Wicked Cruel

by Rich Wallace

  Owen backed into the alcove again and hugged his knees to his chest.

  A second stair creaked.

  Owen looked around for a weapon, but he saw nothing of use. And he knew he couldn’t harm a ghost.

  He gripped his flashlight hard.

  Another stair creaked. Owen stood and backed tight against the wall.

  Perhaps it was Charity, making sure he was all right. But why would she climb so slowly?

  He heard soft shuffling in the attic, just outside the room, as if someone in socks was stepping carefully on the floorboards.

  He could see the window from the alcove. The ground was far below.

  When the door swung open, Owen felt a surge of energy. “Who’s there?” he said firmly.

  Henry Gilman appeared again, faint and transparent and glowing only slightly. He smelled of smoke and sweat. Owen flicked on the flashlight and shined it at him. The ghost froze.

  “Let me out,” Owen said.

  The ghost looked puzzled by the beam of light, and did not seem to hear what Owen said. In fact, he did not seem aware of Owen at all.

  Henry drifted to the window and gazed out. Owen walked slowly toward the door, never turning away from the ghost. He kept the flashlight beam trained on him, too, and waited until Henry faded away in what seemed like a cloud of smoke.

  Owen shined the light into every corner of the room. “I know it’s too late,” he said, “but leave your kids alone.”

  He walked carefully down the stairs and through the bedrooms.

  “Sophie?” he called.

  “I’m here.”

  They hustled down to the main floor, then left through the cellar and shut the hatch tight.

  “I need to sit down,” Owen said. He plopped onto the brick steps that led up to the kitchen. The porch roof had kept the steps mostly dry.

  Sophie sat next to him. Owen shut his eyes and shook his head. “Give me a minute,” he murmured. He put his hands to his forehead and pressed.

  “You’re brave,” Sophie said. “I hope it was worth it.” She patted Owen’s arm.

  “What did you see?” she asked when they reached the street. There was just enough snow to see their footprints, like a dusting of flour on the sidewalk.

  “A lot.”

  “Like what?”

  He told her about the two ghosts and what Charity had been writing in her diary. “I know she’s been dead for more than a century, but I hate that she’ll probably die again soon.”

  “Over and over.”

  “I hope not. But her afterlife isn’t very happy. She’s sad and afraid all the time.”

  “I guess you’ll have to visit her again.”

  The wide Main Street had little traffic at this hour, but Owen stepped into the shadows behind a tree when a car went past.

  “I think that was the last diary entry she ever wrote,” Owen said. “The book was empty after that. She must have died a short time later.”

  “Sad,” Sophie said.

  Sophie lived over on Water Street, past the post office and the public housing buildings. The front porch light was on, and one upstairs.

  “Think you’ll be in trouble?” Owen asked.

  “If they hear me come in.”

  “Me too. But my mother’s probably asleep.”

  Sophie took a deep breath and smiled, looking toward her yard. “I’ll tiptoe,” she said, and she giggled.

  Owen started to walk away.

  “Owen?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Mason’s taking Darla to the movies on Friday.”

  “Is he?”

  “Yeah.” She waited, then shrugged and began to walk.

  Owen shoved his hands into his pockets and found his voice. “Want to go, too?”

  She nodded and said yeah. And then she slipped away into the darkness.

  Owen’s house was dark, as he had hoped. It meant that his mother had gone to bed. If she’d known he was missing, she’d have every light on and would have called Mason’s house.

  This was good. Another hour wouldn’t mean a thing. He stayed on back streets until he was near the tavern, then ran across Main when no cars were in sight.

  Tree branches rattled in the wind and the grass had a slick dusting of snow. He didn’t dare go back inside the tavern. Too scary, and too illegal. When Sophie was along, he’d felt that it was almost okay to go in because of her grandmother’s connection to the historical society and all.

  He knew better. It was wrong to go in there.

  But if that diary was still on the desk? Would it provide any information?

  Owen took a deep breath. He had to know.

  He knew the way through the cellar now and crossed quickly to the steps. He held the kitchen door firmly so it wouldn’t squeak, then paused to gaze at the hearth. He dropped to his knees.

  Charity had lived here. She’d been a living, breathing girl for thirteen years. He was thirteen, too. He couldn’t imagine his life ending for many, many decades. So much ahead; so much to think and to do and enjoy.

  He climbed the two sets of stairs, shaking as he ascended into the attic. The house was quiet save for the ticking and the wind. No signs of ghosts, just dust and spiderwebs and chilled dry air.

  He stopped outside the room with the desk and listened for humming or footsteps.

  His hand trembled as he pushed the door open. He closed it behind him, just in case.

  The desk was empty. He shined his light on the floor and around the corners of the room, but there was no sign that anyone had been in here lately. There was an undisturbed layer of dust on the desk and the chair.

  Owen sat at the desk for a few minutes anyway, imagining what it had been like to live here in fear. This room must have been Charity’s oasis, a place away from her father’s fury and her mother’s grief. A place to write and to hum and to look out the window at the trees.

  As he stood to leave the attic, he noticed a dark item hanging from the back of the door. He winced when his light revealed what it was.

  He took the tricornered hat from the hook. The Walmart sticker confirmed that it was his.

  He held the hat to his face and inhaled. Was there a slight hint of Charity? He wasn’t sure. He hung it back on the hook. Maybe it would make some kind of difference.

  It was snowing again when Owen reached the yard, but the wind had eased and the flakes were soft and fluffy. A police car drove by, headed for the highway.

  Owen waited until the car was out of sight before sprinting across Main Street toward home.

  This book developed during a time of transition. The idea came to fruition under my longtime editor Joan Slattery, who took her career in a new direction a few years ago. Allison Wortche and Nancy Hinkel guided me for an interim period, and Michele Burke saw the book through to publication. I’m indebted to you all!

  Thanks to the Cheshire County Historical Society in Keene, New Hampshire, for access to the Wyman Tavern, my model for the Chase in this book. Often, late at night, I walk past the tavern and think I catch glimpses of spirits in the windows. Keene inspires me, with its cemeteries and its Pumpkin Festival, its historical aura and its quirky New England charms.

  RICH WALLACE is the author of many books for children and teenagers, including Wrestling Sturbridge, Sports Camp, and the Kickers series. He lives in New Hampshire with his wife, novelist Sandra Neil Wallace. You can visit his website at richwallacebooks.com.