The Ghost and Mrs. Hobbs (12 page)

“Allie,” said her father. “Where was it that you found him?”

“On Armstrong Street. Under Mrs. Hobbs's house.”

Her parents both looked completely baffled. “How did you ever think to go there?” asked her mother.

Allie didn't know how to answer. “I don't know. A
lucky hunch, I guess.” She glanced toward the policeman, who was looking at her with a curious expression.

“Wait a minute,” said her father. “He was at
Mrs. Hobbs's
house? She came here yesterday with that strange message, and today Michael ends up under her house? That can't be a coincidence. And I told you to stay away from her, Allie. I don't understand what made you go there.”

“I don't either, really,” Allie said. It was way too complicated to explain. “I just—”

She was saved by Michael. Eyes wide and fearful, he asked, “Was it the Snapping Turtle's fort?” His chin wobbled, and Allie's heart wobbled, too, in sympathy.

“No,” she answered hurriedly. There was no point in making this worse for Michael than it had been.

“Did the man say anything to you about Mrs. Hobbs?” asked Mr. Nichols.

Michael shook his head.

“Did you see Mrs. Hobbs?”

“No.”

Allie saw her parents look at each other, then turn toward the policeman and shrug in dismay. She knew that later there would be more questions.

Meanwhile, she tried to think things through. Michael said he had walked with the man to Mrs. Hobbs's house, which was possible, she supposed,
since it was only two and a half blocks away. But how had the man gotten into Michael's bedroom in the early morning? How had he known about Michael's fascination with forts? How had he known to use Allie's name? And why had he taken Michael to Mrs. Hobbs's house, of all places?

Her mother was saying, “Bill? Do you suppose he was dreaming? Sleepwalking?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” her father said slowly. “There couldn't really have been a man in his room.”

“Was the house locked?” asked the policeman.

Mr. Nichols nodded. “I lock up tight every night. It doesn't make any sense . . .”

But to Allie it was beginning to make a horrible kind of sense. There was one man who could have come to Michael's bedroom even when the house was locked up tight, who knew all about Allie, and all about Mrs. Hobbs: John Walker.

Michael had said, “He was there before. Remember, Allie?” And now Allie did remember: it was Friday night, when she'd been in Michael's room, listening to his bedtime stories. “Who's that?” he'd asked. But before Allie could figure out what he was talking about, he'd said calmly, “He's gone now.” And Allie had thought no more about it.

“Mike,” she said softly, “what did the man look like?”

Michael frowned with concentration. “Funny,” he said finally.

“He looked funny? How?”

Michael slipped his thumb into his mouth and talked around it. “Just funny.”

Allie could imagine how John Walker had looked to Michael, his form wispy and insubstantial, yet undeniably real, and how Mike would not have the words to describe what he had seen.

Mrs. Hobbs's question came back to Allie: “Did you think he was
nice
?”

A “nice” man had appeared to Michael that morning, and Michael had gone trustingly with him to the “big fort.”

Like a punch in the stomach, the realization came to Allie: She wasn't the only one in the family who could see ghosts.

Allie's brain was reeling.
Why
had Walker taken Michael? To protect him? From whom? Mrs. Hobbs? But then why take him to her house? Unless he thought that was the last place she'd look for him.

Although her mind was elsewhere, she was aware of the discussions going on around her as her parents and the police officer tried to figure out what had happened that morning. They kept coming back to the idea that Michael must have dreamed the nice man and had “followed” him out of the house while sleepwalking. It was the only explanation, they told one another, but it was hardly reassuring.

The policeman finally left, saying that they should call if they had any other thoughts or leads. Michael had fallen asleep in his mother's arms, his thumb in
his mouth. Mrs. Nichols, looking worried, stroked his cheek tenderly.

“Bill,” she said, “I think we should call Dr. Waheed about this sleepwalking business. It scares me to death to think what might have happened.”

“Good idea.”

While her parents spoke with Michael's pediatrician, Allie went into the family room to think. What had happened scared her to death, too. Michael didn't seem to be overly upset by his experience, but that was because he was too young to understand the danger he had been in. Why, she wondered over and over, would John Walker lure Michael to Mrs. Hobbs's house? It didn't make any more sense than the sight of Mrs. Hobbs weeping, or the weird things she had said. Allie felt lost, as if she understood nothing, and terribly alone.

She needed help.

She needed Dub.

She'd call him and—No. She couldn't call. It seemed that everything she said and did was seen and heard by Mrs. Hobbs, with her creepy powers, or by John Walker's ghost. And she didn't want either of them to know what she was doing until
she
knew what she was doing.

The screen saver on the family computer flashed its changing design at her, giving her an idea. She went
over, logged on, and checked her buddy list. There was a smiley face next to Dub's name, “Cyberhead,” indicating that he was online.

Cautiously, Allie clicked the “instant message” box and began to type:

 

DUB

 

She paused, not knowing how to begin. She longed for the old familiar ease she and Dub used to share, but she didn't know how to get it back. She wanted to make things right again, not just because she needed Dub's help, but because she missed him. She knew she had hurt Dub's feelings and made him angry. He'd made her mad, too. But at the moment, it was difficult to remember exactly what the problem had been.

 

DUB, IT'S ME. I AM SO, SO SORRY FOR BEING A JERK.

 

She clicked the Send button and waited nervously. She pictured Dub sitting at his computer, and the surprise on his face when her message popped up on his screen. She imagined him reading it, thinking, and . . . Too much time was going by. Dub wasn't going to reply.

She was about to give up when the little bell tinkled, and Dub's reply appeared in the instant message window.

 

MORE INFORMATION, PLEASE.

 

Oh boy, thought Allie. Dub wasn't going to make this easy. She thought for a minute, then typed again.

 

I THINK THIS WHOLE GHOST THING IS MAKING ME CRAZY. I UNDERSTAND IF YOU LIKE PAM BETTER NOW, BUT I'D RATHER HAVE YOU FOR A FRIEND THAN ANYBODY (EVEN IF I HAVEN'T BEEN ACTING LIKE IT).

 

She read it over and added one more thing before pushing Send.

 

IT'S POSSIBLE YOU WERE RIGHT ABOUT SOME THINGS AND I WAS DUMB.

 

There. Dub would like that: he enjoyed being right about things. And he usually
was
, though ordinarily she wouldn't admit it, especially to him. But at the moment Allie was willing to flatter Dub like crazy if she had to. Besides, she really meant what she'd written.

 

TELL ME MORE ABOUT HOW DUMB YOU ARE.

 

Allie smiled to herself. She could feel Dub loosening up.

 

INDESCRIBABLY DUMB. DUMB AS A DODO. DUMBER THAN DIRT.

 

That ought to satisfy him!

 

THAT'S IT? YOU AREN'T GOING TO GROVEL AT MY FEET, BEGGING FOR FORGIVENESS? I VANT TO SEE YOU SQVIRM, LIKE THE VORM YOU ARE.

 

Allie laughed out loud. That sounded like the old Dub Whitwell talking! He was doing his famous impression of “General Vitvell.”

 

I VILL DO ANYTHING YOU VANT, HERR VITVELL. BEG, GROVEL, SQVIRM—LATER. RIGHT NOW I REALLY NEED YOUR HELP.

 

OF COURSE YOU DO. PROCEED. BUT DO NOT THINK YOU ARE FORGIVEN.

 

Allie felt her muscles relax, and realized how tensely she'd been waiting for Dub to open the door even a tiny crack. She began to type quickly.

 

THERE IS SOMETHING STRANGE GOING ON WITH JOHN WALKER. I'M ONLINE INSTEAD OF CALLING BECAUSE I'M HOPING THAT HE'S NOT CLUED INTO COMPUTERS SINCE HE DIED 17 YEARS AGO. I COULD BE WRONG. HE MIGHT BE READING THIS NOW. ANYWAY, I NEED YOU TO GET INFO ABOUT HIM AT THE LIBRARY. YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED WHEN
I
WENT THERE YESTERDAY. CAN YOU GO?

 

There was a pause that was long enough to make Allie nervous.

 

OKAY. WHAT DO I DO?

 

Allie breathed a deep sigh of relief, then typed,

 

CHECK SENECA TIMES NEWSPAPER INDEX 1975–1982 FOR ITEMS ON WALKER. COPY ANYTHING INTERESTING.

 

GOT IT. I'LL COME OVER WHEN I'M DONE.

 

Allie's eyes filled with grateful tears as she typed:

 

THANKS, DUB. YOU'RE THE BEST.

 

SINCE WHEN?

 

The instant message box showed that Dub had signed off. She wondered, too late, if it would be a mistake for him to come over with the information he found. There was no way to know—until it happened. She felt as if she were playing a game without knowing the rules.

Allie was thinking that, even though she seemed to attract them, she actually knew very little about ghosts. She'd had just one experience before. Having only that to go on, she'd assumed something similar was happening with John Walker.

But John Walker was turning out to be far more puzzling than Lucy Stiles had been. She didn't understand what he had done to Michael, and it made her uneasy. It was one thing for Walker to visit
her
, she thought. She was almost twelve and could handle it. Or, at least, she'd thought she could, up until now. But Michael was four!

In a weird way, she realized she wasn't surprised that Michael might have the same attraction for ghosts that she had. He'd always been open to all sorts of crazy possibilities, like trees that walked into his bedroom at night and little plastic creatures that held a universe of good and evil. He'd always been empathetic, too, seeming to know when Allie was upset, and trying, in his four year-old way, to cheer her up. So it wasn't too hard to imagine that John
Walker, after finding Allie so helpful, might try to enlist Michael in his quest.

But what was his quest? Allie had thought she knew, but now she was anything but sure. Whatever it was, she didn't want Michael mixed up in it.

Where did a ghost like Walker hang out, anyway? Where was he at that very moment, for instance? It was disconcerting, downright creepy even, not knowing when he might appear—or when he might be watching. If he had been murdered and wanted her to avenge him, why didn't he help her out? Why didn't he come to her and explain what was going on?

And then there was the whole matter of Mrs. Hobbs and her bizarre behavior that morning. The disturbing image of her crying alone in her living room came back to Allie.

Okay, she told herself. This is getting you nowhere. She thought about the sign that hung in the library at school:
INFORMATION IS POWER
. Dub was finding out what he could. While she waited, she could do the same.

She typed in the address of the Web site she and Dub had checked out before: www.trueghoststories.com. Maybe she'd learn something new, or else find a link to another helpful site.

She scrolled down through all the stories, which
were fascinating, but weren't what she was looking for. Somewhere, she recalled, there had been a kind of summary of all the articles, with conclusions drawn from the different examples. Ah! There.

 

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, 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.

 

“Hmmmm,” Allie thought out loud, “so Walker's ghost is probably stronger than Lucy's was.” She read on:

 

A ghost has unfinished business to complete before it can rest. It may wish to impart an important message, something it neglected to say while living. It may wish to warn, punish, or protect someone. Victims of murder, suicides, and people killed suddenly or violently most often have reason to return as ghosts.