The Ghost in the Big Brass Bed (3 page)

Before I could ask why it was famous, Phoebe returned. Following her was a tall, white-haired woman dressed in a dark blue silk blouse and a pair of jeans that had faded to light blue. Her eyes were blue, too—ice blue in a face that was tanned and wrinkled. Although she looked only a few years younger than Phoebe, she seemed a lot stronger.

“Carla!” Norma cried. “What are you doing here?”

The tone in Norma's voice made it clear that she was really happy to see Carla. But the white-haired woman drew back a little, as if someone had made a rude noise.

Norma just laughed. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to be nosy. I mean, I am nosy, but I try to keep it under control. I'm just surprised to see you!”

Carla relaxed a little. “Actually, I'm a little surprised to see you, too,” she said. She spoke slowly, and her voice had a musical quality to it that I liked very much.

Norma gestured for Chris and me to join them. “Girls, this is Carla Bond. She teaches art history at the university. I use her as a consultant when I'm having trouble figuring out the date for a piece of furniture. She's the best in the city.”

Carla Bond smiled at the praise. “Pleased to meet you,” she said after Norma had told her our names. She was formal, but not stiff. She held out her hand, which felt cool and smooth in my own when we shook. She smelled like peaches.

Ms. Bond had just let go of my hand when a large black-and-white cat wandered into the room and began rubbing against Norma's legs. Norma jumped back with a little cry.

“General Pershing!” Phoebe exclaimed. “How did you get in here?” Moving stiffly, she bent to pick up the cat, which hissed angrily. “I'm sorry, Norma,” said Phoebe. “I'll put him outside.”

“I'm allergic,” Norma explained to the rest of us as Phoebe shuffled away.

After a moment of slightly awkward silence, Ms. Bond turned to Norma and said, “I expect you'll find some excellent pieces here. Phoebe's family was quite prominent in Syracuse before the tragedy.”

My ears perked up. “Tragedy?” I asked. “What tragedy?”

I must have sounded too eager, because Ms. Bond gave me an exaggerated version of the look she had given Norma. “The family fell on hard times,” she said softly.

Then she turned and went to sit on the couch.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Chris whispered, with a smirk.

I know that's supposed to mean you can get into trouble by poking your nose in places where it doesn't belong—but at the moment I felt that curiosity was going to kill me all by itself. I wanted to know what had happened so badly, I thought I might pop.

It wasn't just what my dad calls
idle
curiosity either. Ghosts and tragedies seem to go together. Whatever the tragedy was, it probably explained why the place felt haunted.

Of course, Carla Bond's reaction had made me even more curious.

I glanced at the three adults sitting on the couch. Norma looked as curious as I felt. I could tell she was dying to know what Ms. Bond was doing here, but didn't dare ask.

Phoebe reappeared at the door with a tea cart. “Well, that's better,” she said, rolling it into the room. “Now we can chat for a moment.”

She poured tea for everyone except Norma, then passed around a plate of little cookies, and it was all very nice. But it didn't last very long because after about ten minutes Mr. Bassett glanced at his watch and said, “I hate to be unsociable, but I have to get going soon.”

Norma took the hint. “Actually, we'd better get moving, too. No need to climb the stairs, Phoebe. I know where it is.”

Phoebe looked at her gratefully.

When we were back out in the hall, Norma said, “I've got to get my toolbox. Why don't you two go on up. Turn right at the top of the stairs. You'll find the room at the end of the hall. I'll be there in a few minutes.”

She turned and went out the door. Chris and I wandered up the stairway, which had wide steps covered by a dark red rug. The rug was faded, and almost worn through in spots, but you could tell it had once been very elegant.

The striped wallpaper was faded, too, and several places at the top and the bottom were starting to peel.

“Looks like she's been selling off the family portraits,” said Chris, pointing to a series of rectangles where the wallpaper's colors were less faded. “Poor old lady must really be broke.”

“Who would want pictures of someone else's relatives?” I asked.

“All right, so maybe it wasn't the relatives,” Chris said. “Maybe Phoebe had paintings of clowns hanging here. Or purple and green daisies. The point is, something used to be here, and now it's gone.”

The talk of paintings reminded me of something else. “What was that all about—that thing that happened when we were looking at the picture downstairs?”

“I don't know,” Chris said, her eyes wide. “But it sure felt creepy.”

I nodded. Actually, this whole place was slightly creepy. Sad, too, I realized.

That feeling of sadness didn't come from the house's slightly rundown look. I don't think it came from anything you could
see
. My father says old houses take on a personality from all the living that's gone on inside them. He's not usually superstitious, but he does restore old buildings for a living, so I figure he ought to know.

By the time we reached the top of the stairs, I decided Phoebe Watson's house had seen a
lot
of sadness. I wondered again about the tragedy Carla Bond had mentioned. Then I shook myself, trying to shrug away the feeling of sorrow.

We were standing in a long hallway. To our left was another stairway. We turned right, as Norma had told us, and headed for the end of the hall.

“Good,” whispered Chris. “It's in the tower.”

I smiled. I was dying to see the tower rooms myself.

“Oooh!” Chris exclaimed when we opened the door. “I want to live here!”

I felt the same way.

The room was about fifteen feet across, with a high ceiling, dark green wallpaper, and woodwork that had never seen a paintbrush. (Painting over the woodwork is this terrible thing that has happened to most of the old houses around here.)

The curve of the tower was created by short walls that met at broad angles, making the outline of the floor look like the edge of a stop sign. All but the three inner walls had large, diamond-paned windows made of thick glass, beveled on the edges to create extra reflections and rainbows.

Except for two pieces of furniture, the room was empty.

One piece of furniture was the big brass bed that sat in the center of the room. It had four shiny posts topped with large knobs. Curved brass pipes at the head and foot of the bed made fanciful swirls between the posts. An old-fashioned patchwork quilt covered the mattress.

“That's the kind of bed I always wanted,” I said.

“It's gorgeous,” agreed Chris. “But I like this better. It makes me think of Narnia.”

She was pointing to the other piece of furniture in the room, the large wardrobe that stood against one wall.

“Big, isn't it?” I said.

“And beautiful,” said Chris.

We walked over to look at it. The wardrobe was about eight feet tall and four feet wide—so big it was like a whole closet standing separate from the wall. I wondered how we were going to get it into the truck.

Most of it was made of reddish-brown wood. Carved panels ran across the top and bottom. On them were thick, scrolling designs that looked like knotted ropes made of wood. On the door was a huge mirror. The glass was dark, and streaked with age.

I looked at our reflections as we walked toward the wardrobe. Chris was a couple of inches taller than me. Her reddish-blond hair was a lot more interesting than mine, I thought. My hair was a plain dark brown.

We stood side by side for a moment, staring at ourselves. Suddenly I caught my breath. In the dark glass of the mirror, I saw a ghost take shape in the bed behind us.

CHAPTER FIVE

Watched, by Unseen Eyes

Not saying a word, barely moving, I tipped my head in the direction of the bed and mouthed, “Do you see?”

Chris, looking not at me but at my reflection, nodded.

The ghost was a little girl, probably not more than six years old. She wore an old-fashioned nightgown and clutched a rag doll. The look on her face was so sad it almost made me cry.

“Let's turn around,” mouthed Chris's reflection.

It was my turn to nod. Slowly, silently, we turned back to face the bed. But as we did, Norma came bounding into the room with her toolbox.

“Look at that bed!” she shrieked.

At once the ghost faded out of sight.

“Did you see it?” I asked in astonishment.

“Of course I've seen it before,” said Norma, misunderstanding my question. “I've been trying to get Phoebe to sell it to me for over a year now. It would be perfect for the shop.”

“Should we tell her?” I whispered as Norma turned back to admire the bed.

Chris shrugged. “She said she didn't want to hear anything about ghosts. I guess if she didn't notice it was there, it won't hurt her.”

Norma stood at the foot of the bed, holding on to the brass tubes. “Actually, I've offered Phoebe more than this is worth,” she said, “just because it would look so good in the shop. But she absolutely refuses to sell. Sentimental attachment, I guess.”

I wondered if Phoebe's “attachment” was because she knew her bed was haunted.

I stared at the bed, trying to sense the ghost. It was frustrating because I didn't really know what to do. If I was trying to see better, I would squint. If I was trying to smell something, I might sniff. But since I don't know
how
I sense ghosts, I didn't know how to try harder.

Where had the little girl gone? Where
do
ghosts go when you can't see them? Are they still there, just invisible? Do they float off to some ghost place?

I wish I knew.

I glanced at Chris. She shook her head, signaling that she could no longer detect the ghost either.

I was so wound up about the ghost, I forgot the real reason we were there until Norma's voice brought me back to reality. “Actually, this is almost as good as the bed,” she said, admiring the wardrobe. “Won't take much work to get it in shape either. Well, the first thing we have to do is move it away from the wall. Time to flex your muscles, ladies.”

Working together, the three of us were able to slide the wardrobe across the floor without much trouble. We found two things behind it: a pile of dust bunnies and a little door. The door was definitely more interesting than the dust. About two feet high and two feet wide, it was located nearly halfway up the wall. Next to it was a brass square with a pair of buttons inside.

“Well, look at that,” said Norma. “An old dumbwaiter!”

“What's a dumbwaiter?” asked Chris.

“Sounds like the guy who took my order at McDonald's yesterday,” I replied.

Norma sighed. “A dumbwaiter is like a little elevator for food. Here, I'll show you.” She opened the door. Behind it was a box. “They used to load this in the kitchen,” said Norma. “Then the meal could be delivered straight to the room without anyone having to climb the stairs. Dirty dishes got sent down the same way.”

“Neat!” I said. “I want one.”

“I'd settle for my own refrigerator,” said Chris.

“How about we settle for taking that wardrobe apart?” Norma asked.

The job was simpler than I expected, mostly because Norma really knows about that kind of thing. After we had been working for a few minutes, I had a feeling that someone was watching us. I looked around. I couldn't see anyone.

But the sensation wouldn't go away.

“Do you feel it?” I whispered to Chris while Norma was concentrating on a large, boltlike contraption.

She nodded. “She's back, but she's not letting us see her.”

I wondered if we should warn Norma that we were being watched by a spirit. At first I couldn't see any point in scaring her away from a piece of furniture that would probably make a good profit for her. After a while, though, I started feeling guilty—as if I had been caught taking something that didn't belong to me. But what could I do? Even if we talked Norma out of buying the wardrobe, Phoebe would just sell it to someone else. And I was pretty sure she wouldn't sell it at all if she didn't really need the money.

Since opening my mouth would only cause trouble without creating a solution, I didn't say anything. But when I caught Chris's eye, I could tell she was getting the same kinds of vibrations I was.

Norma interrupted my thoughts by yelling, “You come out of there right this instant!”

I jumped. For a second I thought she was talking to the ghost. Then I realized she was shouting at the bolt. It seemed to work, too. At least, the thing started to turn.

“That's right!” Norma said happily. “That's right! Oh, honey, when I talk, these babies
know
they better listen!”

Once Norma had the top loose, we realized none of us were tall enough to lift it off the wardrobe. We needed something to stand on. So Norma sent Chris and me downstairs to borrow a couple of chairs.

I was a little worried about leaving Norma alone in the room. But the ghost didn't seem as if it was going to cause any trouble. So down we went.

When we stepped into the parlor, Phoebe was dabbing at her eyes, the way she had done when I first met her. Carla Bond and Mr. Bassett looked uncomfortable.

“Norma wants to borrow a couple of chairs,” announced Chris.

Everybody seemed to find this confusing. But once we explained why, Phoebe told us we would find some sturdy wooden chairs in the kitchen. “It's at the end of the hall,” she added.

“Well, I say it's blackmail,” Chris said, as we stepped into the kitchen.

“What?”