All the Lovely Bad Ones (10 page)

"Pay the shadow children no mind," Ira said. "They don't mean any harm."

"Now," Caleb said to us, "you read about Miss Ada. I reckon you know she's in the grove."

Seth giggled. "You might say that's where she hangs out."

Caleb and Ira whirled to face Seth. "Hush your foolish mouth!" Caleb yelled. "Don't make mockery of her."

"Do you want her barging in here and hurting us again?" Ira asked.

Seth's mouth turned down, and he looked at the floor. "She don't come out till dark," he whispered. "She can't hear what we say in the daytime." He raised his head and looked at the older boys. "Can she?"

"She always had a wicked sharp ear," Ira said. "No telling what she can hear and when and where."

Caleb nodded. "So it's best not to go making jokes about her way of dying."

"She blames us for it," Ira said.

"She blames
you
for what
she
did to herself?" Corey asked.

"She's the blameful sort," Caleb said. "All that she did to us was our fault."

"We made her do it," Ira said.

"If we'd been good children, she'd have fed us cookies and milk," Seth said, "and put us to bed under blankets soft as clouds and warm as cats."

"But we was bad, baaaaaad, baaaaaad," the shadow children whispered.

"And so she punished us," Ira said. "For our own good."

"Even though it pained her most horribly to hurt us," Caleb added in a voice as sweet as the sweetest lie ever told.

"She loved the stick she beat us with," Ira muttered. "And that's the truth of it."

"She beat us for
her
good," Caleb agreed. "Not ours."

"Baaaaad, baaaaad," the shadow children hissed. "
She
was baaaaad."

"Badder than us," Seth said, "badder than the devil hisself." Grandmother appeared in the doorway. "Corey and Travis, I've been looking all over for you. It's time for dinner."

It was clear she didn't see the bad ones. Caleb shrugged and grinned. "Like most folks, your grandma only sees what we
do.
She don't see
us
."

"Watch this." Without even taking a step, Seth was standing in front of Grandmother, waving and grinning at her. "Hi, there, Granny!"

Grandmother shivered. "It feels cold all of a sudden. Is the window open?"

Caleb frowned, but Seth giggled and kicked Grandmother's shin lightly—just a tap, really.

Puzzled, Grandmother stared around the room. "I could swear someone just kicked me, but—"

In a second, Seth was at the reading table. Grabbing a couple of magazines, he tossed them at Grandmother. They zoomed past her head and fluttered to the floor behind her.

"What in the world?" As Grandmother whirled to look at the magazines, Ira grabbed Seth's right arm and Caleb grabbed his left arm. All three vanished. A draft of cold air followed them past Grandmother and out the door.

"Did you see that?" Grandmother asked. "The wind blew those magazines right off the table." Her voice shook, but she crossed the room briskly and began closing the windows. "It must be the cold front the weatherman predicted."

As she shut the last window, the dark clouds I'd noticed earlier burst, and the wind drove sheets of rain against the glass.

"Looks like we're in for a bad storm." Grandmother led the way toward the dining room, thunder crashing and lightning flashing. "I hope we don't lose the power."

While we waited for our meal, I asked Grandmother if she knew the inn had once been the county poor farm.

"Poor farm?" She looked at me in amazement. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

I laid the pamphlet on the table. "I found this in the library."

She picked it up and read the title out loud. "My goodness, I went through all the books in the library when I bought Fox Hill, but I swear I never saw this."

Mrs. Brewster chose that moment to arrive with our dinner. "Where did you get that pamphlet?" she asked.

"Travis came across it in the library." Grandmother opened the pamphlet, her face puzzled. "Oh, what a pity. Most of the pages have fallen out."

Mrs. Brewster turned her sharp old eyes on me. "You just found it on the shelf, did you?"

"Well, actually, it sort of fell on the floor, and I picked it up," I muttered.

She set my plate in front of me. "They're telling you what they want you to know," she whispered. "Better pay heed."

Grandmother looked at Mrs. Brewster. "What was that?"

"Nothing. Just telling Travis he'd better eat that chicken before it gets cold. It's best ate warm."

With that, she set the rest of the plates down and crossed the room to take the Kowalskis' order.

"Where's Tracy?" Corey asked.

"Her mother came for her this afternoon," Grandmother said. "She promised she'd come back next week to help with a busload of senior citizens arriving on Monday. They'll be here three nights—twelve people. If she doesn't show up, I'll have to put you and Travis to work waiting tables and cleaning rooms."

Grandmother took a bite of chicken and glanced out the window at the dark clouds and flashing lightning. "I just don't understand how a sensible girl like Tracy can be so silly."

I heard a creaking sound and looked up. In the center of the ceiling, Caleb perched on the chandelier. Every now and then, he twirled it around, as if it were a swing. So far, no one but me had noticed the noise.

Ira opened and shut the door to the kitchen, making it appear as if the wind was doing it. Grandmother looked annoyed. "Henry will have to do something about that door," she said.

On the other side of the dining room, Seth stole Mrs. Kowalski's napkin. She asked Mrs. Brewster for another. He took that one, too. And the one after that.

"I've brought you three napkins," Mrs. Brewster snapped. "What are you doing with them?" She sounded as if she was accusing Mrs. Kowalski of stealing them.

Mrs. Kowalski looked offended. "I put them on my lap," she said, "but they keep disappearing. It's
very
peculiar."

Mrs. Brewster glanced around the room. To my amazement, she looked right at the chandelier where Seth now perched with Caleb. She frowned and shook her head at him. He stuck out his tongue and laughed.

"Stop it right now," she said crossly.

Corey kicked me under the table. "Mrs. Brewster
sees
them," she whispered. "She sees them!"

I nodded, too flabbergasted to speak.

In the meantime, Mrs. Kowalski was scowling at Mrs. Brewster. "Stop doing what?" she asked. "I told you I'm not doing anything with the napkins! They just keep—"

Mrs. Brewster tossed a napkin on the table and headed for the kitchen, her broad back stiff.

"That woman has no right to speak to me like that," Mrs. Kowalski told her husband. "
I
don't know where the napkins went."

Twittering to themselves, the shadow children gathered around the two new guests, Miss Baynes and Miss Edwards, who had checked in that afternoon. Unaware they were being watched, the old women sipped their iced tea and talked in low voices. Their hair was beauty-shop perfect, and their clothes were without creases or wrinkles.

Suddenly, the casement windows blew open, the chandelier spun round and round, and the kitchen door banged like a series of pistol shots. Thanks to Ira, Mr. Kowalski's coffee spilled, and Seth dropped a mouse on the old ladies' table. They screamed as it darted to the edge, ran down the tablecloth, and scurried across the floor.

It all happened so fast no one knew what to do first. Grandmother leapt up to close the windows. Mrs. Brewster came rushing out of the kitchen to mop up the coffee and bring Mr. Kowalski a fresh cup.

The old ladies were acting like comic-strip women, screeching and turning this way and that in case the mouse made another foray.

"I've never seen a mouse in the dining room," Grandmother said, all aflutter with embarrassment.

"I'll make sure you don't never see another one," Mrs. Brewster muttered with a scowl at the chandelier where Caleb, Ira, and Seth sat grinning at her. "'Tain't funny, 'tain't funny a'tall."

"The health department would fail to see any humor in a mouse infestation," Miss Baynes agreed in a voice as frosty as her hair.

While Grandmother's attention was focused on Miss Baynes and Miss Edwards, Corey and I made a quick retreat to the lounge to watch television. We had no idea what the bad ones would do next, but we didn't want Grandmother to blame us for it.

Wielding the TV remote, I clicked through horror movies, nature shows, sitcom reruns, and dozens of commercials until I found a dumb comedy on HBO. We'd seen it before, but it was just the thing to take our minds off the ghosts. And to delay going to bed.

Just as we were getting interested in the movie, the scene suddenly changed. One minute, a bunch of rowdy teenagers were laughing it up at a party; the next minute, a pair of horses was pulling an old farm wagon along a muddy road in the country. It was almost dark. Rain poured down. The trees were bare. Mountains loomed against the sky, their tops hidden in clouds. There wasn't a house or a barn in sight. No livestock. No people. Just woods and fields and mud.

"Did you switch channels?" Corey grabbed the remote from me and clicked the number for HBO, but the scene didn't change. She tried TMC, MTV, CNN, ABC, PBS, even HTV. The horse and wagon was on every channel.

"Something must be wrong with the satellite dish," I said. "Maybe the wind or—"

I took the remote back and turned the TV off, but the movie stayed on. The driver hunched over the reins, soaked through. Behind him, a family huddled in the open wagon, heads down, wet, cold, miserable. The camera zoomed in on a sign clumsily lettered "County Poor Farm."

"Oh, my gosh!" Corey grabbed my arm. "It's Fox Hill!"

The camera shifted to the inn's front porch. A short, plump man stood there, watching the wagon approach. His face was round, but there was nothing jolly about his expression.

Beside him was a woman. Her face was pale and hard, her eyes small and close set under straight dark brows. She wore a long black dress, buttoned to her chin. She, too, stared at the wagon.

The man pulled out a pocket watch. "It's John Avery with the Perkins family, right on schedule." His voice was nasal, harsh, and unpleasant. "Four of 'em. Man and wife, baby girl, boy."

The woman frowned. "More shiftless folks for us to feed and shelter," she said with a sniff.

"I hear the boy's ill mannered," the man said. "No respect for his betters. Ungrateful. Surly. A bad one."

The woman's thin lips twitched up at the corners. "Once he's in my care, he'll change his ways."

The man glanced at her with approval. "You have never failed to break the spirit of the most rebellious child."

The wagon pulled up beside the porch. "All right, you lot," the driver said. "Ride's over."

Hauling their rain-soaked belongings in a couple of small sacks, the Perkins family climbed out of the wagon. The woman looked weak and frail, and the baby clung to her, its tiny hands gripping its mother's shawl. The man helped his wife to the muddy ground, but he was almost as sickly as she was.

The camera zoomed in on the boy, showing every feature clearly—freckles, chipped front tooth, shaggy blond hair.

"Caleb," I whispered. "It's Caleb."

The short, plump man peered at Mr. Perkins. "You fit to work?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Jaggs." A deep, hard-edged cough interrupted Mr. Perkins's answer. Somehow he controlled it and went on. "I'm fit. I'd still be working my own land if—"

"No excuses," Mr. Jaggs snapped. "I've heard so many pitiful stories it's a wonder I can sleep at night."

The family stood in a crooked row, soaked by the rain, all heads down save Caleb's.

Miss Ada turned to him. "You, boy," she said. "I don't care for the look in your eye."

Caleb shrugged. "There's much in this world I myself don't care for, ma'am. This place, to name one."

"How dare you speak to me with such insolence." Miss Ada struck Caleb across the face with her open hand.

He flinched, but I swear his eyes dared her to strike him again.

Mrs. Perkins gasped and stepped forward as if to shield Caleb. "I told you to mind your tongue, son."

Mr. Jaggs signaled to a burly man lurking near the steps. "Joseph, take the boy away."

"No," Mrs. Perkins said. "He's just a child, he didn't mean to be impudent."

Joseph ignored the woman. Grabbing Caleb's arm, he dragged him away. At the same time, Mr. Jaggs summoned an old woman from the house. Gesturing to Caleb's mother, he said, "Show Mrs. Perkins to the women's quarters, Sadie. I'll see to Mr. Perkins."

"Please," Mrs. Perkins said, "let me stay with my husband."

Miss Ada raised an eyebrow and turned to Mr. Jaggs. "Mrs. Perkins must think she's a guest at a grand hotel. Perhaps she'd like a nice soft bed and a warm fire."

The old woman tugged at Mrs. Perkins's arm. "'Tis best you do as they say," she whispered. "The men's quarters are separate from the women's. You won't see much of your husband whilst you're here."

Pressing the baby close to her heart, Mrs. Perkins allowed the old woman to lead her away.

Head hanging, Mr. Perkins trudged off behind Mr. Jaggs. Even after he was out of sight, we heard him coughing.

The camera shifted to Joseph and Caleb. The man dragged the boy into a building behind the inn—the carriage house, I thought—and took him down a steep flight of stairs into a dark basement. Opening a heavy wooden door, he thrust Caleb into a small cell.

"Mebbe the rats will teach you to keep a civil tongue in your head." With that, he slammed the door shut and locked Caleb into a room that was smaller than a closet, maybe three feet by three feet. No way to lie down unless you curled yourself into a ball. Dirt floor. No window. No light. No heat. Not even a blanket.

Caleb hurled himself against the door and beat on it with his fists. He yelled, shouted, kicked. Exhausted, he finally gave up and sank down on his haunches.

The camera moved away from Caleb, out of the cell, out of the building, farther and farther until it seemed to be high in the sky looking down on Fox Hill and the farmland rolling away to the mountains. The scene slowly dimmed, and the screen went dark.