Rebel Spirits (3 page)

I TAKE A
quick shower. Steam pours out when I open the bathroom door, clutching the short towel around my long body, and there’s Evan Maxwell, unplugging computer cables for the carpet guys. As I dash past him, he turns lobster-red and mutters, “Sorry, didn’t know you were in there.” I am totally mortified, but not half as embarrassed as he is.

I change quickly into shorts, a T-shirt, and my running sneakers. I don’t bother trying to put my contacts into my puffy-from-lack-of-sleep eyes.

As I open my door to head downstairs, I see the bunch of
maintenance men tearing up the carpeting on the stairs, like a bandage off a raw wound. I step carefully to avoid tripping over nailheads or splintery wood. Mom and Dad are supervising. I don’t mention anything to them about what happened last night. They’d freak.

I find Gertie in the kitchen, where she’s following Bertha around like a lovesick pup.

“Hey, Gertie Girl.” She looks up as if she remembers me from her distant past and idly ambles toward me. I give her the old belly tickle, and her eyes light up. I’m winning her back. What a fair-weather friend Gertie’s turning out to be. “Mrs. Dryden, I was wondering —”

“You call me Bertha. It’s a sturdy, respectable name, not one of those froufrou names like Brandy or MacKenzie.” She squints at me. “Say, you weren’t wearing those glasses yesterday. I’d of remembered.”

“Contacts, usually.”

“Well, good thing. You know the old saying, ‘Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.’”

I try not to roll my eyes. “Oh, so that explains why I didn’t go to the prom.”

Not that either Jocelyn or I wanted to. Proms are so retro, suburban chic, extravagantly wasteful, and antifeminist. They do not have a place in a balanced ecosystem. I mean, look at all
those strobe lights and glitter and crushed flowers and fuel-guzzling limos. Proms are antigreen to the max.

Also, we didn’t have dates. So Jos and I went to see a musical. What could be greener than
Wicked
?

“You have a good night?” Bertha asks me. For a second I think she’s asking about prom night, but no, she’s staring at me with belligerent challenge. Suddenly, I wonder if it might have been Bertha who got into my room last night and messed up my things. Took my journal, even. She might have a master key for all the rooms. How do I ask without being insulting?

“So, I was wondering, Bertha,” I begin hesitantly, “if you might have seen a journal I had in my room. Maybe it got mixed up with some of the house books or something.”

“Am I the lost-and-found? You can see how busy I am. Your parents expect people will be checking in here in a few days. No, I haven’t seen your blessed journal. Mighta been Charlotte. She’s a sneaky snoop.”

Charlotte, the cleaning girl, hasn’t been here since we moved in. “Thanks. I’ll check with her whenever she shows up,” I say pointedly.

“The slacker’s already four minutes late,” Bertha grumbles.

“Maybe your watch is fast. Come on, Gertie.”

My dog looks guilty abandoning Bertha, but she trots behind me.

It’s already too hot to run. “Let’s go down to the creek, Gertie.”

There’s nothing she loves more than jumping into a pond or pool on a hot summer day, so now she’s racing ahead of me.

Coolspring Creek is really like a mini-river, much wider than I thought, but not so deep. It’s got a lazy current rippling through it, and it’s about the length of a football field until it reaches the end of our property in the woods, where it’s dammed by fallen trees. Gertie throws me a
Can I?
glance, I nod, and she leaps in. She’s a great swimmer, giving joyful meaning to dog-paddling.

Wish I’d thought to put my suit on. It’s already proving to be a beastly hot day, and the water is so inviting. I take off my sneakers and sit, dangling my feet in the rambling stream. Heavenly. The creek’s so pure and clean that I can see every movement of my face. I stick out my tongue, cross my eyes, suck in my cheeks.

Then I see another face.

A handsome, familiar one. The same face I saw in the Skype video feed.

I whip around, and there’s no one behind me. What is the
story
here? Am I going crazy? I feel a … how do I describe it? A thickening of the air behind me. Dumb, Lori. What are you thinking? Air isn’t thick.

Okay, a density? A vibration? It’s like a magnet has drawn a zillion molecules into something invisible. Something that has a face that reflects in the water.

“Who are you?” I whisper, not that I expect an answer. “Are you a Battle reenactor?”

Silence.

“Who are you?” I repeat. “Because you’re really spooking me.”

And then I hear it: a reply, hovering in the air just over my head.

“I am Na-than-iel-Pierce.”

My imagination playing tricks again? I whistle for Gertie to come for protection. She scrambles out of the creek and shakes off water in a wide arc. The reflection in the creek disappears as the air behind me slackens off. Whoever it is doesn’t like to get wet, or doesn’t like dogs. Gertie sniffs the ground and yelps a little, but she’s no guard dog, just curious.

“Is that your name?” I call out, still looking in the creek. “Nathaniel Pierce? Why are you doing this to me? Tell me right now.”

No answer. Well, did I expect someone who isn’t there to answer? But he
did
give me his name, and he knows mine.

Holding Gertie’s wet body like a shield, I get real brave. “Okay, if you’re not a reenactor, if you’re a ghost or something —
I can’t believe I’m saying this — you might as well let me see you. This hide-and-seek isn’t working for me.”

The dense air shimmers. Right in front of my eyes, the molecules — or whatever — form themselves into a shadowy image. A young man, maybe two years older than I am, wearing that same blue visor cap. For one crazy moment I think he’s my mirror reflection. I reach up to see if there’s a cap on my head.

He’s still in that ragged military uniform, which maybe used to be navy blue, and one scuffed boot. The other foot’s bound in filthy rags. His eyes capture me; obsidian-black pools. His lips move, but no sound comes out. Is he mute? Am I deaf?

Gertie sits peacefully on my lap, soaking me to the skin. She doesn’t seem to see the boy at all. This is weird beyond disturbing, and yet something tells me it’s okay, that I’ve been down this road before.

“Why are you here, Nathaniel Pierce?”

Gertie looks up, but realizes I’m not talking to her.

The soldier’s heard me. He shakes his head from side to side, me following those black eyes. He turns all the way around. That’s when I see the torn fabric and dried blood of a gaping hole in the middle of his back. As if someone had aimed for his heart.

My own heart thuds, then sinks. Ever since the crystal-ball scare, I’ve tried to be a rational person, so I scan through possibilities. Theory One: He’s really that gardener kid, Evan, in a wig and vintage uniform, playing a nasty trick on me. Evan seems like the kind who’ll do anything for attention.

But no, the truth’s in the eyes. This guy has those black, mesmerizing ones. And — whatever he is — he sends a warm feeling through me. My face flushes, as though there’s a strong tug between us. The lawn-mower guy just makes me smile at his cute arrogance.

Theory Two: Nathaniel Pierce is a ghost, and I knew him in a past life. How bizarre is that? I don’t believe in reincarnation. This is my first time around, for sure, and my last. Come on, if I’d lived before, wouldn’t I have picked someplace more exotic for my next life than Gettysburg, Pennsylvania? I mean, really.

Okay, new theory. Maybe he’s just a disturbance in the atmosphere. Weather patterns can do all kinds of crazy things, right?

Yeah, but what about the wound in his back?
I ask myself.

Just then, he turns around and hands me something. I blink, realizing what it is.
My diary!

“You read my private thoughts!” I snap, my fury erasing my uncertainty about this apparition.

His eyes are haunting, unnerving. They’re not just sad; they plead. He needs something from me. He clears his throat and says hoarsely, “Your diary … you don’t write in it much, do you?”

“Only when the spirit moves me.” Instantly I realize how ironic
that
is.

Our hands brush briefly. His smile is warm and doesn’t jibe with those sad eyes. “Forgive me,” he says. I’m not sure I’m ready to.

I take the diary and flip it open. No wonder he knew my full name — it’s written there on the first page:
Lorelei Cordelia Chase
.

I flip to the last entry, about my farewell party. Danny Bartoli was there, so I’d detailed certain things about him: his short, curly hair; his broad shoulders; his favorite phrase, which is “catch ya after the fireworks,” written seven times across the page. Oh! This is humiliating. I flip past more pages. Then I notice a page dog-eared, an old entry from my freshman year of high school. It’s the one about the crystal ball, the dead boy from Delaware County.

I look up and my eyes meet Nathaniel Pierce’s. He says, “I had to be sure you were the one.”

I shoot back, “Which one? I don’t know what you’re talking
about, but I’ll tell you this, Nathaniel Pierce, reading my journal is such an invasion.”

His eyes narrow, as if he’s puzzled. He’s a soldier:
Invasion
has a different meaning in the military. “Trampling on my private life,” I explain, though my words are losing steam. He’s stirred me, charged my curiosity. “What do you want with me?” I demand.

“I need your help to solve a murder.”

“Oh, really? Who’s the murder victim?” I ask sarcastically.

“I am.”

His eyes flutter shut. Such long, dark eyelashes brush his rough cheeks. Then, in a second, he’s gone, and I suddenly feel an overwhelming loneliness. My own, or his?

THIS IS TOO
much for me to handle alone. I need to talk to Jocelyn. I shoot her a quick message, hoping for an immediate response.

She writes back right away.

I take a deep breath. Where do I start?

I leave my bedroom and stagger downstairs in a daze. I wonder if I should go back to the creek and try to find Nathaniel again. Or will he come find me? My parents have gone out to track down the nearest Home Depot. If they were here, would I tell them what was going on? I’m not sure.

In the front hall, I practically bump into a barefoot girl. Her high-top sneakers are clamped under her arm while she tries to tie a scarf around her wild chipmunk-brown hair. It’s long enough to sit on. Ouch.

“Hi,” she says to me. “I’m Charlotte. I’m late again, I know.”

The grandfather clock in the hall is chiming the quarter hour — one of the few things I like about this house.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “Bertha’s in the basement.”

She smiles and drops her sneakers. “Didn’t know you’d moved in already.”

“I’m Lori, and yeah, we’re here,” I say with a sigh.

Charlotte nods. “So, you’ve met the darling Drydens.”

“Charmers.”

Charlotte’s hopping on one foot while struggling to get her sock and shoe on the other. I move aside so she can plop down on the bottom step to complete the job.

“New carpeting, and so foresty green,” she says, looking around. “I’ll be vacuuming up green scraps and fibers for weeks.” Her jeans are creamy-soft, thinned to nearly white in places, and her T-shirt hugs her roundish middle. A monkey grins on the front, with his arm stretched all the way around to her back like a hug.

“I’ll help vacuum,” I volunteer, eager for something to take my mind off Nathaniel. “Lots of hotel experience.”

An uneasy look flashes across Charlotte’s face and vanishes just as fast. “That’ll be a change. I’ve done this house by myself for the past four years. Ever since I turned fifteen.” She lifts the hem of her shirt and wipes a smudge off the wallpaper. “This house is putting me through school. I’ll be a sophomore at the college, come fall. What about you?”

“One more year of high school,” I mutter.

“Get Mrs. Whitmont for English. The other one, Engles, is hideous. Oh, and make sure you get your locker at the north end of the hall, away from the bathrooms.” Charlotte wrinkles up her nose. “Smells emanate.”

I like her easy, chattery way.

“Which room’s yours?” she asks me, standing up.

“The round one, up top.”

“You’re living in the tower?” Charlotte looks horrified.

“There does seem to be something odd about it,” I admit, the memory of last night making me shudder.

She frowns. “Like what?”

I don’t know how to answer, so she says, “A spirit?”

My shock must show on my face. “I — I don’t know,” I stammer. “It sounds ridiculous. You probably don’t believe in ghosts any more than I do.”

“I believe, actually. Spirits are all around us,” she says matter-of-factly. “I have to block them out. Sometimes humming works, or whistling.” She treats me to a high-pitched version of the Seven Dwarfs’
Heigh-Ho, heigh-Ho, it’s off to work we go.
“Listen, I have an idea. It’s my night off from my other job. My boyfriend, Eddie, is busy working so I’m totally free. Why don’t we take one of those ghost tours tonight? We’ll meet at the tour place on Steinwehr, quarter to ten. By the time we’re done, maybe you’ll know whether what you saw in the tower room is a spirit for real or not.” She walks over to the linen closet, reaching in for an armful of sheets. She says over her shoulder, “Some see spirits, some don’t. Maybe you’ll be one of the lucky ones.”

Yes, but is it lucky to see them, or lucky not to? Guess I’ll find out tonight. It’ll be corny and over-the-top for sure. But in the back of my mind I’m hoping I’ll encounter Nathaniel Pierce,
since I don’t know any other way to find him. And I think I do want to see him again.

The candlelight ghost tour looks like trick or treat. Murmuring clusters of ghost-walkers are padding around in the dark.

“Gee, I hope there are enough ghosts to go around,” I joke.

Charlotte seems jittery. “Don’t worry.”

Our group is an edgy circle of people, some with cameras to capture the spirits on video. Heather, our guide, counts us and proclaims, “Oh, dear, thirteen, not an auspicious number.” She wears a long hoop-skirted dress to make her look 1860ish. The dress sways over her red checkered Vans, which we’re not supposed to see. Impossibly black, straight wig-hair hangs down her back, trailing to wispy ends. She is careful to remind us that there are no guarantees and no refunds. “Even if you don’t have a single experience on this dark, moonless night of high promise.”

It sounds silly, but it’s fun, like the séances Jos and I used to do.

We each get a glow-stick bracelet, so we all look bile-green and ghoulish. We follow Heather’s lantern, in which a single candle melts. The trick is to finish the walk before the candle’s just a waxy puddle and we’re all plunged into what Heather
calls “the dark depths of despair such as some of our resident spirits experience.”

No one is taking this seriously, although Charlotte looks greener than most of us.

We trudge up Steinwehr Avenue while Heather talks about the history of Gettysburg in a somber monotone so as not to disturb the spirits. She stops and lays her palm reverently on the ground. “In this very battlefield hundreds of soldiers lay wounded or dead.” We peer into the dark abyss of grass made black by night. “Some hear their piteous moans.”

What I hear is a car full of kids racing up the pike, horns blaring.

“Feel the breeze of passing spirits,” Heather drones. “I implore you to engage all your senses. See, hear, smell, taste, touch the mysteries around you.”

I listen, look, touch the grass, sniff at the air. Nothing.

Heather holds her lantern up to shoulder height so we can step around the breaks in the cement without stumbling into the gutter, and she leads us ghouls up the road. She has tales for just about every building. After a half hour, we come to Weinbrenner Creek. Suddenly the atmosphere changes and the hair stands up on the back of my neck and my arms. I interrupt Heather’s script: “What happened here?”

She raises her lantern to highlight my face. Her look’s intense, jarring.

“By July fourth, which wasn’t yet a national holiday, the Battle had ended. It was not the end of misery in this town, where bodies of men and horses were strewn everywhere. Even more tragic were the wounded who waited for help.”

“But what happened
here
?” I demand again, and Charlotte gives me an elbow to the ribs.

“Patience. I’m coming to that,” Heather says. “Look down into the creek. Imagine four wounded soldiers writhing in agony. They’re awaiting rescue to a field hospital, too weak, too torn apart, to get there on their own. A driving rain comes. It rains so torrentially that the summer-dry creek fills with flood waters. All four soldiers are washed away, drowned.”

I gaze down at the tall grass waving in the breeze. A raw, searing grief shakes me to my bones. I rip off the ghoulish glow bracelet and drop it gently into the creek — flowers on a grave.

“I have to go home, right now,” I whisper to Charlotte. This all feels suddenly too real to me.

“You can’t do that,” Charlotte hisses. “Next stop’s the cemetery. That’s the best part.” She pats my arm to soothe me, and I’m wondering what on earth just happened. It’s like a sudden storm surged through me, then passed almost as quickly.

Heather’s lantern dances through the dark, then glows brighter as the moon slides behind a cloud. Heather leads us up the road toward the cemetery. Make that
cemeteries
, plural. Lucky Gettysburg, always obsessed with death, has two, right next to each other. There’s Evergreen, where, according to Heather, the locals have been burying their dead since 1854. Good to know life and death happened here even before the Battle. And there are still plots available, the sign says. Wow, something to look forward to.

“Right next door,” Heather tells us, “is the National Soldier’s Cemetery where Lincoln gave his famous Gettysburg Address. But, sad to say, it’s locked at night. Still, it’s our good fortune that Evergreen has no locked gates, so, here we go!”

A shiver runs through me, which I try to hide from Charlotte. She tugs me through the open gates. Just inside there looms a statue that looks totally black in the dark.

“This is Elizabeth Thorn.” Heather pours candlelight over the darkened bronze. “She and her husband ran the cemetery during the Civil War, but he was off soldiering in another state and wasn’t a veteran of our local Battle. That left poor Elizabeth to do the work of two, and with a passel of young children, besides.”

The statue captivates me. What was so special about this woman that they made a whole statue of her? She was obviously
pregnant, and how often do you see a pregnant statue? I circle the whole figure and come back to the front to stare at her face so long that I lose track of the rest of the group, who’ve wandered deeper into the cemetery. Charlotte doubles back to pull me toward the others.

We walk over graves while Heather talks about the lives of the spirits. I’ve stopped listening, This place feels so eerie. The ground is an impenetrable black with headstones jutting upward, silvery white as the moon that slides in and out of the clouds.

“Should we be walking on these graves?” I ask Charlotte.

“They don’t mind.” She’s humming quietly but doesn’t seem upset, like a cemetery is her natural habitat, the way squirrels live in trees.

Heather says, “Ladies and gents, this concludes our tour. Come back tomorrow to visit the National Soldier’s Cemetery. Of course, it’s not as captivating in the light of day.”

Her candle’s just a stub now, barely poking its lit wick over the puddle of wax, and she’s leading our crew toward the Evergreen gates. I stop suddenly and yank on Charlotte’s shirt. The headstone in front of us is radiating heat. Charlotte nods her approval as I tentatively reach out and touch the granite for a second, then snap my hand back like it might get scorched. I can’t see the name on the headstone because the moon has dipped below the horizon. But I know whose grave it is.

And then I see him materializing in front of the headstone, and my heart leaps to my throat.

“Nathaniel Pierce,” I whisper, startling Charlotte, who says, “That’s his name?”

Nathaniel sees that I’m not alone, and he vanishes, vaporizes, whatever.

Charlotte isn’t at all surprised. “I’ve always wondered who he was,” she whispers, “but he’s never spoken to me. Handsome guy, isn’t he? Wonder what his story is.”

I’m stunned that Charlotte has seen Nathaniel, and I want to tell her everything. But at the same time, I sense that what Nathaniel has told me is private, somehow. He only wants me to know it.

Heather calls to us. “Girls? Come! We’re walking back to our meeting place, and please be assured, pilgrims, that I wouldn’t be insulted by a small gratuity….”

Charlotte leans toward me. “She’s a total phony, but your Nathaniel Pierce, he’s the real thing.”