The Ghost of Tillie Jean Cassaway (2 page)

Past noon, Willy finally took Narrow Street out of Mauvy, riding with the warm wind in his face. He had gone two miles past the cutoff for Holmans Hollow when he had to stop to get gravel out of his shoe. While sitting on the grass along the road, Willy saw a bicyclist coming toward him from the direction of Mauvy.

Hilary. Why did she have to follow? He had planned on being alone, to listen … to see. He jumped on his bike and rode around a bend out of sight, got off, pulled the bike into high weeds and crouched by the side of the road. When Hilary got to him, he stood up and hollered, “Ahgheee!”

Hilary braked. Her bike skidded, pitching her headlong into the road. She was still, her breath knocked out. Willy rushed to her.

“You all right?”

Hilary had skinned knees, arms, and elbows, but most of all, she was mad. As her brother tried to help her up, she pushed him away and, getting her breath, gasped, “Why'd you do that?”

“I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“Well, it didn't feel so good!” She bit her lip but could not keep back the tears.

“Come on, sit here in the grass.” She crossed to the other side of the road and sat, knees up and hands over her face, trying to keep from crying.

“I just … didn't want you following me,” said Willy.

“I wasn't going to follow you! I was going with you and I brought.…”

“You better go back home. Mom don't want you riding out here.”

“I knew you'd ride this way. Because of yesterday!”

“Go on home. Okay?”

Hilary said not another word but got on her bike and, ignoring the pain in her knees and palms, started back toward Mauvy.

“I didn't mean to hurt you!” Willy called.

She yelled back, “I was bringing your brushes you forgot, but I guess you don't want them!” and pedaled away as fast as she could.

Willy thought of going after her, but decided not.

Pedaling furiously, Hilary was thinking, “I'll never go anywhere with him again, not if he begs me.” She did not see or notice anything on either side of her. She barely saw the road. She did not see the man until he spoke.

“Hey!”

She was so startled that she almost wrecked again as she stopped her bike. A huge, red-faced man in worn blue coveralls was standing by the side of the road, holding a large stick.

“What?” she said, weakly.

“What you doin' here?”

“Just riding my bike.”

“Who are you?”

“Hilary Barbour.”

“Come here.”

Hilary made no move and the man came toward her.

“Listen,” he said. “You hear that noise?”

“You mean the river?”

“Yeah, but listen. Don't you hear nothing else?”

“It.…” Hilary looked at the river and listened. The water was dark, filled with the green of hills that loomed above it. At first, all she heard was the usual rushing sound of water as it flowed past, splashing over rocks at the bank. But as they stood there, silent, she began to be aware of other sounds. Some she could identify … bird calls, bees, fish jumping. Some she could not.

“Let me tell you something,” said the man. “There was once a little girl lived near here, about your age. She didn't have no bike, but she liked to come down to the river to play. One day, she was playing on rocks near the water and she slipped. Her foot slipped, it was. She fell into the water and drowned. Tillie Jean was her name. Tillie Jean Cassaway. Not much older than you.”

“Oh.”

“That was three years ago. Her folks buried her and went away. But listen.” The man leaned over so that he was face-to-face with Hilary. “She's lonesome in her grave. She don't like to stay there.”

“She don't?”

“No. She don't! Sometimes she gits up and goes to places she used to play, looking for people to talk to. Sometimes she cries or sings. Listen.”

Hilary again listened to the noises of the river and the woods.

“She's happy now,” said the man. “She's singing. Could be because she sees you. She likes girls to come and play. One day Mrs. Carter, a Holmans Hollow woman, got here just in time to keep her little Milly from being lured into the water. Tillie Jean was coaxing her, you see. She wants another child to be buried here. A playmate.”

“Oh.”

“You don't belong here. Not unless you want to play with Tillie Jean. You better go on home now.”

“I'm going. Thank you, Mr.…”

“Craig. Morton Craig. Ole man Craig, they call me.”

“You live on the island?”

“I do. See over there?” He pointed up the river. “That's my swinging bridge. It ain't safe. I 'spect anybody tried to walk across it now, they'd fall right through.”

“Oh.”

“And 'course I see anyone touch my boat.…” He held the large stick in both hands and broke it over his knee in a quick snap.

“Oh,” said Hilary. The man turned and walked up the river. Hilary rode home as fast as she could.

CHAPTER FOUR

Willy watched Hilary until she was out of sight, then rode on slowly until he could again see the two blackened trees whose limbs held back the sky. He laid down his bike and climbed to the top of the hill and the trees became merely trees again. Standing by them, he looked into the ravine … yes … the house was there … he could see the red chimney.

Looking, listening, he heard the usual sounds of nature—songs of birds, insects, and water. “It is so peaceful here,” he whispered, feeling the quiet spaces between the sounds. And then it happened, what he had been waiting for. A word sounded in his mind.

Come!

Had it been spoken? Willy was not sure, but he moved, as though drawn, toward a grown-over path that led down, following its twisting way as best he could, slipping and sliding part of the way, until he stood at the bottom. Where was the house? The red chimney was no longer visible. He remembered his dream. But he stayed where he was and the longer he stood and watched, the more things took shape.

Yes, the house was there, he was sure—a dark thing close to the hillside. He moved nearer, conscious of the disturbance he made stepping through the brush. Little of the house could be seen even close because a vine climbed over it, hiding all but grey patches of boards with leaves and twisted wood.

There was a porch, made into a shadowy, dark place by the screening vine. He stepped onto its rotting boards. The vine had invaded the porch and was clinging to doors and windows. A thick piece of wood was nailed across the door and the adjoining wall. He peered in the windows and was surprised by his own reflection.

Quietly, he walked around to the back. Huge, moss-covered rocks were imbedded in the grassy bank. Water trickled over the rocks and into the ground. Off a few yards Willy found the remains of a vegetable garden. Bean poles were still standing, crossed like teepees, entwined now with sweet-smelling honeysuckle. It was a sunny, warm, friendly spot. Willy smiled and felt more comfortable about the house. He would see what he could see before he left. He would know who was there, if anyone.

The back door would not open, although not nailed. But one of the back windows was broken. By standing on a large rock, Willy could almost see in. He knocked out what was left of the dirty pane, feeling a guilty twinge as the splintering glass hit the floor inside, and he pulled himself up until half his body was leaning through.

“A kitchen, I guess,” he said softly. He was looking into a small, dusty room with cracked green linoleum on the floor and the smell of old grease. Near one wall was a black coal stove with no pipes, a wooden table, and a chair with one leg broken. A dirty grey canvas tarpaulin lay crumpled in a corner. Willy coughed loudly and listened to his echo. Cautiously, he pulled himself through the window and dropped to the floor with what seemed a loud crash.

Standing where he landed, his eyes were drawn back to the canvas in the corner. Had it moved? He stared at it and slowly backed away. It had moved—was moving. He turned and ran for the door and was trying to open it when he was halted by a plaintive “Meow!” and soft, muffled mews. He turned in time to see a tail disappear under the canvas and watched as a bedraggled grey cat carried out a tiny kitten. Eyes straight ahead, kitten held high, she pranced across the room past Willy.

She stopped in front of the window, still grasping the kitten. Willy giggled, his fist to his mouth. “Here, I'll let you out the door,” he said. It took a few hard jerks, but he got the door open. The cat carried four tiny kittens outside, one by one.

Willy stood smiling, thinking how horrified he had been when the canvas moved, his heart still beating fast. Then the smile froze on his face. Someone was laughing, a soft, up-and-down sound.

“Who's there?” Willy called, clenching his hands. No one answered. Willy moved softly to the doorway of the adjoining room. The laugh came again, from behind. He turned swiftly, but no one was there.

Letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dim light, he viewed the other room. There was an old sofa, its upholstery torn and filthy, half covered by a thin yellow throw. Two pictures hung from nails on opposite walls. Willy stepped over to one to look closer, wincing at the squeaking of the rough floor boards. He read aloud, “Franklin D. Roosevelt.” He went over to the other one and read, “Niagara Falls.” There was no comment from the walls but something made him look up. There was an opening in the ceiling, as to a storage area under the eaves. He moved away from the dark hole and went into an adjoining room. In it were broken and rusty bedsprings and another door, painted bright blue.

A sigh came from somewhere.

Moving quietly, Willy crossed to the blue door and rapped gently on it. There was no answer. Slowly he turned the knob. He was struck by a stream of light pouring into the tiny room from a high, small window. Blue wallpaper morning glories climbed up and fell where the paper curled and peeled and climbed up again toward the ceiling. Light danced on the wall and on the floor as a breeze waved a leafy branch back and forth across the window. A bird landed on the sill and began scolding. But no one else was there. Feeling a prickling up his spine, Willy backed out and shut the door and jumped as he felt something furry rubbing against his ankle.

“Meaow!” The cat was back.

“Hey old girl, what do you want?” Willy, relieved to see something he could touch and understand, followed the cat back to the kitchen where it stood waiting for him to open the door. It had come in through the window again. He let her out and watched as she brought her kittens back in, one by one. “Silly old cat,” he said.

Willy was ready to leave, but a nagging thought held him. He could imagine himself telling Hilary about what he had seen and heard and he knew what she would say. “Did you look in that upper room, under the eaves, Willy?”

He did not want to go up into that dark place, but he had to know. He pulled the rickety sofa over under the hole, and, standing on its back, reached up and caught hold of the edge and pulled himself up and over until he was resting on the floor. Darkness and a large, shadowy object were all he could see. He could not stand up without hitting his head on rafters, so he moved around on his hands and knees.

“Ow!” His own voice startled him as he pressed his knee against something sharp. Fumbling in the dark, he felt the object with his hands—it seemed to be a large, metal box, like a footlocker his dad had at home. He tried to open it, but it was locked. It moved easily about. “Empty,” Willy thought. He found nothing else and the cobwebs were getting in his face, so he let himself down, hanging by his hands, then dropped to the sofa and left the house.

It seemed light outside after being in the house, so dark and lifeless but for the room with the morning-glory walls. He thought of that bright place with a feeling of uneasiness. He wondered about the people who had lived in the house and how they had come in and out of the ravine. Seeing the faint marks of a lane leading away from the house, he followed it several yards. He noticed to his right a small area enclosed by a wooden rail fence which he reckoned was where they had kept the pigs. He walked on and noticed on the left a low white fence, entwined with blue morning-glory vines. Inside was a grassy mound with an almost square-shaped rock at one end. Something red lay half buried amidst the weeds beside the stone. Willy reached over to pick it up. “A rose,” he said. “A plastic rose. Why would someone fence in a rock and.…” He stopped as he realized it was a grave. It was small, probably for a child, he thought. Someone who had lived there—the only one left behind, dead. He wondered who, and why.

He turned away and followed the lane as it twisted and turned, leading out of the small hollow. He continued on for nearly a mile, until the lane ran into a deeply grooved dirt road.

“Must be Holmans Hollow Road,” he thought. He was not familiar with Holmans Hollow and did not know anyone there. He realized he could easily get lost or go miles the wrong way. So he turned around and came back into the ravine, climbed back up the hill to the two burnt trees and down to the bank of the river, where he sat on a large boulder overlooking the water and thought about the strange sounds he had heard.