Lure (5 page)

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!”

The effort of making the sound is what raised me up out of the dream. Or nightmare, to be exact. I opened my eyes, gasping for air, and blinking through the darkness, the leftover yell still buzzing in my throat.

Just a dream
, I told myself, sitting up in bed. But my pounding heart needed a bit more convincing. It wasn’t until I switched on my bedside lamp that I realized my sheets were soaked with water. And the skin on my arms and chest was shining with sweat. But was it sweat? I wasn’t hot at all. In fact, I was shivering from the cold night breeze that was blowing in through my window.

What’s going on? I don’t remember going to sleep with it open.

But the weirdest part of all was the smell that was coming off my wet skin. It was dank and raw and earthy … like a mix of worms and frogs. I smelled more like an old swamp than a sweaty guy. In fact, the stink was so overpowering I disgusted myself. Throwing off the covers, I stumbled out of my room and into the shower. I needed to wash the smell away and hopefully the memory of the nightmare would go down the drain along with it.

By the time I was clean and dried off, it was too late to go back to sleep. But it was too early to go to school. So I grabbed a piece of toast and my backpack and went for a walk. I needed to clear my head and getting outside into the fresh autumn air was the best way to do that. Walking up and down the early morning streets offered me a view of this town I hadn’t seen before. I watched the bright orange sun peek over the rooftops as it climbed in the sky to start the new day. I watched the houses wake up, bathrobed men and women collect their newspapers, dogs sniff around on their morning walks, frantic adults rush into their cars, and bouncy children jump through the leaves as they headed off to school. I walked and walked and walked some more, trying as hard as I could to keep my feet away from 10 Colborne Street.

It was Wednesday again. I didn’t want to go back there today, especially since I’d caught hell from my parents for ditching the past couple of Wednesday-morning classes. But after last night’s dream I was aching to see Caroline and make sure she was all right. And could I even stay away if I tried? She’s the only one who could really see me around here. But the agonizing part was that she only saw me as a friend. I still didn’t know if I could handle that.

Giving in, I finally let my feet guide me back to the little white house on Colborne Street. It was almost as if there were a pair of hands pushing me to go faster as I marched up the driveway toward the garden path. The library wasn’t open yet; it was still too early. I glanced down at my watch and took a seat on the bench at the back of the garden to wait for her. After a couple of minutes, a small, brown rabbit hopped across the path, nose twitching as it searched for some breakfast. It quickly discovered a small patch of clover beside the picket fence and stopped to munch for a while. My stomach growled as I watched the rabbit eat, wishing I’d grabbed more than a thin slice of toast from home. I thought about running over to Yonge Street and picking up a cup of coffee, but I wanted to catch Caroline before she went into the library. So I just stayed put and ignored the grumbles from my gut.

About twenty minutes later she came strolling up the path, wearing the exact same sweater she’d been wearing in my dream last night. That freaked me out more than a little bit, but I tried not to let it show on my face. When she spotted me sitting at the back of the garden she stopped in shock, keys frozen in her outstretched hand.

“Max! God, you scared me. What are you doing here? We’re not even open yet.”

“I … I was up early this morning,” I said, getting to my feet. I couldn’t explain it, but suddenly I had an overwhelming need to get her away from this place and all its history and ghosts … and grandmothers. “Hey, do you need to get right to work? I thought we could go for a walk or something?”

She pulled up her sleeve to check her watch. “Well, I guess I can go for a little bit. Nana will probably be here soon and she can open up the library today.”

I flung my backpack over my shoulder and strode toward her. “Great … let’s go.”

Together, we walked up the tree-lined road away from the screeching river of traffic coursing up and down Yonge Street. I was being careful to keep a safe, wide bubble of space between the two of us, nervous about the moronic things I might say or do if we got too close.

“So, do you feel any closer to making your decision?” I asked, hoping to get the conversation going. I usually didn’t mind sharing a good silence with a friend, but with Caroline it felt better having something to say. I knew the words were going to help me maintain that bubble.

She turned to look at me, confusion creasing her pretty face. “What decision?”

“You know … the decision about what the hell you want to do with your life next year?”

I thought that would prompt a smile, but she frowned instead. “Oh, yeah … that.”

And then silence. I rushed in to fill it … maybe a little too fast.

“You know, my mom keeps telling me about all the great schools they have out here on this side of the country. Not that we don’t have great schools out west, but I guess there’s more of them over here. So, have you been looking into any of the programs?”

“Um … no, not really. I don’t think I’m ready to start thinking about university yet,” she replied, her voice far away. That’s when I noticed her fingers. They were twisting and pulling the sleeves of her sweater into tight little knots. Suddenly, I had the sinking feeling that I’d said something wrong. If only I knew what. Man, why was this girl so freaking mysterious?

This time when the silence came back, I left it alone to do its thing. Seconds stretched out between us. At least the sound of our shoes crunching through the carpet of dried leaves made it a bit less unbearable.

“Hey, have you ever noticed some of the other historic homes on this street, Max?” she asked after a long moment, pointing to the sagging red house on our left. “Here’s one that’s even older than the library.”

Yeah, she was definitely trying to change the subject.

“Um … no, I guess not,” I replied, going along with it. I was just happy to have something safe to talk about. Following the direction of her finger, I saw that this house had a plaque, too. It read:
William Lane; cooper, 1846.

“There are lots of them along here,” she continued, a trace of pride rounding out her words. “Nana once told me that Colborne is probably the best-preserved historic street in all of Ontario. Look, there’s another one right there.”

I looked over to see a plump, motherly looking woman raking a pile of yellow leaves in her driveway. She glanced up from her rake and smiled as we passed her house. My eyes skipped up to search for the plaque … yup, there it was to the right of the front door.
Job Trott; mason, 1851.

“I don’t get it,” I said, shaking my head. “Regular people are allowed to live in these houses? I thought they were historic buildings.”

Caroline nodded. “They are … but they’re also homes. Of course, the owners have to conserve the outside of the buildings as best as they can. But they were built to be lived in.”

Honestly, this had to be the most surreal street I’d ever seen. It was almost like I’d left the real world and been transported to the film set of a historical movie. I spotted another old house on the opposite side of the road and went to take a closer look.
Thomas Hamill; carpenter, 1850
. Too bad my parents hadn’t known about this street when they were house-hunting in Thornhill. It might have been cool to live in one of these old cottages. I wanted to ask Caroline if any of them were haunted like the library. But I decided to ask a different question instead.

“So, are you all out of ghost stories … or are there any more you’ve been holding back?”

She nibbled on her lower lip while she thought about the question. My eyes dropped so I wouldn’t have to watch. I studied the frayed ends of my shoelaces while I waited for my pulse to slow back down. After a moment, she came up with an answer.

“Once or twice I thought I heard the sound of books being pulled off the shelves and the pages flipping. It happened when I was there alone in the morning. And sometimes Nana or I will be searching for a particular book for hours and we’ll decide that it’s gone missing … then there it is on the shelf the very next day, right where it should have been all along.”

This time it was totally impossible to keep the skepticism out of my voice. “That doesn’t make any sense, Caroline — if they were really ghosts, how on earth could they move the books?”

The familiar Mona Lisa smile tugged at her lips. “Do some research into it, Max. You’ll see that ghosts can have a physical presence if they want to.”

I was about to change the subject when something weird suddenly occurred to me. “Okay, so you’ve smelled and heard strange things in the library … but you’ve never actually
seen
anything yourself?”

“Well, no.”

I shook my head and sighed. “I just don’t get it. If you haven’t seen anything, then how can you believe so strongly in the ghost?”

To my surprise, Caroline just laughed at that. “I guess there’re lots of things I’ve never seen that I still believe in.”

“Like what? Santa Claus?” I asked, slightly irritated. I didn’t enjoy being such a constant source of amusement to her.

She looked at me and flashed her gap-toothed smile. “Well, I’ve never seen
love
. But I still believe in it.”

Suddenly, I didn’t want that safe bubble of space between us anymore. In fact, I wanted to take her hand so badly my fingers were itching with desperation. But I didn’t. I kept them tucked away inside my jean pockets instead. I had already embarrassed myself enough around this girl without making a move like that. She was smart, sweet, beautiful … and two years older. I knew that there was no way in hell she would ever be interested in a kid like me.

We walked in silence for a full minute before she spoke again.

“I’ve never told anyone this, Max,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper, “I haven’t even told Nana. But I really want to tell you. I did see something happen … just once. It was back in the middle of September, a few days before you and I met.”

“Okay, what was it?” I asked. We’d just turned a corner and were walking south along a narrow road.

“It only happened once, when I was there on my own. It was late in the evening and I was cleaning up, getting ready to close the library. I looked up at the clock … you know the one in the entryway with the toy mouse climbing up the front?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I know it.”

“Well, I was checking to see if it was time to turn the sign in the window from ‘open’ to ‘closed.’ That’s when I saw …”

I stopped walking and waited for her to finish.

“Saw what?”

She stopped, too. I watched her shoulders rise as she took a slow, deep breath. “The second hand was turning the wrong way. You know … like, backwards. And then the hour and minute hands started to turn and spin backwards, too.”

Now
this
was getting interesting. “Okay … and then what happened?”

Her blue eyes met mine. “I didn’t wait around to find out. I was so scared, I closed up and ran out of there.”

“And so nobody else saw this? You don’t have a witness?”

She shrugged and started walking again. “Nope. Sorry, no proof on this one, either.”

I raked my fingers back and forth through my hair, trying to come up with a rational explanation for this. I knew for sure there was
always
a rational explanation if you looked hard enough.

Wasn’t there?

“Well, couldn’t it just have been a battery malfunction? Or something faulty with the gears of the clock?”

She tilted her steps slightly away, widening the space between us. “Look, I guess it could have been but I highly doubt it,” her words were sharp, like I’d touched on a raw nerve. “I have a feeling that it means something important. Like whoever is haunting the library is wishing they could turn back time — you know, go back and fix something they didn’t have a chance to when they were alive. Right a wrong from the past …”