The Ghost of Fossil Glen (5 page)

“Hi, Mom,” Allie called as she and Dub walked through the door of Mrs. Nichols's shop.

“Hi, Al. Back here,” a muffled voice replied.

Allie and Dub walked through the main part of the store, past tastefully arranged groupings of furniture, paintings, china, glassware, quilts, and books to a small room that seemed to be overflowing with clutter. Papers, folders, empty packing boxes, crumpled newspapers, and an odd assortment of antiques and framed pictures were piled haphazardly on every available surface.

Mrs. Nichols was bending over a carton, poking through the contents. She looked up, brushing her hair from her face, leaving a streak of dirt across her forehead. She looked hot and sweaty, and her clothing was covered with dust. “Hi, you two.”

“Gee, Mom,” said Allie, looking around, “if my room looked like this, you'd have a fit.”

“It
is
a mess, isn't it?” said Mrs. Nichols cheerfully. “It's all this new stock I've gotten in the past two days. I'm trying to unpack, clean, and price everything, and, wouldn't you know,
customers
keep coming in and distracting me!”

She turned to Dub. “You didn't know how glamorous this job was, did you?”

Dub laughed. “We could help,” he said.

“That's nice of you, Dub. And I'd take you up on it, except that right now everything is so disorganized I wouldn't know where to tell you to start.”

“Where'd you get all this stuff, Mom?” Allie asked.

“I told you about the man in the van, didn't I?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Remember this morning when we passed the Stiles house and I said I thought I recognized the van in the driveway? Well, I was right. It was the same one. That's where all these new items came from.”

Allie lifted her eyebrows. “All this is from the Stiles house?”

“Yes.”

“Is someone new moving in?” Dub asked.

“I don't know. But I'd certainly be glad to see someone living in that beautiful old house. It's a shame for it to stand vacant like that.” Mrs. Nichols's face brightened as she remembered something. “You came to see the desk, didn't you? Come on. It's right out here.”

Allie and Dub followed Mrs. Nichols to the front of the shop. “What do you think?”

By the window were an old-fashioned wooden desk and a matching chair. The desk had a high back with lots of little drawers and pigeonholes. Allie lifted the lid of the slanted writing surface. Inside were more drawers and cubbyholes. Larger drawers on both sides reached to the floor.

The wood seemed to glow in the warm afternoon light that streamed through the window. Allie breathed deeply, catching the scent of lemon polish. “It's so beautiful,” she said, rubbing her hand along the polished surface. Turning to her mother, she asked, “May I really have it?”

Mrs. Nichols nodded. “If you like it, it's yours.”

“I love it,” said Allie.

“Tell you what,” said Mrs. Nichols. “Why don't you two remove all the drawers to make it lighter. Then the three of us should have no problem carrying it. I'll bring the car around to the front door, and we'll see if we can fit it in.”

Working together, they managed to wrestle the desk into the back seat of the car, and the drawers and the chair into the trunk.

“There,” said Mrs. Nichols. “But there's no room for you two now.”

“That's okay,” said Allie. “We were thinking about going to Dub's to look up some stuff on his computer, anyway.”

“All right. But be home by six for dinner.”

“Okay. After dinner, can we put the desk in my room?”

“Of course.”

“Bye, Mrs. Nichols,” said Dub.

“Nice to see you, Dub.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Bye, sweetie.”

As she and Dub walked up the main street of town toward Dub's house, Allie thought how strange it was that her new desk came from the Stiles house, and her mind flashed on the image of Lucy Stiles's lonely grave.

When they arrived at Dub's house, he opened the door with a key he wore around his neck. No one was home. Dub's mother traveled a lot for her job with a computer company, and his father was still at work. It was because of his mother's job that Dub always had the most up-to-the-minute computer and programs.

They got a package of cookies and some milk and sat side by side in front of the computer. Dub turned it on. While it clicked and whirred, he said, “Let's try typing in the key word ‘ghost' and see what we get.”

“Okay,” said Allie. She watched, fascinated, as Dub used the mouse and keyboard to skip from screen to screen. Mumbling to himself, he said, “Space ghost, no. Ghost towns, no. Chinese hopping ghosts…”

“That sounds interesting,” said Allie.

“I know, but we can't get distracted. It's not really what we're looking for,” said Dub, continuing to scroll through the list of ghost-related topics.

“What
are
we looking for?” asked Allie.

“Here we go! Ghost stories are us…Ghosts around the world…True ghost stories…Let's try that.” He clicked the mouse on the third entry.

Allie read aloud, quickly jumping from one paragraph to another: “‘True ghost stories…gathered from over two hundred people and twenty countries…Brief text of each story…followed by an analysis of common elements…' Okay, keep going.”

Allie and Dub scanned screen after screen of tales told by people who claimed to have been visited by ghosts. Amid the fantastic tales were repeated references to both whispered and written messages from the ghost. Often, people told of feeling shivers or chills in its presence. Ghosts appeared to people in many different ways, and their powers were quite varied. Sometimes they caused events, sometimes they encouraged a living person to make things happen.

At last, Allie and Dub reached the end of the stories.

“Wow,” said Dub. “Makes you wonder, doesn't it?”

Allie shifted uneasily in her chair. “Let's see what it says here at the end.” She continued reading aloud: “‘Many of the stories suggest that the strength and ability of a ghost are related to the age and power of the person at the time of his or her death. The ghost of an infant, therefore, is often said to be weak and ineffectual, perhaps making its presence known only by the faint sound of its cries. The ghost of a forty-year-old woman, on the other hand, may be able to make itself known to humans in many different ways in order to influence earthly events.'”

Allie looked at Dub. “Strange, huh? Now listen to this: ‘In almost every case, the ghost is an unwilling spirit who was treated unfairly in life and who can find no rest until the wrongs against him or her are redressed.

“‘Some ghosts seek revenge, others seek justice. Some appear to the person who wronged them; others choose a person, often a stranger, whom they believe can make things right again. Then, and only then, can the spirit be at peace and leave the human world behind. This theme is the most common feature of all human encounters with ghosts, regardless of the country or culture of origin.'”

Allie sighed. “Well, if I'm going crazy, at least I'm not alone. Actually, reading all these other people's stories makes me feel
less
crazy. It makes me think we're on the right track. But you know what I wonder most of all?”

“Who the ghost—if it is a ghost—is?”

“Yes, that. But, even more…” She paused. “Why did it pick
me?
”

Dub thought for a moment. “Good question.”

Allie glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Oh! It's after six. I'd better call Mom and tell her I'm on my way.”

“Go ahead,” Dub said. “The computer's on a separate line.”

She picked up the phone and dialed, while Dub kept clicking from one screen to another. “Dad? It's me. Dub and I were working on the computer and lost track of the time. Yeah. I'm leaving right now. Okay. Bye.”

To Dub she said, “I've got to go. See you tomorrow.”

But Dub was deep in cyberspace again. “Okay, Al,” he said, without taking his eyes from the screen. “See you later.”

Allie walked home, feeling excited, but jittery. Every few moments she looked back over her shoulder, half expecting to see or hear something. It appeared, at least so far, that the ghost meant her no harm. Still, she couldn't help feeling thankful that nightfall was at least an hour away.

After dinner, Allie and her parents unloaded the desk from the car, carried it upstairs to her room, and arranged it against the wall in place of the old plywood-and-block table.

Mrs. Nichols squinted critically at the desk, shifted it slightly to the right, then to the left. Finally, she said, “It looks nice right there, don't you think?”

“It's perfect,” said Allie.

Michael appeared at the door, holding a tablet and a box of crayons. “Can I color at your new desk, Allie?” he asked.

Allie smiled when she saw his serious expression. “You have some important work to do?” she asked.

Michael nodded.

“Okay. Come here,” said Allie. She pulled out the chair for him, and Michael sat down and opened his crayon box.

“Don't you have any homework, now that you have an official desk to do it on?” asked her father.

“Nope,” said Allie happily. “We don't even have to write in our journals tonight. Mr. Henry collected them today. He's probably reading them right now.”

Allie glanced up and caught a look passing between her parents. They sat down, Mr. Nichols in the chair opposite Allie's, Mrs. Nichols on the bed. Michael, seated in Allie's new chair, was concentrating on his paper.

“If you don't have any homework, honey,” her mother said gently, “would you like to talk about what happened with Karen and Pam?”

Allie sighed. “Not really,” she said.

“It's not always easy for three people to be friends,” said Mrs. Nichols. “Someone usually ends up feeling left out.”

“Yeah,” said Allie. “Like me.”

“Your mother said they called you a liar,” said her father. “What was that all about?”

Allie groaned inwardly. She was going to have to go through the whole thing all over again. Her parents were both looking at her with earnest, serious expressions. She knew they only wanted to help, but she really didn't feel like talking about it.

“We were talking at lunch about a teacher at school, Mr. Pinkney, and about Ms. Gillespie and Mrs. Hobbs—she's this really crabby cafeteria lady—and trying to figure out how they ended up working at our school. I mean, that's what I thought we were doing: just fooling around and making up theories,” she explained as patiently as she could.

Her parents sat listening, their eyebrows lifted with interest and concern, waiting for her to say more. When she didn't, her father said, “So these theories of yours about Ms. Gillespie and the others—were they true?”

“I don't know,” said Allie, trying not to sound as exasperated as she felt. “Probably not. That's what I'm trying to tell you: we were just speculating. And I was being kind of silly, on purpose. Trying to imagine, for example, what a guy like Mr. Pinkney is doing teaching
gym
.”

Mr. and Mrs. Nichols met with Mr. Pinkney each year at Open House Night at school. Allie's father was trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin. “I can see how you might wonder,” he said.

“So I was trying to think of possible reasons,” Allie went on. “I like to try and figure people out.”

“But you were just guessing,” said her mother.

“Well, yeah,” answered Allie. “Of course.”

“And sometimes your theories are so convincing that you believe they're real?” her mother probed.

Allie squirmed uncomfortably. “No. But some things I just
know
. The basic facts are obvious to anybody with eyes.”

“You've always been mighty observant, Allie-Cat,” her father said with a smile.

“Just so you keep the facts separate from the theories,” said her mother.

“I know the difference, Mom,” said Allie.

“Maybe you need to explain it to Karen and Pam,” said her mother.

“Maybe,” said Allie doubtfully. “I'll try.” It sounded like a good idea. But how did you explain something to people who didn't even want to talk to you?

Her parents left the room, her father patting her shoulder reassuringly, her mother quickly kissing her cheek. Allie sat where she was and sighed, feeling her excitement over the new desk slowly leaking away. She looked at Michael, who was sitting on his knees on the desk chair, leaning over his coloring.

He carefully folded his paper in half and handed it to Allie. “Here,” he said. “I made it for you.”

Allie opened the page and saw that Michael had drawn two figures. One was obviously a girl, with straight brown hair like Allie's and a big red smile. The other was a boy wearing Michael's favorite X-Man shirt. The two figures were about the same size and seemed to be holding hands.

“That's you,” said Michael, pointing to the paper. “And that's me. Except it's when I'm grown up and I'm eleven, too.”

Allie smiled. She didn't tell Michael that when he was eleven years old, she would be eighteen, hard as that was to imagine.

Michael continued his explanation of the picture. “See? We're friends.” He looked at Allie very seriously. “And I never, ever call you a liar.”

Allie felt tears spring to her eyes. She grabbed Michael in a fierce bear hug so he wouldn't think it was his picture that had made her sad.

“Thanks, Mikey,” she whispered in his ear. She breathed in his little-boy smell, a combination of No More Tears shampoo and some peanut butter that she saw was stuck in his hair. “I love it. It's going right here,” she said, and taped the picture on the wall over her desk.

Mr. Nichols put his head in the door to tell Michael it was time to get ready for bed, and Allie sat down at the desk to think. It was clear that she saw and heard things that others didn't. Like the face of a girl with curly black hair. Like the voice of a girl saying, “Help me.”

Her parents tried to understand, but they didn't really get it. How could she tell them now that she was pretty sure she was being visited by a ghost?