One of the richest people in the land at the time. He was not used to the word ‘no.’ Luckily, Verity did not use the word ‘no.’
“But unluckily, she did the worst thing she could have done: she laughed at him.”
Peter said, “He deserved it, that’s for sure.”
Gloria raised an eyebrow. “He did deserve it. But people like Baron von Steuben are surrounded by people who tell them what they want to hear all the time.”
“Why?” Olive asked. “Why would he pick friends like that?”
Peter said quietly, “Sometimes people just want to feel like they’re cool.” Olive thought she knew what he was talking about. His brief friendship with a phony a while back had made him wiser than he should be.
Gloria nodded. “Yes, cool. And adored. And they want to believe that they are better than other people. Baron von Steuben wanted all of these things and more. He believed that he deserved to get whatever he wanted, whenever. So when Verity Wentworth laughed at him, his rage knew no bounds.
“ ‘And what are you laughing at, little missy?’ he sputtered. Verity let her laugh die down and composed herself. ‘What a generous offer, sir,’ she said. ‘But I will not be marrying you.’ She began walking down the path again. He grabbed her arm, but she yanked it away and glared at him. ‘Excuse me, sir, but you are no gentleman to handle a lady in such a way!’ Now Baron von Steuben laughed. ‘A lady? Indeed. I could make you a lady. But if you refuse my offer, not only will you not be a lady, you will be destitute and starving. And dead before you know it. You and your family!”
Sarah whispered to Lizzie, “What does ‘destitute’ mean?”
Olive said, “It means poor.” Lizzie nodded and Sarah said, “Okay.”
Gloria went on, “Just then, a group of people appeared, walking toward the baron and Verity. The group carried all sorts of things. They carried hoes and rakes, shovels and plows. They carried baskets of food and jars of preserves. They carried, in short, the things the Wentworths needed. The baron’s eyes grew wide. Verity, smiling a little, said, ‘I don’t believe that will happen, sir. You see, this town has heard of our situation. We won’t be needing your help.’ And with that, she gathered her skirts and walked away, leaving Baron von Steuben stewing.”
CHAPTER 4
The Origin of the Curse
Gloria put on her sunglasses again and looked up at the trees. “The trees know . . . ,” she said, trailing off.
Olive furrowed her eyebrows. “Know what?” she asked.
Gloria moved her hand lazily around. “Everything.” But then she leaned in suddenly. “They know what happened that night. That fateful night.”
All four of them leaned toward Gloria again.
“All day the people of the town helped the Wentworths. They harvested crops, they tended to trees, they took care of the animals. The Wentworths were fed, and the family and the townspeople celebrated that night with cider and with music, into the wee hours of the morning. Verity Wentworth knew that all would be well—the townspeople would help them until they got back on their feet. And they would do the same for anyone in town once they were back on their feet. Verity went to sleep that night, warm and happy, without a thought about the wicked Baron von Steuben.
“The next morning she woke up to a smell. Groggy, Verity turned over in her bed and looked out the window, and she saw it: smoke. She sat up straight, rushed to put on her shoes, and, still in her nightgown, she ran to the field. All the trees burned in their rows; bright flames tore through the barn and burned on the cellar door; the barn doors stood open and animals streamed out. Verity rushed to the well, yelling for her mother and brother to come help put the fire out. After hours and hours of throwing buckets on flames, the fires finally stopped burning. But
what was left was a field of scorched trees, an empty cellar, and a partially burned barn.
“Verity sank down on the road in exhaustion. Far up on a hill, she saw the outline of a man on a horse, and she knew: this was the work of Baron von Steuben. She called her brother over to her tiredly. ‘Jacob, please go find Baron von Steuben. Tell him to meet me at the barn at dusk to discuss his marriage proposal.’ Jacob began to protest, but Verity shushed him. Her mother, Prudence, said, ‘Verity, we will find another way,’ but Verity shook her head. ‘I just want to talk to him. I want to bring him here to see the damage he has done. I will beg him to leave us alone, and I will appeal to his humanity.’ She stood up and brushed off her skirts. She smoothed down her hair and wiped the tears off her face. She looked at her mother and brother and her eyes turned hard. She said, ‘But mark my words. I will die before I will marry Baron von Steuben.’ Then she walked away and began to salvage what she could of the burned farm.
“Dusk came and Verity walked quickly to the barn. She had warned off her brother and mother—she knew that Baron von Steuben, coward that he was, would not show up if others were there too. She climbed to the hayloft and sat on a bale, thinking of how to word her plea. Surely the man, even as wicked as he was, would show some mercy. Surely she could find the magic words that would stop his cruelty.
“But dusk came and went and there was no sign of Baron von Steuben. Verity fell asleep on the hay waiting, and hours later, she woke up to the detestable man standing over her, a cruel smile on his face. ‘I see you’ve come to your senses, Verity.’ She stood up tall, trying to shake the sleep from her head. An anger burned in her as bright as the fires that had ravaged her family’s farm. She knew she was looking at the culprit. ‘Baron von Steuben, was it you who set the fires?’ she asked, her voice strong and unwavering. Baron von Steuben laughed a cruel laugh and stepped closer to her. Verity could not step back without falling over the hay bale, so she stood even taller. He said, ‘Good deduction, my dear. And now you know—nothing stops me from getting what I want. If you agree to marriage, I will stop. If you do not, it will only get worse from here.”
“Ugh!” Sarah said. “This guy is the worst!” Peter, Lizzie, and Olive nodded.
“Poor Verity . . . ,” Lizzie said.
Gloria said, “Now Verity took a step forward, so surprising Baron von Steuben that he stumbled back. ‘Get this through your thick head—I will never, ever, ever marry you. I asked you to come here to appeal to your humanity. To ask you to stop these wicked attacks. But now I see you are not human—you are a monster. I would rather be dead than spend one minute of my life with you.’ Baron von Steuben’s face turned bright red. The barn seemed to darken, and the lamp Verity had brought with her dimmed, as if a wicked wind sought to blow it out. Baron von Steuben took a deep breath and, in one swift move, grabbed Verity Wentworth and threw her out of the hayloft. ‘Then dead you shall be,’ he hissed.”
Olive gasped and realized she wasn’t the only one. Everyone was on the edge of their seats.
Gloria’s voice got low. “A terrible quiet took over the barn. No crickets sang outside, no owls hooted. And Baron von Steuben realized what he’d done. He looked out of the loft and saw Verity Wentworth on the floor of the barn, where no hay had broken her fall. Her neck was bent at an unnatural angle, and one eye was open. He had killed her.”
Peter, Lizzie, Sarah, and even Olive exhaled at the same time. “Poor Verity!” Lizzie said again.
Peter looked mad, even through his normally thoughtful expression. “That’s an evil act,” he said, shaking his head.
Gloria nodded and said, “Oh, yes. But even more evil were Baron von Steuben’s next actions. Thinking quickly, he ran to the house and knocked on the door. Prudence Wentworth, Verity’s mother, answered, still sleepy. When she saw him, her eyes widened and she tried to shut the door, but Baron von Steuben caught it with his foot. ‘No, Mrs. Wentworth, I mean you no harm. I came to meet Verity at the barn, but wanted to prove my innocence before I came. Alas, I could not find the culprits who started the fire, but I did find’—and here he broke down into an admirable crying fit, a fit that only the best of actors could have pulled off, and said, ‘I did find Verity, dead. Thrown from the hayloft. I suspect the real culprit came and killed her.’ He choked on a fake sob and checked with one eye to see if Prudence had bought his act.
“But Prudence only cared about her daughter. She ran to the barn, her son running after her, and together they found Verity on the ground. They collapsed, heartbroken. And Baron von Steuben went to the town to tell everyone the news—his version—blaming some unknown assailant for his evil deed. Though the Wentworths never believed him, the story of Verity’s murder by a stranger grew—spurred on by the evil Baron von Steuben—until it became a local legend. And over the years, the story took many new forms. Verity killed herself. Verity was killed by a demon. Verity saw a ghost and fell . . . but the real story of Verity Wentworth’s murder was buried with her, so that the awful, cruel, wicked Baron von Steuben got away with it.”
Here Gloria’s voice got even lower, and she looked around, as if making sure no one else was listening. “To this day, Verity Wentworth haunts the barn, trying to find a way to tell her story. And until she can, accidents befall all those who dare work on her beloved farm, in her beloved barn.”
Gloria put her sunglasses back on. Lizzie, Peter, and Sarah all exhaled at the same time. They all looked around as if expecting Verity Wentworth to show up right beside them.
But Olive was stuck on something. It was one of the last things that Gloria had told them. “Wait,” she said, her eyebrows furrowing.
Gloria pulled her sunglasses down and looked at Olive. “Yes?” she said, her tone condescending and irritated.
Olive said, “If no one knows her story, how did you just tell it to us?”
CHAPTER 5
Making Hay
What are you talking about?” Gloria asked, pushing her sunglasses back up.
“How can you know what the story is if it’s never been told?” Olive said again. She felt triumphant. She had to admit, she’d been into that story. She had even gotten goose bumps. But now she was back on firm ground.
Ghosts weren’t real.
She sat up straighter. “And furthermore, if she’s been haunting this barn for years, why hasn’t anyone ever heard of it?” She turned to Lizzie. “Have YOU ever seen anything or heard anything that shows the barn is haunted by Verity Wentworth?”
“Well . . .” Lizzie trailed off. For some reason that Olive couldn’t fathom, she looked disappointed. “I guess not?”
Sarah jumped in. “We normally don’t play in the barn. I bet we felt somehow that it was haunted!”
“Yeah,” Lizzie said, her voice growing stronger. “It was always too dangerous to go in. So we didn’t until recently.”
Now Peter chimed in. “And accidents have been happening ever since, right?”
Olive couldn’t believe her ears. “Peter,” she said, but then didn’t know quite what to say. She looked around at her friends and saw the hopeful looks on their faces. That too-tight feeling came again. Something was not sitting right.
So she said what was really on her mind: “Why would you believe this stuff? I thought you were smarter than this.”
Everyone got quiet, and Olive swallowed. She saw that Lizzie had tears in her eyes. Sarah glared at her. Peter looked disappointed.
“I’m sorry, I just . . . I don’t understand why you’re pretending this stuff is real . . . ,” Olive said as her eyes filled. She knew she’d gone too far. She couldn’t stand the looks her friends and her brother were giving her. And at the same time, she felt indignant. She was right. Was she the only sane one sitting there?
Gloria stood up and stepped away from the picnic table. “Believe what you will. I, however, am an actress. We sensitive souls, unlike YOU”—she glared at Olive—“can feel things that most people cannot. I have gathered Verity’s story from the eth
er—I simply KNOW things.” Then she turned on her heel and yelled, “ACTING!” and walked away.
Sarah got up and stepped over the picnic table bench. “Sometimes, Olive, you can be really mean.” She shook her head and began walking toward the barn.
Lizzie got up too and shot Olive a hurt look. “I’m not dumb,” she said. She followed Sarah.
Olive pushed her glasses up and then got up too. “Lizzie . . . Sarah,” she called, but she didn’t really have anything to say.
Peter got up. “Olive. You’re my sister. But you’re not making it easy to hang out with you.” He turned away.
Olive said, a tear trailing down her cheek, “So I’m just supposed to pretend I think something is true? Even if it’s ridiculous?”
Peter sighed. “There are other things that are important, you know,” he told her. He walked away, leaving Olive alone at the picnic table.
She took off her glasses and wiped away the tears. With one big sniffle, she put on her glasses again. She would go to the barn and ask her dads if she could go home. She clearly was alone in all of this. The thought made tears squeeze from her eyes again.
She looked up ahead as she walked, seeing three of her favorite people in the world talking and having fun without her. They had almost made it to the barn, and as Olive got closer, she could hear the hammering and the talking and the laughter inside. The sun had begun to set, and rays of light streamed through the boards at the other end of the barn. Just as Olive almost reached her three friends, she heard a sharp yell.
Looking up, she saw the outline of Sheriff Hadley in the hayloft, just where Ms. Shirvani had been. He teetered on the edge, waving his arms and trying to catch his balance. Olive ran up beside Peter and her friends, and just as she did, Sheriff Hadley plummeted to the ground.
A collective gasp went through the crowd in the barn as people rushed to his aid.