The Ghost of Tillie Jean Cassaway (5 page)

“Jesus saves,” said Granny.

They walked again in silence. Then Hilary said, “Tillie Jean is about my age.”

“Hilary, I don't know about the spirits, but I can't believe a body can get up out of the grave and come ahaunting. Whatever you seen, it warn't a dead person walking.”

When Hilary got home, she told her mother about going to Holmans Hollow with Granny, and about seeing the girl in the woods.

“It's your imagination, Hilary,” said her mother. “You have too much, maybe.”

“No, I really saw someone,” said Hilary. “Is it okay if I go berry picking with Granny tomorrow?”

“Yes, I'd like to have some to make jam.” Mrs. Barbour paused. “I wonder how your brother's doing out by the river, by himself. Hope he don't get in no trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Oh, any kind. I just worry a bit about him, being there alone.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Willy passed several houses as he walked into Holmans Hollow. He saw a few people, standing on their porches, but they just stared at him. No one spoke. He felt a little odd, as though he should explain to them where he had come from, who he was.

Then he heard a dog growling, and halted, remembering the eerie howl he'd heard before. What had Mom said about a mean, wild dog about? Yes, there it was. He turned back. The dog followed. He walked faster. The growling dog kept pace. When he reached the ravine, Willy raced for the house, the dog barking furiously at his heels. He tore open the door, squeezed inside, and slammed it, almost catching the animal's nose.

The dog began running around the house in a frenzy, barking loudly. Knees trembling, Willy fastened the door and looked around him in the dimness. The sun had gone down behind the hills, leaving only the glimmer of twilight.

Willy did not dare go back outside. The dog was lying by the door and jumped up and growled every time he moved to open it.

“Looks like I'm stuck here for the night, and with not even a fish or beans for supper,” Willy muttered.

He was distracted from his hunger by a thumping noise. “Hey!” he said. “Who's that?” No one answered. He walked softly into the next room and into the adjoining bedroom. The noise seemed to come from behind the blue door. He strained his ears to hear it again.

THUMP.

Then a soft, brushing sound.

Willy edged closer to the door. “Hey in there!” he called. No answer. He put an ear to the door and nearly fell over backwards when something hit the wood hard from the inside. Holding his breath, he stared at the door, waiting for something to come out. Nothing moved. All was silent.

After awhile, Willy put his hand on the knob and slowly began opening the door. It made a scraping noise as it was pushed back to the wall. Not moving from the entrance, Willy tried to see into the dark corners of the room.

The doll was lying on the floor as before, its arm lifted, hand twisted grotesquely, broken leg tucked under. But there was a difference. The doll's head was no longer on its body. It was sitting on the window sill, facing out.

Willy pulled the door shut and went back into the kitchen where he felt most comfortable. He sat down on the edge of the old table and pulled a harmonica out of his pocket and played for about half an hour. He felt lonely and jumpy. He knew houses—even trailers—always made queer, creaky sounds when you were in them alone. He knew he was going to have to settle down and wait for morning. He hoped that blasted dog would get tired of waiting for him to come out and leave.

He got the thin, torn cover off the sofa, laid it on the floor in the corner by the kittens, and lay down pulling the tarpaulin over him, more for comfort than warmth. The mewing kittens snuggled up against him. Apparently the dog was keeping mama cat away.

Crickets and tree frogs and all the night sounds swelled and poured through the windows and passed through the walls as he lay still. Even Willy's own breathing seemed loud. Outside, the dog began howling.

Sometime later, Willy jerked. He must have fallen asleep. It was quiet now, outside. The dog had stopped howling. The night sounds had stilled to a low, rhythmic buzz. The moon shone brightly through the windows. Willy lay with his eyes open, enjoying the warmth of the kittens piled beside him. His eyelids slowly closed.

He jerked again. Something was beside him, poking into his flesh. Hard, prickly. The stiff, tiny fingers of the doll. He tried to cry out and the croaking he made woke him up. He rose and looked and felt all around. There was no doll, nothing. After what seemed hours, he slept again.

Not far away, the river wormed its way between the hills and splashed over rocks with as much vigor as in the day. Animals safe in the dark foraged for food. In the yellow trailer in Mauvy, Hilary Barbour kept waking up, worrying about her brother, all alone in the dark, somewhere near the river.

In Holmans Hollow, Babe Larson made a visit to the outhouse and stopped to listen to the chimes made of tinkling spoons hung in a tree near the path.

“Tillie Jean,” he called softly. But there was no answer. Tillie Jean was not there. Babe listened to the spoons a moment, then grew afraid. It was dark, no one else was up. Whimpering, he went back to the house. His mother heard him, comforted him and soon he was asleep again in his bed.

On the island in the river, Morton Craig tossed and turned. At night, every problem seemed worse. But what should he do? How could he keep from losing the only person who brought him comfort? He could not depend on a ghost to help him forever. Ghosts don't grow up. He got up, went upstairs, and opened the door to a room. On a narrow cot lay a small form, breathing evenly under a cover. The man went back to bed. Sleep finally came to him, too.

It was nearly dawn when the door to the old man's back porch creaked as someone cautiously pushed it open and went out. Soon the rope bridge spanning the river swung back and forth, its rotten fibers groaning.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Hilary woke before daylight and sat up in bed. Today was the day she and Granny were going to get blackberries at the Cassaway place. She kept thinking of what that old man had told her when he stopped her on the road, about the little girl who drowned in the river but whom you could still hear, if you listened. And she thought of the girl in the woods.

Nobody believed she'd really seen her. She wanted to see her again. Only she and Babe had ever seen Tillie Jean. Hilary smiled and settled back down in bed.

“I'd like to be friends with her,” she thought, her eyes closing. “I'd never tell anyone. She'd be my secret friend. Mine and Babe's.” Of course she wasn't a ghost. Granny had made her realize that. But she was different, you could tell. She belonged to the woods, like an animal. She would find her and make friends and no one would know. Maybe someday she'd tell Willy.

Hilary slipped back into unconsciousness. She dreamed of calling, “Tillie Jean!” softly, again and again. Then she was startled at a sound behind her and turned. There was the girl.

“I'm Tillie Jean. Why did you call?”

“I wanted to meet you. Are you … did you really drown in the river? If you did, how can you be here?”

The girl did not answer. Tears streamed down her face. She was gone, seeming to melt into the tears.

Hilary looked down and saw that her own feet were in water. She noticed that she was in the river. The water was rising higher and higher—she awoke.

“Well, honey, have a good sleep?” Mrs. Barbour asked when Hilary came into the kitchen for breakfast.

“Yes, but I dreamed. I've got to eat quick because Granny wants to leave early to go berry picking.”

“The radio said it might rain today.”

“We don't care. Anyway, it looks pretty now.”

“Take one of those buckets out back to put them in. Wish I could go with you, but I've got too much to do today.” Mrs. Barbour watched her daughter skip away toward Granny Barbour's, and wondered about her other child, alone at the beginning of the day.

Willy was sleeping still as grey morning light eased into the ravine. He was dreaming again. Someone was calling to him from far, far away.

“
Willeeeeeee!
”

He sat up.

“Willeeeee, come up! Help me!”

He pulled himself up into the hole under the eaves. Oddly, his arms were so long he did not need anything to climb on.

“I'm coming!” he called.

Then he noticed that water was coming out around the lid of the footlocker. “Whoever is in there must be drowning,” he thought. He tried to raise the lid, but could not. As he watched, the lid came up by itself and a headless, dripping body began climbing out. It stood up. Willy saw that it was the doll, grown bigger. How could it have called to him without a head? He watched it grow even larger. Then he saw that the thing was holding its head under its one arm. Water poured from the head, from the widening crack lines on the face and from its eyes. The gaping mouth was saying,
“Come … come to the river with me.”

“No!” Willy cried. The doll stumbled and grabbed his feet.

“No!” he began kicking out at the horrible thing.

A piercing scream filled the air, followed by another. Willy sat up abruptly, wide awake now, not up under the eaves but on the floor in the kitchen, under the tarpaulin. The first scream had been his own but the second came from someone else. Standing in front of Willy was a girl about Hilary's size. She began backing away, a terrified look on her face.

“Wait!” shouted Willy. He jumped up and tried to stop her going out the door but she kicked at him. “Hey!” he yelled, “Stop it! I ain't gonna hurt you! Ow!” She landed a kick on his shin. He stretched out his hands, palms toward her. She stopped kicking but remained crouched before him.

Willy stayed back, feeling as though he had cornered a wild animal. Her long red hair was tangled, her dress dirty and torn, her feet bare. Willy's eyes were drawn to a metal object hanging around her neck on a string. She clutched at it. Willy spoke again, softly, “I ain't gonna hurt you. You scared me for a minute, grabbing my foot … I didn't know what you was.”

The girl seemed to begin to lose her fear. A curious look came into her eyes.

“Hey, look here,” said Willy, stooping. The kittens were crawling in every direction under their feet. Willy picked one up and began stroking it, sensing that it would help keep the girl calm. “Want to hold it?” he offered.

She looked at the grinning boy and the squirming kitten. A shy smile crept over her face and Willy put the tiny, warm body into her hands.

“It ain't scared of me,” she said. Her voice was low and husky.

“No, it ain't,” said Willy.

“I didn't know anybody was here. I thought the kittens was under that thing, like they was before. I didn't mean to.…”

“That's all right,” said Willy.

“I love kittens,” she said, petting each one in turn. “I petted them before.”

“It's been you messing around this house, leaving the door open?”

“I never made no mess. I had to go to my room.”

“What do you mean, your room?”

“The little flower room. It's mine. I've been playing there lots.”

“Somebody was here when I was,” said Willy.

“Warn't nobody here when I was.”

“No?” said Willy, studying her. “Guess that's your doll in there.”

“It's Tillie Jean's. Why'd you pitch it in the river?”

“So it was you that screamed!”

“I hollered, cause you shouldn't a done it!” said the husky voice.

“How'd you get it back?”

“Robert, my dog, fetched it.”

“Oh, him,” said Willy. “Then you been playing with the doll in there.”

“Did you bother my room?” asked the girl. She started toward the blue door. Willy followed.

“It's my room,” she said, turning to him before entering. “You oughtn't come in here.”

Willy stayed at the doorway and watched as the skinny, raggedy child, her long, faded dress enveloping her bare feet, turned the doll's head. “Just stay there and be good,” she whispered to it. “Stay there. I'll watch out for you.” She came back out and shut the door.

“Who's Tillie Jean?” asked Willy.

“A little girl. That's her grave down there.” She turned and pointed through the window to the tiny, grassy mound out near the hill. “She died. Drowned in the river.” The two of them looked at the grave.

“Were you here yesterday morning in the fog?” asked Willy.

“Yes. I was coming to my room … but somebody else was coming … I hid.”

“Me!” said Willy. “I thought you was a ghost.”

The girl's eyes widened.

Willy said, “It must have been you that was there at the top of that hill the other day. How'd you know my name?”

“It warn't me.”

“What about last night … that thudding noise in the … in your room. How'd you do that? I never saw nobody.”

“It warn't me.”

“When I found the kittens, were you there? Someone was laughing.”

“No,” she whispered. “It warn't me.”

“Hmmm,” said Willy. “What's your name?”

She stared at him for what seemed a long while before answering. She seemed to be looking through him, seeing something else. Willy actually looked behind him. She spoke at last in a voice so low Willy could hardly hear. “My name is Tillie Jean Cassaway.” As soon as the words were out, the girl turned and ran out the door.

“Wait!” shouted Willy, running after her. “I want to talk to you some more!” But she was running like the wind.

Willy followed. Fortunately, the fog was not as heavy as the morning before, so he had little trouble keeping the fleeting, thin figure in sight. She went up the hill toward the two trees that stood like guards.

Then she was out of sight, running, slipping and sliding down the other side. Willy stopped at the top of the hill and saw her almost at the bottom. He ran down the blackened hill, jumping over rocks and charred logs, swishing past the slender saplings that had sprung up to replace the burnt trees. The girl was now running toward the river in the direction of Craig's Island, and was soon again in the cover of trees and brush. Trees grew thickly along both sides of the dirt road that led to the swinging bridge. “She's flying,” thought Willy. Every few minutes he would see her head bobbing above a bush or see her bare legs spring over a large rock as her raggedy skirt billowed in the wind. But he was gaining.