All the Lovely Bad Ones (16 page)

"Here, let me try." Seth grabbed Corey's shovel and went to work. Caleb took mine, and Ira settled down on his haunches, his eyes fixed on the grove.

All around us, the shadow children romped and played. "You're it," one cried. "Catch me if you can," another called.

Suddenly, Seth dropped his shovel and jumped backward. "I hit something."

"A tree root, most likely," Caleb said in a low voice. "Or a rock."

Ira grabbed the lantern and held it over the hole. Held fast by roots, the corner of a box protruded from the earth.

"Her coffin," Ira whispered.

We drew back. There was no sound but the wind in the trees, yet we felt Miss Ada's presence out there in the dark.

"Don't make a sound," Ira whispered. "Don't say a word, just finish digging."

Seth thrust his shovel at me. "I done my part."

Caleb and I bent to our task. Cautiously, we cleaned the dirt from the coffin's top. The lantern's light illuminated a tarnished metal plate:
HERE LIE THE MORTAL REMAINS OF MISS ADA JAGGS
.

My knees turned to water. It was all I could do to stand there and watch Caleb push the side of his shovel under the lid.

Corey grabbed Caleb's arm to stop him from prying the lid off. "Suppose the book's not in there?"

"It has to be," he muttered.

As Caleb leaned back on the shovel's handle, Corey covered her face with her hands. "I don't want to see her," she whispered.

Neither did I, but I couldn't turn my eyes away. Hypnotized with dread, I watched Caleb lever the lid up with a hideous screeching sound of nails pulling out of wood. In the coffin's darkness, I saw a skull, tangles of hair, and rags of clothing. Cradled in the bones of Miss Ada's hands was a rusty iron box.

Caleb reached down, grabbed the box, and handed it to me. "Take this back to the inn. Write down the names and numbers of the dead, so you can make proper tombstones for us all."

Seth and Ira closed the coffin lid, picked up the shovels, and began tossing dirt back into the grave. I wanted to help, but Caleb looked at the grove fearfully and shook his head. "Get out of here," he whispered. "Before she comes."

Leaving the bad ones to refill Miss Ada's grave, Corey and I ran across the lawn. The box was heavy and smelled of damp earth. It was slippery and awkward to hold. At any moment, I expected to hear Miss Ada's voice or feel her bony hand clutch my arm, my shoulder, my shirt. The harder I ran, the slower I seemed to move.

But, at last, Corey and I were at the inn's back door, fumbling with the knob, trying to be quiet but desperate to get inside. Fortunately, Grandmother was a sound sleeper, and we managed to get back to my room without waking her. I put the box on the floor. With a twist of my wrist, I broke the rusty padlock and lifted the lid.

The account book's leather cover was damp and stained with mold. I picked it up, hating the rotten feel of it in my hands, and opened it.

Miss Ada had recorded the names of sixty-seven people, their ages, the dates they died, and the number assigned to them. Her old-fashioned handwriting slanted neatly to the right, and each letter was perfectly formed.

I opened my notebook and picked up a pen. Slowly and carefully, I copied the sixty-seven names, their ages, death dates, and burial numbers.

By the time I was finished, it was after three
A.M.
, and Corey had fallen asleep on my bed. Too tired to worry about Miss Ada or anything else, I lay down on the rug and fell fast asleep.

In the morning, Corey and I carried the account book to the dining room. Grandmother was already seated at the table, drinking coffee and reading the morning paper. Mrs. Brewster was putting fresh flowers in little vases. The sun slanted in through the open French doors, bringing with it the sound of Mr. Brewster's riding mower and the sweet smell of cut grass.

It was hard to believe, but in this very room, Miss Ada and her brother had once eaten their fancy meals while the poor starved. The lawn Mr. Brewster mowed had been fields where men labored from dawn to dusk. People had died in what was now the carriage house.

I laid the account book in front of Grandmother. She set down her cup and stared at the soiled leather cover. "Where did you find this?"

"The bad ones told us where to look," I said, unwilling to tell her exactly where it had been hidden. "It has all the names and numbers, so we can make proper stones for the graves."

"Sixty-seven people are buried here," Corey put in.

"That many?" Grandmother opened the book and ran her finger down the list of names. "How awful."

"Miss Ada recorded the money they got from the county and how they spent it," Corey said. "Hardly any of it went to the poor people. They used it for themselves."

Grandmother looked at the accounts and shook her head. "Shameful, absolutely shameful."

Mrs. Brewster hovered at Grandmother's shoulder, scowling at the book. "The worst of it is, nothing's changed. All you have to do is look around at the rich people getting fat on the poor. Even the government ain't above it."

With a sigh, Grandmother closed the book and pushed it aside. "The county historical society will be interested in this."

Mrs. Brewster took our breakfast order. "When will you see to the headstones?" she asked Grandmother.

"The sooner the better." Grandmother turned to us. "I suggest we visit a stone mason in Barre today."

A few hours later, Grandmother led us into the office of Daniel Greene and Sons, Ltd. After a brief conversation with Mr. Greene Jr., Grandmother practically went into shock at the cost of purchasing sixty-seven gravestones.

"There's a less expensive option," Mr. Greene told us. "We could chisel all the names and numbers on one large stone at a savings of..."

He did some quick figuring on his calculator and came up with a price Grandmother could afford. "I'm willing to reduce my profit," he said, "because of the historical significance of what you're doing. There's many a name on this list whose descendants live here still. They deserve to know where their ancestors are buried."

Leading us outside, Mr. Greene showed us a number of precut stones and we chose a big pale pink marble slab. After more discussion, he promised the memorial would be ready as soon as possible.

Before we went back to the inn, we stopped at the historical society and asked to see Mrs. Bernice Leonard, the head archivist. She accepted Miss Ada's account book with gratitude.

"My great-great grandfather died at that farm," she said softly. "And so did his wife and some of his children. Their surname was Perkins. Are they among those in your book?"

Corey and I stared at the woman, gray haired and small, rosy faced, her hands clasping the unopened book. She had eyes as blue as Caleb's. And that dimple in her left cheek. It was as if something of Caleb lived still, his eyes and his dimple passing down and down and down from one Perkins to another.

"Abraham and Sarah Perkins." Grandmother opened the book and pointed to their names. "And their children, Matty and Caleb."

Mrs. Leonard touched the names. "I'm descended from their oldest son, Jonathon. He wasn't sent to the poor farm because he was indentured to a blacksmith." With a smile, she shook Grandmother's hand. "Thank you for bringing this to me."

"Thank Corey and Travis," Grandmother said. "They're the ones who found the book."

We left Mrs. Leonard turning the pages of the book and got into the truck, hot inside from sitting in the summer sun.

"I wish we could tell Mrs. Leonard about Caleb," Corey said.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Grandmother said.

"Why not?"

Grandmother eased out of her parking space and headed south on Route 12. "I'd rather keep the ghosts secret," she said. "If word gets out, we'll have people like Chester Coakley banging on the door. Believe me, I don't want any more ghost hunters at the inn—no matter how many rooms they take."

That evening after dinner, the shadow children drifted through my window and filled the room with their familiar whispers and giggles. A few moments later, Corey arrived with Seth, Caleb, and Ira trailing behind her.

"Did Granny order the stones?" Seth asked me.

"Separate headstones turned out to be
really
expensive," Corey said in a low voice, looking ashamed.

"So there's going to one big pink stone with all the names and dates and numbers on it," I finished for her.

Surrounded by the shadow children, they whispered together for moment.

"That will do," Caleb said, "though we would have liked to have our own stones."

"I was hoping for a lamb," Seth said. "Or an angel."

"What of the account book?" Ira asked. "Did you put it somewhere safe?"

"We gave it to Mrs. Leonard at the county historical society," I said.

"She says she'll see it gets published, so everybody can read the truth about the poor farm."

"A fact simily," Corey added.

"
Facsimile,
" I corrected her. "An exact copy of the original."

"Whatever." Corey shrugged.

"Mrs. Leonard is descended from your brother Jonathon," I told Caleb.

"And she's got your dimple," Corey added.

Caleb touched his cheek in wonder. "So Jonathon lived and got married and had a family? That's grand, that is."

"How about me?" Seth asked. "Is she kin to me, too?"

"The Brewsters are your kin," Ira reminded Seth.

Seth shrugged. "Yes, but the society lady sounds more highfalutin than my grumpy old auntie."

Corey yawned then, a big one without even covering her mouth, and rubbed her eyes.

"We didn't get much sleep last night," I reminded the bad ones.

At the same moment, the shadow children began whispering to each other. "Time to go," they whispered, "time to rest."

Caleb watched them drift along the wall toward the window and slip outside. "We'd better go, too," he said.

"Good luck with the third thing," Ira whispered.

In a snap of the fingers, the three boys were gone. A strange stillness lingered in the room, and the air felt charged the way it does before a thunderstorm.

"Wait." I ran to the window and peered out. The moon-white lawn was empty, the night silent. "Are you coming back? Will we see you again?"

There was no answer, just a stirring of leaves in the grove—and that odd silence.

Corey joined me at the window, standing so close her shoulder touched my arm. I could feel her trembling. "
Good luck with the third thing,
" she whispered, echoing Ira's words.

"The third thing." I stared at my sister. "The account book, the tombstone, ... and Miss Ada."

Suddenly, a breeze sprang up, and the curtains blew inward, brushing my face and my arms. They felt cold and damp, but when I tried to push them away, they clung to me, twisting around my body, trapping me.

"Give me my book," a voice hissed in my ear. "The one you stole from my grave."

It wasn't the curtains that trapped me. It was Miss Ada's dress. Shaking with fear, I staggered backward, trying to free myself, but the more I struggled, the tighter the dress wrapped around me.

Nearby, Corey cried out in fear. I felt her lunging, twisting, turning, but she couldn't escape, either.

Miss Ada's bony hands clutched us, numbing us with cold, weakening our arms and legs. Limp with fear, we gave up and stumbled against her. If she hadn't held us so tightly, we would have fallen to the floor at her feet. Released from the tatters of her dress, we stared into her face, little more than a skull, its eyes as dark as the grave.

"My book," she said. "Give me my book."

"We don't have it," I whispered.

Miss Ada's eyes glowed with hatred. "Wicked children, I saw you take it."

"It's—it's not here," Corey stammered.

"We gave it to the historical society," I added.

Miss Ada seemed to grow taller. Angrier. "You had no right to do that! It was my book." She shook us. "You will be punished for this."

Despite my terror, I managed to say, "You can't hurt us, you're dead, and we're..." My voice cracked and broke. I couldn't go on, not with her standing there, smiling a smile I wished I hadn't seen.

Keeping her grip on us, Miss Ada drew us close, closer yet, so close that all we saw was her eyes. It was as if the rest of the world had vanished. Nothing existed except Miss Ada's eyes. In their darkness, I saw every shameful thing I'd ever done—mistakes I'd made, mean things I'd done, people I'd hurt. I saw things I'd wanted but not gotten, things I'd lost. I saw my failures, my sorrows, my tears. I saw myself as Miss Ada wanted me to—a loathsome boy, despicable, unloved, pitiful and weak, stupid and selfish.

The smell of death filled my nostrils, the cold of the grave chilled me to the bone.

Beside me, Corey wept. "Stop," she sobbed. "Stop, please stop."

Miss Ada straightened up and sneered down at us. "Do you still believe the dead cannot hurt the living?"

Corey and I stared at her, speechless with misery and fear.

"Consider the years I've lain in the grave," she went on in a low voice, "learning the ways of darkness, strengthening myself, seeking vengeance."

"We're sorry," Corey whispered. "We didn't mean any harm. It was just a game, a prank. If you let us go, we'll never—"

"Hush!" Miss Ada shook Corey so hard she cried out with pain. "Your apologies and promises mean nothing to me. You mocked me, dug up my grave, stole my account book, exposed my secrets, collaborated with my enemies. You must be punished!"

With a terrifying strength, she yanked us through the open window and into the night. Unable to keep up, we stumbled behind her, arms aching, too weak to break away from her. The grove lay ahead, a black blot on the lawn.

"What are you going to do to us?" Corey whimpered.

"What does it matter?" Miss Ada pulled us into the grove. "You are worthless. You have nothing to live for."

"
Nothing to live for, nothing to live for. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
"The word spread out around us like fog, dark and cold, obscuring everything. It was true. I was worthless. No one loved me, no one cared. If I died, no one would miss me.