Rebel Spirits (2 page)

“Thank you, Mrs. Dryden,” Dad says with a frown. “We’ll maintain the status quo until we see what help we need. Mrs. Chase and Lorelei and I expect to do most of the work ourselves.”

We do?

“Wouldn’t advise it,” Bertha replies. “House and grounds
like this takes a whole lot of back-bending care. Well, now, who’s this cute mutt?”

Gertie slinks away from Bertha’s touch. My dog doesn’t appreciate being called a mutt.

I detect slight horror in Mom’s voice as she speaks. “You don’t live in the house, do you, Bertha?”

“Not on your life! You couldn’t pay me enough to stay here past midnight. Bewitching hour, right, mutt?” Bertha raises her pink ballet slipper to scratch Gertie’s underbelly. That’s Gertie’s secret passion, and now Bertha’s her new best friend.

“Don’t suppose that realtor woman told you. Well, no, she wouldn’t, not if she wanted to collect a pretty commission, and don’t think I’m not privy to what you paid for this place.”

My ears perk up. “Told us what?”

“About the house. It’s haunted.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Mom says with a nervous laugh, and Bertha tosses her a disapproving glare.

A chill goes through me. I do feel
something
here, as though unseen eyes are watching us. “Is that woman you mentioned, Hannah, in the house?”

“Lord-a-mercy, no. We just use her for breakfasts when there’s guests in the house and for scheduled events.” Bertha says
events
as though they’re as joyful as public hangings. “Well,” she adds, “I’ve got a load working in the laundry room.
Give me a holler if you need anything.” With that, she pirouettes on her pink slippers and plods to the darkened back rooms.

Mom and Dad turn to each other and start to whisper, probably about Bertha and other logistics of the inn. Meanwhile, I walk to the foot of the stairs and gaze up, ready to inspect that round room at the top of the house. I’m going to claim it as my bedroom. Mom and Dad owe me that much for uprooting me and dragging me across Pennsylvania to this creepy mansion in the middle of Nowhere, USA.

Which, it turns out, might be haunted.

RANDY? I HEAR
you, but there’s no video.”

My brother’s postage-stamp-sized face is on my Skype screen, frozen four thousand miles away. There’s a three-second voice delay getting the message between here and Ghana.

“Let me poke a few keys,” he says. “Reception’s spotty. Anything moving?”

“Not yet.”

While waiting for my brother to appear, I gaze around at my new surroundings. Up here in the little round bedroom — Mom and Dad agreed to my request — it’s hot enough to steam
artichokes. It took a zillion trips up the stairs to get all my stuff in here, and now cartons are stacked to the ceiling, and a pile of clothes crests on my bed, which is an island in the middle of the room. Where do you put a bed when all the walls are round? And the bed frame is so tall you have to climb on a stepstool. You can’t just flop down on it unless you drop from the ceiling like a gecko. There’s no closet — just a narrow wardrobe cabinet that holds about six hangers. Back in Gettysburg times, did people just wear the same muslin frock until it disintegrated?

“Got you on screen. See me yet?” Randy asks.

I turn to see the screen light up. “There you are.” The sight of my brother’s familiar dark hair and hazel eyes coaxes a smile out of my grumpy self. “Hey, Randy, where are all the students who usually swarm around you?”

“Asleep. It’s three a.m. here.”

“Oops.”

“That’s okay,” he assures me with a gaping yawn. “What’s up?”

“My room. It’s like Rapunzel’s tower at the top of this creepy house that smells like the inside of your bowling bag. I better keep growing my hair in case I need to escape.”

Randy flashes me a sleepy smile. “Sounds pretty cool.”

“Also hot, but it’s not that bad. Problem is, there’s no bathroom up here. I’ve got to run down a flight of rickety stairs. Hey, who’s that behind you?”

Randy looks over his shoulder. “Nobody. Like I said, it’s three in the morning.”

“No, see him? Wait, he’s not in your picture. He’s behind
me
!” I spin around, my heart racing, but there’s nobody there. “Guess I’m just spooked by this monstrous old house.”

I look back at the screen, at my brother’s murky-jerky image, and then at mine down in the left-hand corner. And then I see him again. Not Randy. A guy hovering behind me, only partly in camera range.

For a moment I think of the shadowy figure I saw in the window up here when we arrived. Light tricks.

But then the image is clear and true for a second.

“Someone’s here!” I hiss.

He’s tall, dressed in a rumpled soldier’s uniform. His face, shadowed with dark stubble, stares back at me, his deep-set eyes a luminous black. There is such pain in those eyes; they tug at my heart. In that split second of clarity, he’s not at all threatening. He’s reaching out to me.

The image begins to swim, shimmery and elusive. And then it’s gone, and the sympathy I felt cools to fear, freezes to
terror.
Someone was in my room!
My teeth start chattering. Has the temperature suddenly dropped forty degrees? I’m tuning in to Randy’s words, which were only background noise for a few seconds.

“I don’t see anything.” Randy’s voice is tight with alarm. “Move the laptop around so the camera can pick up what you see.”

I jump up, jerking the laptop toward where I saw the figure. The video image shows a canyon of packing boxes, a deer-antler coatrack, empty shelves, the dim bulbs of the chandelier. Not a soul anywhere.

Randy’s disembodied computer voice blares out. “Lori? You okay?”

“Yeah, my imagination’s running wild, or I’m homesick, or crazy, or about to drop dead in exhaustion. I’ve been hauling boxes upstairs all day. My legs are rubber.” I take a deep breath. There’s a strange new scent in the room, like — what? Like the smoky smell of fired caps from the cowboy gun Randy used to have.

“I see him now,” Randy whispers grimly. “Right behind you. Gertie there with you?”

“Downstairs, on the sleeping porch.” I rub my thumb over the laptop’s camera aperture, wondering if a smudged lens is to blame. But no, I see the figure again.

Limp dark hair curls over his brow. The rest of his hair is under a soldier’s cap. This cap, his uniform, they’re not like anything I’ve seen in real life. They’re older, blue-black, trimmed in gold. A wide strap crosses his chest. He stares at me with those sad, unblinking eyes. Dad had mentioned that Gettysburg locals dress up to reenact the big battle. That must be who he is. But how did he get in my
room
? Why’s he so silent, so … there but not there?

Randy shouts, “Don’t make a move, mister. I can identify you if you so much as touch a hair on my sister’s head. Lori, get out of that room pronto.”

I turn slowly toward the image, ice water trickling through my veins. I reach for my nearby softball bat, and lock my hands around it. I could thwack him and do mortal damage. I crouch in my softball catcher’s stance, ready to spring.

And feel totally idiotic, because the room is empty.

“He’s gone,” I tell my brother.

“At least move around the room again,” Randy says. “Show me what you see on camera. I’ll stay with you.”

The screen light illuminates dark spots on the gloomy walls, and I search under the bed, in the wardrobe, behind the cartons and the heavy drapes over the six windows around the room.

“The door’s locked from the inside; the windows are
locked. There’s no way for anyone to get in or out of here,” I whisper.

Does
he
hear me, whoever he is?

“We both saw him, didn’t we, Randy?” I ask.

I think back to when I was fourteen, when, after a Phillies game, I saw Great-Grandpa Tunis belt out, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” The thing is, Great-Grandpa Tunis had died of a heart attack two years before that time. My own heart seizes now, and I remember the dead boy in the crystal ball. Randy doesn’t know about any of those eerie things.

“I’m not sure now,” Randy murmurs. “I just woke from a deep sleep in the middle of a dream. I haven’t had a real shower in six days because the plumbing’s on the fritz, and you, you’re stressed out in the new digs. Let’s just chalk it up to fatigue and overactive imaginations. Skype me tomorrow morning. Clearer heads — that’ll work better. Scratch that; I may be gone a couple days.” He yawns again, and I feel stupid and guilty for the whole ridiculous — what? — shared hallucination? So I blow Randy a kiss, log out of Skype, and close the laptop.

I’m dog tired, but the bed’s mountain high with clothes. I knee my way up and crawl under the pile to warm up — the temperature’s definitely dropped — and to steady my racing heart. No sheets on the bed yet, not even a mattress pad. It
doesn’t matter, because I don’t dare go to sleep. I sit up straight against the headboard, still holding my softball bat, eyes darting around the tower room that’s dusk dark even with all the lights on. I should have claimed a room downstairs, a regular square room.

The smoky smell intensifies. I look around, seeking out a candle left over from the last occupants, or a match or old cigarette under the bed. Nothing.

There’s no one in the room
, I tell myself. I’m starting to drift in that foggy trance between awake and asleep. I pinch my arm and check that the bat’s close enough that I can grab it and swing. I have to stay vigilant all night. I whisper into the empty room, “Who are you? Why are you here?” I’m not really scared now, because I’m not picking up threatening vibes. I’m more curious than anything, willing myself to stay up.

“Lorelei Cordelia.”

My head snaps up, startling me awake, though I was sure I hadn’t slept a wink.

My eyes dart around the room.

“Lorelei Cordelia,” the soft voice says again. I must be dreaming. I blink the sleep away, and hear it again.

It has to be Dad. He’s the only one who calls me Lorelei. He came to tuck me in on my first night here, just like he used to
when I was little. Sweet and totally explainable. It’s just that I didn’t see him when he came and left, because I’d fallen asleep. Sure, that’s it.

But my door is locked. From the inside. Meaning someone
inside
my room called my name, and he’s still here. Somewhere.

I MUST HAVE
fallen asleep again, because I’m splayed out on my bare mattress, which has pocked my back with button indentations. I look like an alien from the planet Trypchrd, where button pocks are considered beauty marks.

As I sit up, a menacing feeling churns between my heart and my stomach, the kind you get when you know something’s wrong, but you can’t remember what it is yet.

And then it hits me. Someone was, is, in my room. My eyes zoom around the circular space and up to the high ceiling, which is bordered with blue plaster cherubs. More cherubs
hang from the tarnished chandelier. I’m half expecting that strange image, the soldier I saw, or imagined, or dreamed, to be hovering above me, too.

But I sense that I’m totally alone now. My heart slows to a normal
lub-dub
. I’m in yesterday’s wrinkled jeans and T-shirt, not in my usual PJ boxers and tee. My teeth feel like peach fuzz and I seriously need a shower.

It’s still morning-cool in my room. If I can get my legs wheeling, I’ll go for a run before the oppressive heat drags the day down. By noon my room will be a sauna, since there’s no A/C up here. Unless the temperature dives suddenly, the way it did last night.

Wait a minute. Where’s my bat? Did it fall out of my hand while I was sleeping? I paw through the graveyard of shirts and pants and hoodies and hangers and last winter’s parka. No bat. I maneuver off the bed and look around the room. Maybe it rolled under my desk. Nope, I can see it’s not there.

What actually happened last night?
Lorelei Cordelia.
I’m sure I heard my name, clear as wind chimes. Was it a dream? No, I’m
really
sure someone was in my room. Randy saw him, too. I rub my eyes until they sting.

The wobbly tower of boxes taunts me. Everything’s waiting to be unpacked, and I’ll have to put the extra stuff up in the attic. I’ve never lived in a house with an attic. I’ve never
lived in a house, period, and just the thought of an attic is a little unnerving. I picture bats (the flying kind), dust balls, mice trails, dead roaches, something alive crouching in a dark corner. Or not alive. My imagination’s on overdrive after last night’s weird encounter.

Get a grip! I walk over to one of the windows. The heavy brocade drapes have a pattern of prissy Shakespeare people. Men in tights. Ick. When I peel back a drape, sunlight floods the grim room and evaporates last night’s mystery like morning dew. Again I’m practically blinded by the immense emerald lawn down below. Old Dryden, the gardener, is bent over his flowers, like he hasn’t moved since yesterday. Or maybe he’s actually a lawn ornament.

Here comes an engine sputtering up the driveway. Sounds like Jocelyn’s Ford Ranger pickup. But no, it’s a souped-up rusty Camaro, as yellow as a taxi, riding on tires big enough for a tractor. It’s a disaster of a car, from which that boy Evan Maxwell hops out. The engine keeps cranking a few seconds more. Evan opens the trunk and pulls out a Weedwacker, which he swings around his head like he’s roping a raging bull. He’s wearing a Dallas Cowboys T-shirt today, I see from way up here. I grab my glasses off my desk to inspect closer. His blond hair wisps over his eyes, and his jeans are holey at the knees. He and Old Dryden seem to be in an argument. I tug up the
window, and it slides open silently like it’s greased with butter. Evan’s got a voice that carries. Probably has an ego to match.

“Dryden, my friend, get with the program. You look like your body made a U-turn. Scoliosis, man, and it’s not getting any better the longer you bend over picking weeds. This Weedwacker, I’m telling you, it’s the solution to all your problems.”

“You’re my problem,” Old Dryden yells.

Evan squats to look up into Old Dryden’s face. “You want to go through life like a pretzel?” He stands up and pets the Weedwacker. “Trust me, this little honey will save your life. Give it a test run.”

Old Dryden waves him away. Evan switches on the Weedwacker, and it hums to life.

“Turn that thing off!” shouts Old Dryden. Then he mellows, noticing how efficient the spinning metal string is. “That how she goes?”

“Yup. Want to hold her?” The old guy backs away. Evan looks up and spots me. I freeze. The evil Weedwacker takes advantage of the moment, topples a whole bed of daffodils, and is moving robotically toward a rosebush.

“Arggggggg!”
Old Dryden cries.

Evan cuts the motor. It dies a slow death, like his car, while he looks up and beams at me. Embarrassed, I duck down, then slowly rise again to check if he’s gone. He’s still staring up at
my window, like Romeo gazing at Juliet, while Old Dryden mournfully caresses an armload of lopped-off daffodils.

“Hi, up there,” Evan calls with a wave. “Me, again. We met yesterday.” He hops on the second rung of a trellis under my window, but I’m still three stories above him. “Evan Maxwell, remember? Dryden’s worthy assistant.”

“Hi.” I wave back.

“He’s no such,” Old Dryden protests.

“Come on, you’re breaking my heart, man.”

“Mow the lawn, that’s it. Don’t you ever come near my flowers again, not with that mechanical monster.”

Evan jumps down and strides toward the shed, where I’m guessing the lawn mower is parked. He’s kind of self-impressed, or else he’s trying real hard to impress me. But why would he care? He’s cuter than Danny Bartoli, and Danny never even noticed me.

Backing away from the window, I knock over a box, and all my desk stuff spills out — pens, pencils, staplers, Tootsie Pops, and scruffy softballs from the last two summer leagues, plus my beautifully broken-in mitt and a million paper clips. Odd — I’m sure that box was taped shut last night.

I dump the rest of the box on the floor. My room looks ransacked by burglars.

A zillion staples fall out of their little Altoids tin. Some
thing’s missing; I sense it. I scramble through all the loose papers and old letters and a calendar from two years ago, the phone charger. Seeing what’s there is a lot easier than figuring out what’s not. What’s missing? My address book’s here, and the little leather notebook with all my passwords …

My journal, that’s what’s missing! Someone’s stolen my private thoughts. How
dare
he!

Who?

A creepy wave radiates over me. I cross my arms over my waist, feeling naked even in my slept-in clothes.

What is happening in this strange room? Could Bertha Dryden be right about the house being haunted?

I have to talk to somebody, see a live and sympathetic face.

I power up my laptop and type out a quick e-mail to my brother.

No response. He’s probably teaching. I want to call Jocelyn, but there’s no cell phone reception at that horseback-riding camp where she’s working. I message her.

Nothing wings its way back to me.

A good run with Gertie — that’ll clear my cottony head. But first, a shower. I turn to grab a towel and see my bat propped up on the dresser.

I would never have put it there myself.