All the Lovely Bad Ones (4 page)

It was the most I'd ever heard him say.

"If it wasn't a cougar, what was it?" Tim asked, his eyes widening like a kid's at a horror movie.

Mr. Brewster had already lost interest in the subject. With a shake of his head, he disappeared into the kitchen, leaving us to stare after him.

"A ghost," Mrs. Jennings said. "It was a ghost."

Robert laughed. "That's ridiculous."

Mrs. Jennings frowned at Robert. "My husband and I saw it ourselves—as plain as plain can be, by that grove of trees." Mrs. Jennings waved her hand toward the window and the oaks. "It pointed at the inn and screamed in the most hideous, inhuman way!"

Robert laughed again, but Tim just stood there, as if he wasn't sure what to think.

Mr. Jennings laid a hand on my sister's shoulder. "This young lady saw it the night before last."

Corey shuddered. "It was awful."

Before Robert could say anything sarcastic, Tim grabbed his arm. "Lay off, will you?
You
didn't see it.
They
did."

Across the room, Mr. Nelson looked up from his newspaper. "So the ghosts are back," he said. "I was hoping they'd gone for good."

Just then, Grandmother came into the dining room. Tracy was right behind her, carrying a tray heaped with breakfast goodies. "What's back?" Grandmother asked.

"The ghosts." Mr. Nelson grimaced. "Didn't you hear the screams last night?" Tracy gasped and almost dropped the tray. "I thought it was a screech owl."

"I heard what
sounded
like a scream," Grandmother said. "I must admit it scared me, but after I went back to bed, I realized what it was."

Corey and I darted a quick glance at each other. Had Grandmother guessed we'd played a prank on the Jenningses? I held my breath and waited for her to denounce us.

"Some people a mile or so down the road breed peacocks," she went on. "One must have flown the coop—so to speak." She smiled at her own joke. "A peacock's cry sounds remarkably like a human scream."

"There," Robert said to Tim. "I
knew
there was a rational explanation."

"But what about the ghost?" Tim asked. "All three of them have seen it."

Grandmother looked at us, plainly annoyed. "You were talking about ghosts the other night, swapping stories, trying to scare each other," she said. "You expected to see a ghost, and you've convinced yourselves you did."

Mrs. Jennings frowned at Grandmother. "I didn't
imagine
that ghost. If you'd been at your window, you would've seen it, too."

"You were looking out the window at three
A.M.
?" Robert asked in disbelief.

"Corey saw the ghost the night before at exactly three
A.M.
," Mrs. Jennings said. "She told George and me to watch for it in the grove of trees."

I held my breath, hoping the phone or the doorbell would ring—anything to distract Grandmother from questioning my sister and me.

Unfortunately, no one called and no one came to the door. Grandmother fixed Corey with a steely gaze. "You never mentioned seeing a ghost."

Unable to meet Grandmother's eyes, Corey stared at the floor. "You wouldn't have believed me," she whispered. "But I saw it and I was scared and I told Mrs. Jennings because I knew
she'd
believe me."

While we were talking, Mr. Nelson had gone back to reading his newspaper.

I sidled over to him. "Why did you say the ghosts were back? Have you seen them before?"

He put down the paper with some irritation. "I've been coming to Fox Hill every July for twenty years," he said. "I remember the purported ghosts, as well as the reporters and the psychics and the nuts who came to witness the goings-on. They swarmed upstairs and down, ranting about cold spots, setting up bizarre recording devices and infrared cameras, making nuisances of themselves. Fools, that's what they were. Idiots." He took a sip of coffee. "The inn is much better off without ghosts," he said, "and the maniacs who flocked here to see them—
they
caused the most disturbance, by far."

Across the room, Robert seated himself noisily. "Get a move on, Tim," he said in a loud you-can't-fool-me voice. "We're doing a century ride today."

Before he joined his friend, Tim smiled at Corey. "My girlfriend is psychic, too," he told her. "She sees all kinds of things, just like you do—including those blue lights I was telling you about the other night." Grandmother watched Tim join Robert at their table. Turning to Corey, she said, "I don't know what you're up to, but I simply do not believe one word of this ghost nonsense."

To the rest of us, she said, "Breakfast is ready. Please take your seats, and Tracy will serve you."

Corey and I sat down, and Grandmother sat between us. "No more ghost talk," she said. "I won't have you scaring the guests with silly stories."

Corey kicked me under the table, and I kicked her back. She giggled.

"I'm serious," Grandmother said.

We both nodded and turned our attention to the plates Tracy set down in front of us—scrambled eggs with cheese, home-fried potatoes, and a big cranberry muffin.

That afternoon, three couples, all friends of the Jenningses, arrived and requested rooms. Mrs. Jennings had told them about the ghost sighting and they were full of questions. Grandmother became increasingly annoyed, but no matter what she said, the new guests refused to be discouraged. If the Jenningses had seen a ghost, the ghost was real. And they wanted to see it themselves.

"Aren't you glad you have more guests?" Corey asked at dinnertime.

"Not if they're coming to see ghosts," Grandmother said. "They're bound to be disappointed." Sipping her iced tea, her expression as sour as a lemon, she regarded the four couples huddled around a table by the window.

Mrs. Jennings was describing the screaming phantom to her friends. "It pointed right at me, and cursed me. Not George. Me. It cursed
me
."

"Oh, my goodness," Mrs. Bennett, one of the new guests, gasped. "You must have been terrified."

As Mrs. Jennings shivered, Mr. Jennings said, "You should have seen its eyes. They were red, and they glowed like hellfire."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Grandmother muttered more to herself than to Corey and me. "This is getting more ridiculous by the moment."

Without waiting for Tracy to bring coffee, she left the dining room. The others followed her outside, chatting noisily. Corey went to the library to read, and I followed Tracy into the kitchen.

"Do you think Mrs. Jennings really saw a ghost?" I asked.

She looked up from a sinkful of soapy dishes. "Maybe," she said slowly. "But I can't be sure unless I see it myself."

"Wouldn't you be scared?" I was hoping she'd say yes and faint in my arms or something, but she merely shrugged. Without even looking at me, she said, "Ghosts can't hurt you."

Mrs. Brewster laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Unless you want to help Tracy clean up," she said, "I suggest you find someone else to talk to."

Taking the hint, I left Tracy to her dishes and went outside. Grandmother was sitting in a lawn chair, enjoying the last of the sunset, Robert and Tim were playing a relaxed game of tennis, and Mr. Nelson had settled himself in a rocking chair, his face hidden behind the evening paper. The Jennings party was seated in a circle, taking turns reading from the haunted inns book.

No one noticed me stroll across the lawn to the haunted grove—as Mr. and Mrs. Jennings now called it. The sun had just sunk behind the mountains, and the air was growing cool and damp. A breeze rustled the leaves, and a bird called. As I stood in the shadows, looking at the inn, I had a sudden feeling I wasn't alone.

Expecting to see my sister, I glanced behind me. No one was there, but the feeling lingered. "Corey?"

I peered into the shadows gathering under the trees. For a second, I thought I saw something duck out of sight behind one of the tall oaks.

"Hey," I called. "I see you." My voice sounded loud in the quiet evening—and a little high pitched, almost as though I was scared. Which, of course, I wasn't.

No one answered. Leaves rustled, and something on the ground snapped—maybe a branch cracking under a foot, maybe an animal scurrying past unseen.

With a shiver, I left the grove and hurried back to the inn. I told myself I'd heard a squirrel or a bird. But I couldn't shake the feeling that someone had been watching me.

In the middle of a bad dream, I woke up to see a hideous face hanging over me in the dark.

"Wake up, Travis," it moaned. "It's time to go to the grove."

"No, no!" I pushed the thing away from me, only to hear it laugh.

"Fooled you," Corey crowed.

"Brat," I muttered, too embarrassed to come up with a clever retort.

"It's time for the ghost to walk." Corey glided toward the door.

Shoving my blankets aside, I got out of bed and tiptoed outside behind my fearless sister. As soon as I stepped into the shadows under the trees, I began to shiver, just as I had earlier. The night seemed darker here, colder, spookier. The leaves whispered, the shadows shifted and changed and formed new shapes.

I glanced at Corey, but she didn't appear to notice anything out of the ordinary. With a giggle, she danced across the grass, waving her arms dramatically, her head thrown back, her filmy nightgown fluttering. Just as she had the previous night, she stopped suddenly, turned toward the inn, and screamed loudly. The echo made it sound as if a dozen ghosts—or a hundred peacocks—were shrieking an answer.

With one more piercing scream, Corey fled into the shadows, and the two of us raced back to the inn. Again, I sensed someone close by, not just watching me this time but following me. Someone silent and swift, darker even than the night. I wanted to look back, just to prove nothing was there, but I didn't dare.

Corey usually outran me, but a surge of adrenaline sent me speeding into the inn well ahead of her.

I dove into bed just before Grandmother poked her head into my room. "Travis?" she whispered, "are you awake?"

I lay still, eyes tightly closed, breathing deep, regular breaths.

She closed my door, and I heard her go to my sister's room. "Corey?"

No answer. I pictured Corey huddled under the covers, made up to look like a ghost from your worst nightmare, and hoped Grandmother wouldn't pull the blankets back.

Soon I heard Grandmother return to her bedroom—where she probably lay awake pondering the noisy peacocks down the road.

I snuggled deeper into bed. Between talking about the hauntings and playing the ghost game, I'd set myself up to imagine I'd been watched in the grove and followed to the inn. As Grandmother said about the Jenningses, I was obviously susceptible. Nothing was in the grove. Nothing had followed me. It was ridiculous.
I
was ridiculous.

But what was that noise in the hall? Was someone standing just outside my room, ear pressed to my door? I lay still and listened so hard my ears buzzed. Nothing.... No,
not
nothing. A tiny creak, a flutter in the air, a cold draft across my face, a whisper of sound almost like a giggle.

"Corey, is that you?" I sat up and peered into the darkness. I was alone in my room.

Feeling foolish, I lay back down and pulled the blanket over my head. The loudest sound was my heart pounding. I might as well have been five years old.

In the morning, the guests gathered in the dining room to talk about the screaming ghost. The newcomers were almost too excited to eat the waffles Mrs. Brewster had prepared.

After Grandmother left the room to take a phone call, Tracy came to our table. "I heard the scream last night." She smoothed her hair back behind her ears and grinned. "Tonight, I'm going to camp out in the grove—I want to see the ghost for myself. You know, up close and personal."

Corey and I glanced at each other, frozen for a second. "You'd better not," I said. "No matter what you think, that ghost is definitely dangerous."

"Don't be silly." Tracy laughed.

Mrs. Brewster stuck her head out of the kitchen and gestured to the bicyclists' table. Tracy turned and noticed Robert holding up his coffee cup. "Excuse me," she murmured to Corey and me. "I'd better get back to work before the old battle-ax fires me."

As Tracy fetched coffee for Robert, Corey and I left the inn and settled into a pair of Adirondack chairs at the shady end of the lawn. "Do you think she'll go to the grove tonight?" Corey asked.

"If she does, she won't see anything."

"What do you mean?" Corey frowned as if she suspected I was about to edge her out of the starring role in our little drama.

"We'll be inside," I said, "trying some new tricks. Footsteps. Doors opening and shutting. Sobs and moans and spooky laughter."

We got up and ambled across the lawn, talking about things we could do with flashlights and string and sound effects. Without noticing where we were going, we ended up in the grove. Even in the daylight, it was a gloomy place. The shade seemed too dark, the air too cold, too still. Moss grew thick on the damp ground and furred the tree trunks. Toadstools sprouted everywhere, some red, some yellow, some white—all poisonous, I was sure. A crow watched us mournfully from a high branch, but no birds sang.

Corey shivered and folded her arms across her chest. "Tracy's a lot braver than I am. I wouldn't sleep here by myself. Not if you paid me."

"Me, either." I glanced at her. "Last night I swear somebody was hiding here in the shadows, watching us."

Corey drew in her breath and hugged herself tighter. "I thought it was my imagination."

We were both whispering, as if someone might be listening as well as watching. When the crow cawed from its perch overhead, we both jumped and then tried to pass it off with a laugh.

"Let's go," Corey said. "This place gives me the creeps."

We left the grove and wandered through a sunny patch of weedy ground, leaping with grasshoppers and humming with bees. Wild thistles grew taller than our heads. A narrow path led toward a dilapidated shed and the remains of a barn, its roof fallen in and its walls collapsed. Vines and brambles crawled and curled over the weathered wood, prying the boards apart.