Christina's Ghost (7 page)

Uncle Ralph stopped. “Who—who's there?” he shouted.

The figure stood, unmoving. The wind roared down at them, and Uncle Ralph seemed to be having trouble holding the flashlight steady.

“Look!” Chris screamed. “Uncle Ralph, look!
The light shines right through him!”

She let go of the railing, and the wind lifted her and flung her down the steps into the hall. Uncle Ralph was right behind her. They landed in a tangled heap on the floor.

“Close the door!” Chris cried. “Oh, close the door! Quick!” She could hear the thud of descending footsteps.

Uncle Ralph staggered to his feet. He put his shoulder to the door and pushed against the wind with all his strength. The door swung shut with a bang. In the same instant, the raging wind was silenced.

Uncle Ralph leaned against the door, panting. Then he grabbed Chris's hand and pulled her down the hall to his bedroom. Together, they pushed and shoved his heavy oak bureau out into the hall and up against the attic door.

“I'll say this much, Christina,” Uncle Ralph gasped as they stepped back from their barricade. “I am now definitely a believer. Your ghost is my ghost.”

Chris didn't even think of saying I-told-you-so. It was enough that Uncle Ralph believed her. He wouldn't accuse her again of not knowing the difference between pretending and the truth.

“What'll we do now?” she asked. “Can we go away somewhere? I'm really scared, Uncle Ralph.”

“So am I,” Uncle Ralph replied. He gave the bureau
another shove to be sure it rested snugly against the door, and then he waved Chris toward the stairs. “We'll talk about it,” he said. “In the kitchen. What I need right now is that cup of cocoa.”

“Wipe your upper lip, Christina,” Uncle Ralph said. “You have a cocoa mustache that's as big as my real one.” He was beginning to look and sound more like himself.

Chris rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand. The hot cocoa was warming her insides, and the goose bumps were fading from her arms. Uncle Ralph scowled at the weak overhead light, then brought a kerosene lamp from the cupboard. Its gentle glow made the kitchen almost cheerful.

“That's better,” he said. “A little soothing lamplight while we decide what to do next.”

“Get out,” Chris suggested. “Let's go to Grandma's house and stay there.”

Uncle Ralph shook his head. “It isn't that simple,” he said. “My friend in Europe is counting on me to stay through the summer. If I leave, I'll have to give him a reasonable explanation. . . . Besides,” he hurried on, “we're mixed up in something very strange here. Something very rare. We have to deal with it, not run away.”

“Deal with it how?” If he said he was going back up to the attic, Chris was going to leave by herself.

“You told me your ideas of what's happening here,” Uncle Ralph said. “And I guess I have to agree with you. As of now. The child—the ghost—we saw in the study is a sad little thing. But that . . . that
presence
in the attic is something else. Dixon, or whatever his name was, must be laid to rest.”

“Laid to rest?” Chris didn't like this conversation one bit. Laying Dixon to rest sounded like killing him—but wasn't Dixon already dead?

“The fellow clearly wants something. Or else he wants to keep us away from something. I haven't read a ghost story in forty years, but it seems to me those are the usual reasons given for a ghost to walk. I wonder if it could be those stamps you told me about. You said the police looked for them but couldn't find them. Maybe they're still somewhere in this house. That would explain why Dixon is prowling around. He's keeping his eye on the treasure he died to protect.”

Chris shivered. “So what should we do?” she asked. “Hunt for the stamps?”

Uncle Ralph looked at her with approval. “Exactly right, sport,” he said. “Starting tomorrow, we'll go over the entire house. We'll save the attic for last,” he added hastily, seeing Chris's expression. “If we can find the stamps and turn them over to the police, there won't be any reason for Dixon to stay around. We'll have some peace, and I can get back to my work. What do you say?”

“Okay,” Chris said. “I guess.” She wondered how he could expect to find anything as small as a stamp in this huge house, but she was willing to try. It would be nice to do something
with
somebody instead of being by herself all day.

They finished their cocoa and rinsed the cups, and Uncle Ralph turned out the lights. Together they trudged to the front hall and looked up the stairs.

“I don't know,” Uncle Ralph said after a minute. “Are you going to be able to sleep up there?”

“I don't think so.” Chris's goose bumps were coming back.

Uncle Ralph ran his fingers through his hair. “Then how about sleeping down here in the parlor tonight? Both of us.” He sounded as if he hoped she'd say yes.

“Terrific!” Chris said. He really could read her mind.

She used the little bathroom under the stairs and then
curled up on the old couch in the parlor. Uncle Ralph settled in the big chair close to the door.

It was amazing how much better she felt, just knowing he was there.
He's not very big, and I guess he's as frightened as I am
, she thought,
but he's brave. He opened that attic door and started up the stairs, when all I wanted to do was run!

She didn't think her own father could have been any braver.

“We'll start our search in the study,” Uncle Ralph announced at breakfast. “I'm sure the police did a pretty thorough search at the time of the murders. But there's a good chance they didn't open every single book. That's what we'll do.” He sounded excited at the idea.

“Okay.” Chris moved her shoulders in circles, trying to loosen the knots. The couch had made a bumpy bed.

She was surprised that Uncle Ralph could sound so full of energy. Twice during the night, she'd opened her eyes to see him leaning forward in his chair, listening intently. Each time she'd held her breath, wondering what he'd heard. When he leaned back and closed his eyes, she'd had to force herself to close her eyes, too. Her dreams had been full of dark, towering
figures and footsteps thumping down distant halls.

“You
like
mysteries!” she exclaimed suddenly. “You like ghost hunting, Uncle Ralph.”

“Nonsense,” Uncle Ralph said. “Things just look different in the daylight. I want to get this business cleared up so I can get back to work.” He whistled under his breath while they washed the dishes.

It was strange, Chris thought. They seemed to have exchanged places. She'd been badly frightened the first time she'd opened the attic door, and again the night she'd heard footsteps in the upstairs hall. Still, she hadn't wanted to run away; she'd wanted to solve the mystery. But that was before she'd seen the spirit of Thomas Dixon. Now she couldn't stop thinking about that huge, threatening figure at the top of the attic stairs. She wanted to leave, but Uncle Ralph wanted to solve the mystery, no matter what they had to do.

The study bookshelves, stretching all the way to the ceiling, made her sigh. She was glad the day was dull and drizzly. She didn't think she could have stood it if the weather had been perfect for swimming or a walk in the woods.

“Hold each book like this,” Uncle Ralph showed her. “Flip the pages, but don't strain the binding.”

By noon, Chris's arms ached and her head throbbed. They had searched through all the books on one wall
and had checked the back of each shelf to see if anything was hidden there. Books stood in wobbly piles all around them.

By four o'clock, the second wall had been emptied. “Let's quit,” Chris begged. “Otherwise, I'm going to hate books forever.”

“If you say so.” Uncle Ralph slid one more book back onto its shelf. He looked as if he, too, was beginning to lose hope.

They went out to the kitchen and opened the cupboard.

“Spaghetti?” Uncle Ralph suggested. He pushed the cans around. “Vegetable soup? Hash? Chili?”

They settled, without much enthusiasm, on the roast beef hash. Uncle Ralph fried it and poached eggs to go on top, while Chris mixed powdered milk and opened a can of peaches.

“Now what happens?” she asked when they sat down. She propped her aching head with one hand while she ate.

“We have a few more shelves to check,” Uncle Ralph said. “And a few hundred books to put back in place.” He scowled. “You know, I was really sure we were going to find something there. After all, Dixon was a teacher as well as a thief. He probably spent a lot of time in the study, when he wasn't looking after the
boy. If he wanted a hiding place for a few stamps, what better place . . . ?” He patted his mustache with a paper-towel napkin. “We may still find them,” he said.

“But not tonight,” Chris protested. “I can't look any more tonight.”

Uncle Ralph grinned. “Not tonight,” he agreed. “I'm going to settle down in the parlor with a good book.” He chuckled at Chris's pained expression. “Reading books is more enjoyable than flipping their pages,” he told her. “You ought to try it sometime, sport.”

Chris wrinkled her nose at him. “Not tonight,” she repeated. “You go ahead and read if you want to. I'll wash the dishes.”

Alone in the kitchen, she found herself peeking over her shoulder frequently and jumping at every sound. All day she'd felt as if someone were watching them search through the books. She suspected Uncle Ralph had felt that way, too; he'd stopped often and stood very still, as if he were listening.

What could she do this evening while Uncle Ralph read? She wouldn't mind reading some comic books—they didn't count as real books—but they were in Russell's room upstairs. And she certainly wasn't going up there to get one. She hadn't been upstairs all day, except for a fast early-morning trip, with Uncle Ralph at her side, to get clean underwear, her toothbrush, and a comb.

There was one comic book downstairs, she remembered—the one she'd picked up the first day after they arrived. She'd seen it somewhere, perhaps on the dining-room sideboard. She gave the sink a final wipe and went down the hall. But the sideboard was bare, except for a huge enameled bowl.

For a moment Chris stood there, wondering what else she could do this evening. Then she bent down and looked underneath the sideboard. The comic book was there, behind one of the heavy wooden legs and curled up against the molding.

She carried the book to the parlor. She'd read all the riddles that first day, but she could try them on Uncle Ralph. If she made him laugh, maybe Russell Charles would appear again. And maybe not. It hadn't been the friendly gaze of a little boy that she'd felt while they searched the study.

“Uncle Ralph, why is a mouse like hay?”

He looked up. “You tell me.” He sounded impatient.

“Because the cat'll eat it.” Chris waited. “See, ‘cat'll' sounds the same as ‘cattle'—”

“I've told you a hundred times,” Uncle Ralph said. “Don't explain.”

“What did one candle say to the other candle?”

Uncle Ralph gave up. He closed his book on one finger and pretended to concentrate. “You light up my world?”

Chris giggled. “That's pretty good,” she admitted. “But it's the wrong answer. The right answer is ‘Are you going out tonight?' ”

Uncle Ralph shrugged. “I like mine better. Or how about ‘I think you're really
wick
-ed, dearie'?”

It was Chris's turn to groan. She read him the last riddle on the page. “What goes ‘Ho-ho-ho-thunk'?”

“I've heard that one before,” Uncle Ralph said, but now the playfulness was gone from his voice. “It's a man laughing his head off.”

Chris looked up from the comic book. Uncle Ralph was staring at a corner of the parlor. There was the slightest of movements, and suddenly Russell Charles was standing there.

“He came back,” Chris breathed. “Oh, I'm glad.”

But this time Russell wasn't smiling. The small face seemed frozen in panic. As Chris and Uncle Ralph watched, he raised a hand and pointed at Chris. Then, as silently as he'd come, he was gone.

“Something's wrong,” Chris cried. “He never looked like that before. Oh, Uncle Ralph—”

She stopped as a loud scraping sound cut through the quiet house. It came from upstairs.

“The chest,” Uncle Ralph said. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. “That was the chest being pushed away from the attic door.”

“No,” Chris whimpered. “No, no, no!”

But even as she said it, she heard the attic door open, and heavy steps started down the upstairs hall.

Uncle Ralph crossed the parlor in one long leap. He snatched the comic book from Chris's hands and flipped the pages.

“He's coming!” Chris shrieked. “Listen!”

The footsteps reached the top of the stairs. “He's going to come down,” Chris said. “Let's get out of here!”

“And do you know
why
he's coming down?” Uncle Ralph demanded hoarsely. “We're getting too close to his secret, that's why. Russell Charles was trying to tell us something.” He shook the comic book hard. A glassine envelope, long and narrow like a bookmark, fell to the floor.

“There it is!” he shouted.

The footsteps started down the stairs.

Uncle Ralph dived for the envelope, but before he could pick it up, an icy wind swept the room. The envelope skittered across the carpet.

“I'll get it,” Chris squealed. She snatched up the envelope and looked around for an escape route. Not the front door. That would mean facing the thing that was on the stairs. She ran to a window. The nearest one was painted shut. She struggled with the second until Uncle Ralph pushed her aside and jerked it open.