The Ghost in the Third Row (12 page)

I stopped picking dandelions and looked at her. “What,” I asked sternly, “are you talking about?”

“Boredom—which is what I'm going to die of after you go.” She began sliding down the side of a monument that was right by the tree. “It's starting to happen already! I see a light, Nine! A light at the end of a long, dark tunnel!”

Three seconds later she was stretched out flat on the ground. She reached over, picked up one of my discarded dandelions, and laid it on her chest.

“Ah-hoo,” she said weakly.

“Ah-hoo?” I asked.

“It's the sound someone makes when they die of boredom.”

I dropped my dandelions on her face. “You think this stupid inn is going to be fun?” I asked. “I bet there won't be anybody there but old people in their forties. I won't know anyone. I'll be cut off from my home and my friends. But is anyone worried about me? Oh, no! Does anyone wonder how I'm going to do, all alone out there in the boondocks? Oh, no! Does anyone—”

“But a ghost!” cried Chris, jumping up and brushing off her jeans. “It's got a ghost. I can't believe it. Your father has a job at a haunted inn! Some people have all the luck.”

“It's just an old story,” I said, trying to sound like I wasn't really excited.

“Yeah—like the ghost in the Grand Theater was just an old story. What kind of ghost is it, anyway?”

“I don't know. Dad just said the inn was rumored to be haunted. I think he only told me so I wouldn't complain too much about going. Anyway, I wish you could come, too.”

I stopped talking and stared into the distance. “Hold on,” I whispered. “I think I'm about to be brilliant. Would your parents let you come with us?”

“Probably,” Chris said. “They're always glad to get one of us out of their hair for a while.”

I could understand that. The Gurleys have a huge family. Chris is the only girl, so visiting her is a little like taking a field trip to the YMCA. Or the monkey house at the zoo.

“OK, when you get home tonight try to talk them into it.”

“What good will that do? Your father's the one who counts. And I doubt he's going to want me hanging around for three weeks.”

“Sure he will,” I said. Actually, I wasn't as confident as I sounded. But I thought if I worked it right I wouldn't have to talk him into it at all.

I started at suppertime.

“Something wrong with the cooking?” asked my father as he watched me shove a carrot back and forth across my plate.

“No,” I said quietly. “The cooking's fine.” It was, too. Except for the nights when he gets too adventurous, my father's really good in the kitchen.

“Well, if it's not the food, it must be the company,” he said. “Sorry I'm boring you.”

“Oh, it's not that,” I said.

He put down his fork. “OK, Nine. What's up?”

“Nothing.”

He tightened the corners of his mouth. “I've seen rocks with more enthusiasm for life than you're showing at the moment.”

“Are you going to be very busy while we're at this inn?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “It's a big project for me.”

“Oh. Well, will I see much of you?”

“I expect so,” he said, although he sounded a little less certain of himself.

“Will there be many kids there?”

He started to answer me, then stopped. “I'm not sure.”

“That's OK,” I said. “I was just wondering. Can I be excused? I have to start packing.”

I walked slowly away from the table. Then I went in my room, closed the door, and looked at the clock. Six-thirty. I wondered how long it would take. I remembered Cute Edgar, the director of
The Woman in White
, telling me that one of the great secrets of acting was planting a seed in the audience's mind and then letting it grow by itself.

“Your problem, Nine,” he added “is that once you plant the seed, you go overboard with the fertilizer.”

Except he didn't say fertilizer.

At seven forty-three my father came through. “Listen, Nine,” he said, poking his head into my room, “I've been thinking. I'm going to be awfully busy while we're at the Quackadoodle. Do you suppose Chris might like to come along to keep you company?”

I jumped off my bed with a whoop and gave him a hug. When he left I grabbed my phone and called Chris. “Start packing!” I yelled. “We leave at eight-thirty Wednesday morning!”

About ten minutes later Dad poked his head into the room again. “You know,” he said, “you could have just asked.” Sometimes I wonder who's fooling who around here.

CHAPTER THREE

How to Pack

“OK, Sidney,” I said, “time to move.”

I scooped our cat off my underwear and dumped him onto the floor. Sidney gave my leg a halfhearted whack with his paw, made his cranky sound, and stalked out of my room, twitching his tail angrily.

“That,” said Chris, “is one weird cat.” She was sitting at the head of my bed, helping me pack, which in this case meant rolling her eyes whenever she considered a piece of clothing too hideous for words.

“Ten minutes!” yelled my father from the living room.

“Ten minutes,” I muttered. “I can't possibly be ready in ten minutes!”

“You had all last week,” Chris said quietly.

“Don't
you
start on me,” I snapped.

What Chris had said was true, of course. But I was already feeling sorry for myself because I had realized that while my father is good at a whole lot of things a mother usually does, helping me get ready for a trip is not one of them. I was also feeling a little silly, because I realized it was no big deal, and guilty, because I knew I was going to make us late. Also cranky, because I really didn't want Chris to watch me pack.

“I think I'll go talk to Sidney,” said Chris. “He's in a better mood.”

I waited until she was gone, then sighed in relief. Now I could get started! Using what I call the grab-and-stuff method, I snatched up the pile of underwear and threw it in the suitcase. Socks, shirts, jeans, and T-shirts came next. A couple of sweaters, a few good skirts and blouses, and I was just about finished.

It's a very efficient system, but not the kind of thing you particularly want someone else to watch. I almost made it, too. I was just trying to close the lid when Chris came back into the room. “Good grief,” she said, when she saw the stack of clothes being squashed into the suitcase.

“Be quiet and help me push,” I said. She got on the other corner of the suitcase. Between the two of us we managed to get it closed and fastened.

“Uh-oh,” said Chris.

The cuff of a red sweater was sticking out on the right side.

“Forget it,” I said. “Getting it in now would be more trouble than it's worth.”

“The Golden Chariot awaits,” called my father. The Golden Chariot is what Dad likes to call his car, which is this ancient 1964 Cadillac he bought when I was a little kid. It's yellow and white. It has huge fins. And it's longer than almost every parking space in town. It also breaks down at least once a month, but Dad claims the repair bills are no worse than the car payments most people make. He says its worth it to have a car with class.

I think it makes sense for a preservation architect to have a car like that. It's like the buildings he loves—big, old, and kind of funky.

Chris had ridden in the Chariot several times. But she still wasn't prepared for how much room we had in the trunk. After Dad opened it, she stood looking inside for a moment then said, with awe in her voice, “You know, if you put in plumbing, you could rent that out as an apartment.”

Like I said, it's a big car.

Since I believe in first things first, my box of books was already in the trunk. Dad's tennis racket and golf clubs lay next to them.

“Hey, Mr. T,” said Chris, “I thought this was a working trip.”

“It's an experiment,” I said. “He hasn't played golf in seven years.”

“I am ignoring you both,” said my father, throwing in the last of the suitcases. He went back into the house. A minute later he came out with the cat carrier. Sidney was inside, complaining mightily.

“Is he coming with us?” asked Chris.

“He's staying with my grandmother,” I said.

“Lucky Gramma,” said Chris, climbing into the backseat of the Chariot. I climbed in next to her.

Dad started the car.

“Are we almost there?” I teased when we got to the end of the block.

“Did I tell you I found a kennel that takes kids?” replied Dad.

I decided to be quiet for a while. It was four hours before I asked that same question again, and this time I was serious. I was sick of riding. Dad glanced at his watch, and at the map beside him. “Another hour and a half,” he said, “assuming Baltimore's directions are accurate.”

“Baltimore?” asked Chris.

“Baltimore Cleveland,” said Dad. “The man who owns the Quackadoodle.”

“You really know a human being named Baltimore Cleveland?” I asked.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Not only do I know him, but he's going to be our host for the next three weeks. And he's going to be paying me a lot of money.”

“It's a wonderful name,” I said. “Just wonderful. I think I'll look at the scenery for a while.”

The scenery was worth looking at. Steep, rocky hills covered with pines stretched up to our right. Little streams splashed and bounced down these same hills, then disappeared under the road, only to pop up on the other side, where they meandered off through the more gentle territory that sloped away in that direction. It reminded me of pictures I had seen of England.

“It won't be that much farther now,” announced my father as he turned the Golden Chariot onto a narrow, winding road. Dad's idea of not much farther is different from my own, but eventually we saw a sign that said “Quackadoodle Inn—3 miles.”

Eventually we saw the inn itself.

Dad stopped the car. He stared at the inn with a kind of glazed expression on his face. I couldn't tell if he was struck with a vision of what the place could be—or appalled by what it looked like right then.

“Well, Mr. Tanleven,” said Chris cheerfully, “it looks like you've got your work cut out for you.”

Dad's dream project was a rambling old three-story building, surrounded by a wide porch cluttered with big wooden chairs. The top of the inn was a strange jumble of towers, turrets, dormers, and cupolas.

It was fascinating. But it was also a mess. The porch was sagging, the roof was mossy, and the walls were marked by dark spots where shingles had fallen away.

I shivered. I had never seen a place that looked more likely to be haunted.

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A Personal History by Bruce Coville

I arrived in the world on May 16, 1950. Though I was born in the city of Syracuse, New York, I grew up as a country boy. This was because my family lived about twenty miles outside the city, and even three miles outside the little village of Phoenix, where I went to school from kindergarten through twelfth grade.

Our house was around the corner from my grandparents' dairy farm, where I spent a great deal of time playing when I was young, then helping with chores when I was older. Yep, I was a tractor-ridin', hay-bale-haulin', garden-weedin' kid.

I was also a reader.

It started with my parents, who read to me (which is the best way to make a reader)—a gift for which I am eternally grateful. In particular it was my father reading me
Tom Swift in the City of Gold
that turned me on to “big” books. I was particularly a fan of the Doctor Dolittle books, and I can remember getting up ahead of everyone else in the family so that I could huddle in a chair and read
The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle
.

I also read lots of things that people consider junk: Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, and zillions of comic books. In regard to the comics, I had a great deal going for me. My uncle ran a country store just up the road, and one of the things he sold was coverless comic books. (The covers had been stripped off and sent back to the publishers for credit. After that, the coverless books were sent to little country stores, where they were sold for a nickel apiece.) I was allowed to borrow them in stacks of thirty, read them, buy the ones I wanted to keep, and put the rest back in the bins for someone else to buy. It was heaven for a ten-year-old!

My only real regret from those years is the time I spent watching television, when I could have been reading instead. After all, the mind is a terrible thing to waste!

The first time I can remember thinking that I would like to be a writer came in sixth grade, when our teacher, Mrs. Crandall, gave us an extended period of time to write a long story. I had been doing poorly at writing all year long because we always had to write on a topic Mrs. Crandall chose. But this time, when I was free to write whatever I wanted, I loved doing it.

Of course, you think about doing many different things when you're a kid, but I kept coming back to the thought of being a writer. For a long time my dream job was to write for Marvel Comics.

I began working seriously at writing when I was seventeen and started what became my first novel. It was a terrible book, but I had a good time writing it and learned a great deal in the process.

In 1969, when I was nineteen, I married Katherine Dietz, who lived around the corner from me. Kathy was (and is) a wonderful artist, and we began trying to create books together, me writing and Kathy doing the art.

Like most people, I was not able to start selling my stories right away. So I had many other jobs along the way, including toymaker, gravedigger, cookware salesman, and assembly line worker. Eventually I became an elementary school teacher and worked with second and fourth graders, which I loved.