bank, slip on my sandals, and start walking. The closer I get to the shed, the more uneasy I feel. Wish I’d brought Gertie with me, because someone’s still in there.
“Dad?” As soon as the word’s out of my mouth, the light flicks off. There’s scurrying around inside; something crashes to the floor, followed by a gasp.
Is Dad hurt? I should go in and help, but my pulse is racing and thumping at the side of my head. Something tells me not to go in. It’s like that scene in every scary movie when you want to scream at the girl, Don’t go in there! Don’t open that door!
Forget it. I unlatch the door. Inside it’s totally dark. As my eyes adjust, I make out the lawn mower and hoes and shovels standing like silent skeletons. I have a vision of a rake coming to life, chasing me with its vicious claws. Things like this never used to creep into my head. But now that I’m certain ghosts are real, I’m wondering if there’s something sinister about Coolspring Inn, maybe even a person, or an entity of some sort that doesn’t want me here.
Something that seemed frozen in place moves! Just enough for me to register that it’s alive. I’m pumped with adrenaline. I take baby steps back toward the door. Whoever or whatever is hiding in the corner can’t see me any better than I can seeit. Suddenly the figure sinks to the floor, crouching behind something — maybe a gas drum or a gunnysack of fertilizer. Nothing’s clear except shape and shadow. The figure’s crab-walking across the floor. I stare in fascination, too paralyzed to run. But then, running would make me too obvious a target. Flowerpots go flying and shattering in its wake as the figure darts toward the back of the shed. The top half of the split door opens. Moonlight floods the shed as the intruder catapults over the bottom half of the door. From the back, it could be anybody, but at least I know it’s not an any thing .
Who might have been snooping around in the shed? Could it have been Nathaniel? But why would he run away from me? I hope it’s not some other ghost. One’s all I can handle.
I can’t remember if the shed is usually locked, but even if it wasn’t locked, somebody crept in who shouldn’t have; somebody who didn’t want to get caught. Think, Lori! The figure could have been male or female. Too thin to be Bertha. Too upright to be Old Dryden. Had to be somebody pretty limber to leap over the half door. Maybe it was Evan Maxwell? But why would he have to sneak in and out under cover of darkness, when he’s got access to the shed all the time? Or was it Dad? Why would he hide and crawl across the floor? Maybe he thought he was the one who belonged in the shed, but I was some dangerous intruder that he needed to escape from. Butno, it’s not Dad’s style to slink away in fear. He’s more likely to be the guy awakened by a suspicious sound in the middle of the night who goes downstairs to confront the intruder with a Pennsylvania-ash baseball bat. And he must have heard me yell, “Dad!”
Nothing makes sense.
Outside the shed, I listen in the steamy night for movement, footsteps, crunched gravel. It’s quiet as a cavern; even the whippoorwill had the good sense to shut up. The moon slides in and out of sight, obscured by tall pines. I turn and hurry toward the house, try the front door.
No! Mom locks it at ten o’clock, and I forgot my key. I lean on the bell until Mom opens the little peephole in the red door.
“Oh, Lori, it’s you, in one piece. My goodness, I thought it was a dire emergency.” She opens the door and drags me inside, sighing in relief.
In the quiet of my tower room, my body stops ticking like a demented clock. I manage to change into my pj’s and crawl under the covers. The reassuring drone of Amelia Wilhoit’s printer in the room under me lulls me to sleep.
The next morning I wake refreshed; no spooky dreams or shimmery night visitors. Last night’s incident in the shed seems innocent in the
“Dad?” As soon as the word’s out of my mouth, the light flicks off. There’s scurrying around inside; something crashes to the floor, followed by a gasp.
Is Dad hurt? I should go in and help, but my pulse is racing and thumping at the side of my head. Something tells me not to go in. It’s like that scene in every scary movie when you want to scream at the girl, Don’t go in there! Don’t open that door!
Forget it. I unlatch the door. Inside it’s totally dark. As my eyes adjust, I make out the lawn mower and hoes and shovels standing like silent skeletons. I have a vision of a rake coming to life, chasing me with its vicious claws. Things like this never used to creep into my head. But now that I’m certain ghosts are real, I’m wondering if there’s something sinister about Coolspring Inn, maybe even a person, or an entity of some sort that doesn’t want me here.
Something that seemed frozen in place moves! Just enough for me to register that it’s alive. I’m pumped with adrenaline. I take baby steps back toward the door. Whoever or whatever is hiding in the corner can’t see me any better than I can seeit. Suddenly the figure sinks to the floor, crouching behind something — maybe a gas drum or a gunnysack of fertilizer. Nothing’s clear except shape and shadow. The figure’s crab-walking across the floor. I stare in fascination, too paralyzed to run. But then, running would make me too obvious a target. Flowerpots go flying and shattering in its wake as the figure darts toward the back of the shed. The top half of the split door opens. Moonlight floods the shed as the intruder catapults over the bottom half of the door. From the back, it could be anybody, but at least I know it’s not an any thing .
Who might have been snooping around in the shed? Could it have been Nathaniel? But why would he run away from me? I hope it’s not some other ghost. One’s all I can handle.
I can’t remember if the shed is usually locked, but even if it wasn’t locked, somebody crept in who shouldn’t have; somebody who didn’t want to get caught. Think, Lori! The figure could have been male or female. Too thin to be Bertha. Too upright to be Old Dryden. Had to be somebody pretty limber to leap over the half door. Maybe it was Evan Maxwell? But why would he have to sneak in and out under cover of darkness, when he’s got access to the shed all the time? Or was it Dad? Why would he hide and crawl across the floor? Maybe he thought he was the one who belonged in the shed, but I was some dangerous intruder that he needed to escape from. Butno, it’s not Dad’s style to slink away in fear. He’s more likely to be the guy awakened by a suspicious sound in the middle of the night who goes downstairs to confront the intruder with a Pennsylvania-ash baseball bat. And he must have heard me yell, “Dad!”
Nothing makes sense.
Outside the shed, I listen in the steamy night for movement, footsteps, crunched gravel. It’s quiet as a cavern; even the whippoorwill had the good sense to shut up. The moon slides in and out of sight, obscured by tall pines. I turn and hurry toward the house, try the front door.
No! Mom locks it at ten o’clock, and I forgot my key. I lean on the bell until Mom opens the little peephole in the red door.
“Oh, Lori, it’s you, in one piece. My goodness, I thought it was a dire emergency.” She opens the door and drags me inside, sighing in relief.
In the quiet of my tower room, my body stops ticking like a demented clock. I manage to change into my pj’s and crawl under the covers. The reassuring drone of Amelia Wilhoit’s printer in the room under me lulls me to sleep.
The next morning I wake refreshed; no spooky dreams or shimmery night visitors. Last night’s incident in the shed seems innocent in the
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