“Yes, fine. I’ll smoke the pipe with you.”
Tossing off my quilt, I got out of bed and followed William out of the room. My bare feet slapped against the cold wooden floor like fishtails against the surface of water. It was a cool night. More than anything, I wanted to run back to my bedroom and put on a pair of stockings but I feared that would invite more taunting from William, so I just kept going.
“We should do it in the stairwell,” he whispered over his shoulder.
I stopped in my tracks. “The stairwell? But why? If my parents wake up, we’ll be caught!”
“Trust me,” William hissed, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me along. “It’s the perfect place. There’s a draft in the stairwell that will carry the smell away from the bedrooms. And if we hear them coming, we can run downstairs and replace the pipe before your father can find it missing.”
This whole thing was giving me a stomach ache. But, of course, William didn’t care about that. He sat down on the top step and produced a box of matches from behind his back. My eyes bulged with surprise. Apparently, he’d stolen more than just Father’s pipe. William lit the tobacco and sucked on the stem until a wisp of smoke began to curl out of the bowl, like a snake rising out of the charmer’s basket. Then he passed it to me and waited for me to take my turn. I hesitated.
“Go on, John,” William hissed. “We don’t have all night.”
Closing my eyes, I took a small drag on the pipe. Right from the first puff, I felt like my lungs were collapsing. Muffling a cough in my hand, I passed it back to my cousin, silently hoping that now I could return to my bed. But William wouldn’t let me leave until we’d smoked every bit of tobacco in that pipe. “You’ll enjoy it when you have more practice,” he kept promising. He was wrong. The whole experience was just awful.
Our nighttime smoking sessions became a regular habit that summer. Each one of them followed an identical pattern. William would wake me up with Father’s pipe in his hand and taunt me until I agreed to come with him to the stairwell. The smoke would bring on coughing fits every time, which we would be forced to smother with our hands. It was terrible. And yet, night after night we continued to do it.
At first, I couldn’t understand why my cousin wanted to smoke that pipe so desperately. But after a few weeks I began to understand. And by the time we were finally discovered, I had developed a taste for the tobacco and was enjoying the smooth feeling of the smoke inside my throat. Holding the pipe felt forbidden, dangerous, grown-up. It certainly made me feel like more of a man than working in the forge ever had. But that meant nothing to Father who, as you might imagine, gave me the beating of my life when he came upon me one night with his stolen pipe in my hand. When he was done, my skin was so raw that I couldn’t walk for two days. But my pride hurt worse than anything I’d ever experienced. I had let myself be duped by my cousin yet again.
I vowed to myself that it would be the last time.
8 - Max
Ducking low this time around, I followed Caroline up the stairwell to the second floor of the house. There wasn’t much to see up there … just a big room with a long table and some chairs. And there were two little rooms that opened up off to the side.
“These were the bedrooms, I guess?”
“Yup,” she replied, leading me into a tiny room facing the street.
“Wow, it’s small,” I said, turning around slowly. There was barely enough room to put a bed. And I thought my room in our new house was cramped!
“Remember what I just told you … people weren’t as big back then. And most of the families in those days were pretty large, so the children would have had to share these rooms with their siblings.”
I glanced around. “And where was the bathroom?”
She giggled at that. “There was no indoor plumbing back in those days, Max. They had to use an outhouse … or a chamber pot if it was a cold night.”
Chamber pots? I could not even imagine having to take a leak in a bucket in my own bedroom. Thank God I was born after toilets were invented!
She pointed to the other little room. “The reason I brought you up here was to show you this bedroom. There was another apparition seen in here. A man returning a book to the outdoor drop box late one night claimed to have seen the greyish silhouette of a woman standing right there at that window.”
I walked over to the tiny window and looked out to the street below. “And do you think it was the same ghost who was wearing the high-buttoned boots on the stairwell?”
She shrugged. “I have no idea. All we know is that each time there’s been an apparition, it’s been a woman.”
I turned away from the window. Caroline was standing in the narrow doorway, chewing on her pinky fingernail. For a second there, she looked just like a nervous little kid.
“Do you have any idea who the woman is … well, I mean, was?”
She shook her head. “Some people think it’s the ghost of Ellen Ramsden, the first owner of this house. But this building changed hands many times over those years, so it really could be any one of the old inhabitants. Or even someone else who might have had connections to this place.”
I stepped toward her, the ancient floorboards groaning beneath my running shoe. “Hey, you know maybe you should think about studying history when you go to university,” I said. “You’re pretty good at remembering all these old facts about dead people.”
Her eyes dimmed … like a light inside her head had just been switched off. “Guess you could say I’m a bit of an expert in that department,” she mumbled. Then she turned and walked back to the stairwell. “I think we should get back downstairs now … I’m not really supposed to let people up here.”
There wasn’t much else to see in the bedrooms so I was glad to go back downstairs. At that point, I thought the tour was over, but it turned out that Caroline still had one room left to show me. To the left of the stairs was another large room full of bookshelves.
“This is the Fiction room. It was also part of the original house … most likely the kitchen. The rest of the library beyond this point was added on in later years.”
I looked around. There was nothing to see in this room except for books.
“Okay … so, is that it for the ghost tour?” I asked. Was this the part when she collects her commission and makes me sign up for that library card? I waited for the sales pitch. But it didn’t come. Instead, she just grinned and bobbed up and down on her toes. The light in her eyes was back again.
“No, not at all. I’ve saved the best for last,” she said, waving her hand in the direction of a narrow, sunlit window crammed in a space between the bookshelves. “The most famous apparition of all was of an old woman sitting in a rocking chair right there in that spot. She was covered in light, rocking back and forth and repeating the name John, John, John, over and over again. That was a long time ago but a couple of the other librarians have heard moaning coming from that exact spot over the years.”
An army of goosebumps began a slow march up my arms toward my neck.
“All right … so who was John?”
Caroline turned back to look at me, her blue eyes like ice. “I wish I could tell you, Max.”
“Well, can’t they look through the old records? There should be a way to see if someone named John lived here when it used to be a house?”
What I wanted to say was that this was finally a chance to get some real evidence to hold up all her crazy ghost stories. But, of course, I didn’t.
Caroline crossed her arms in front of her chest and smirked in a self-satisfied kind of way. “So, does this mean that you’re finally admitting that you believe in ghosts?”
“No … not at all,” I replied, suddenly defensive. “It’s just that some proof would make these stories a lot more believable.”
“Well, we did look through the old re
cords and there were a lot of Johns who lived here. Remember, it was a very popular name back then. Ellen Ramsden was married to a John. And her son was named John, too. And the owner who came after her was named John. And so was his son. And there’s a big gap in the record-keeping between 1860 and 1890.”
“A gap? Why?”
“The building was rented out between those years. So, I guess there’s a chance that John was someone who lived here during that time. But, of course, all of this is based on the assumption that you believe in ghosts.”
I didn’t believe in ghosts, did I? I honestly didn’t know what I thought anymore. This girl was seriously playing with my head. Suddenly, I heard the faint sound of a door slamming from upstairs. My head whipped around. There was Nana still sitting and typing at the reception desk where she’d been all along.
“Did you hear that noise?” I whispered, turning back to Caroline.
She shook her head. “Are you okay, Max? You look pale.”
Grabbing my backpack, I stumbled out of the room. “I … I have to go now. I’ve got some studying to do before my afternoon classes.”
Although I didn’t turn around to see her face, I could tell from the little whine in her voice that Caroline was sorry to see me leave. “Okay. But will you come visit me again next week? I’ll try to remember some new ghost stories for you …”
“Yeah … no … I’ll see you later,” I said, hurrying through the entryway. No promises. I wanted to walk out the door and breathe fresh air again. I wanted to race down the garden path and never come back. I wanted to forget everything about this place. But I knew that would be impossible. I would be back … and it would be soon. The lure was too strong.
Yanking down the handle, I hurled open the door and charged outside into the crisp autumn morning. My body heaved with relief as I gulped down the fresh air. I felt like a drowning man who’d just been pulled from the water in the nick of time.
9 - John
During the summer of 1886, I received some terrible news; news that I had been dreading since I was old enough to read. Father had made the final decision about my future. My mother relayed the tragic details to me on the morning of my twelfth birthday while the two of us were in the parlour preparing to leave for church. Her usual gentle countenance was clenched with regret.
“John, I’m very sorry,” she said, her voice reduced to a dry whisper, “but your father has decided that the time has come …”
The mantle clock ticked loudly behind us as Mother’s voice faded to silence. But certainly she had no need to explain further. I understood immediately to what she was referring and the words felt like knives cleaving my heart.
Simply stated, I was doomed. My father wanted me to start work in the forge. My life as a student was over. I felt like a prisoner who had just been condemned to a life sentence of hard labour.
“But Mother, I’m only just turning twelve,” I said, careful to keep my voice low so Father wouldn’t overhear me. “I had thought my apprenticeship could wait until I was fourteen.”
Her fingers twisted and writhed in her lap while her eyes begged for understanding. “John, please …” was all she could say. I jumped up from the settee and began pacing back and forth across the floor, each step in time with the hammer of my heart.
“Can’t you speak to him about this?” I begged, my voice rising with desperation. “Can’t you make him change his mind?”
My mother’s head wobbled slightly, as if her neck were suddenly too weak to support its weight. “I can try speaking to him again, John. But, as you know, your cousin William is to begin his apprenticeship this year and your father believes that it would be easier to teach both of you at the same time. I must confess — it doesn’t help matters that your father’s mood seems to be unusually sour today. He will be difficult to persuade.”
I hung my head to hide the spasm of pain that was gripping my face. Every year on my birthday, Father’s mood grew darker than his coal-stained fingernails. I can only surmise that it was because the day reminded him of how unlucky he was. The day the Lord above had chosen to curse him with a weak son.
The floorboards creaked beneath my shoes as I increased my pace. Rising from the settee, Mother followed behind me as I marched across the floor, still wringing her hands with guilt. I could hear the swish of the crinoline underneath her calico skirt as she struggled to keep up with my steps. At that age, I wasn’t yet old enough to be embarrassed by the thought of a woman’s skirts. As it turned out, I never would be.
“Please speak with him, Mother. I would sooner run away from home than give up my studies to work in the forge,” I said, my voice trembling with anger.
“I’ll do my best, John. But you know how your father feels about school.”
“I don’t understand! What’s wrong with him that he cannot see the value in book-learning?” I asked, my voice rising with the heat of my anger. “Why can’t I stay on and study to become a teacher, like Mr. Brown?”
My teacher was the smartest man I’d ever met. While most people needed their slate to figure out numbers, Mr. Brown could do any math equation in his head in a matter of seconds. Some of the older students and I would often stay inside at lunchtime to test him. Mr. Brown hasn’t gotten one math problem wrong yet. I don’t think he ever will! And he’s read over three hundred books in his life, which means he’s probably read every book that has ever been written (for back then, I couldn’t imagine more than three hundred books in the world). My secret dream was to read just as many books myself — although it would have to be in secret. At least until the day I moved out of my father’s house.
Naturally, at the time I had no way of knowing that day would never arrive.
My mother reached out and touched my shoulder. So tiny a woman was she; the weight of her hand was no heavier than a grasshopper upon my skin. By the age of twelve I’d already surpassed her height. And I was by no means a large child.
“Hush, my love,” she warned, “… he’s just upstairs. What if he hears you?”
We both knew how it would enrage Father to know about my secret ambitions. If I’d been born a girl, becoming a teacher wouldn’t have been a problem. But Robert McCallum considered books to be idle and womanish, and male teachers effeminate and weak. There was no chance that he would sanction a career in book-learning for me. No, he would do whatever he had to do to ensure that his only son learned his trade and took over the forge. A hammer, an anvil, and a coal fire were the tools of my future. Books were not.
Dear God in heaven, I suddenly hated him with so much force that I could barely form a complete thought. My eyes came to rest on Father’s pipe, sitting in its usual place on the mantle. It took every ounce of my willpower to keep myself from hurling it to the floor and stomping it to dust under my shoe. Frustrated, I stopped pacing for a moment and tried one more time.
“What if Father would let me stay at school for just another two years? Then I’ll come to work with him. I’ll give him my solemn promise.”
Mother’s face swelled with a combination of love and pity as she looked upon my face. I often wondered if my mother saw the souls of all her eleven children staring back at her from my eyes. For it was as if she drew all the love for the lost ones together into a deep, concentrated adoration of me.
The sudden thump of Father’s footsteps on the stairwell caused both of us to jump with fright.
“I’ll do my best, John,” she whispered, her hands rushing to smooth out the folds of her skirt as the heavy stomp of his boots drew nearer.
But unfortunately, as I was to learn later that night, my father was adamant about his decision.
Whilst preparing for bed, I discovered a birthday present hidden under my pillow. It was a book. A beautiful hardback copy of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. The first book I’d ever owned. The first book on my way to three
hundred. After I’d caught my breath back, I opened the cover carefully and inhaled the inky smell of the fresh new pages. A folded piece of creamy notepaper fell out and landed on my lap. Still clutching the book, I unfolded the note and read:
Happy Birthday to my beloved son.
I am so very sorry, but your father will not be persuaded. I promise to do what I can to make the situation bearable for you. Your collection of books has begun today. Be sure to keep this in a safe place and please let it be our little secret.
As always,
Your loving Mother
For the remainder of my short life, I received a secret book from my mother on my birthday every year. It was the only way she knew how to apologize for failing me.
10 - Max
Caroline was sitting cross-legged in the middle of a dirty, dusty floor. She was holding a small, white cat in her lap and looking up at me with eyes that were wide with fear.
“No, don’t kill him, Max!” she cried. Her lips weren’t moving with the words, but I could hear her voice breaking somewhere in her throat. I stared at her in shock.
Kill who? The cat? Why would I do that?
When I started walking toward her, she clutched the little animal to her chest and began to scream, although her mouth still wasn’t moving. I wanted to run and comfort her, but I was frozen in place by her fear. What’s going on here? My thoughts were spinning with the force of so much confusion that I thought I was going to fall over. I tried to widen my stance to regain some balance, but I couldn’t force my feet to move even an inch. That’s when I looked down and saw a long hunting knife in my hand, the blade glistening like water. I opened my own mouth to scream, but nothing came out. I tried harder, horrified by the monster I’d clearly become. But it was like I was choking on the air. I couldn’t catch a breath. Finally, I managed to suck in a small bubble of oxygen and push out a low, guttural yell.
“Aaaaaaaaaah!”
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