The Old Willis Place Read online

  Heron Man gathered his dishes and went inside. Through the kitchen window, I saw him give Lissa a kiss on the cheek. "There's a YMCA not far from here," he said. "I'll sign you up for gymnastics. Would you like that?"

  Lissa gave him a hug, and they finished the dishes together. When they'd dried the last fork, Heron Man said, "Shall we see if the television works?"

  "TV," Georgie whispered, "oh, let them watch TV. I've missed it since Mr. Potter left. He kept the TV on all night long. Remember? We could see and hear everything."

  I smiled, remembering the fun we'd had watching TV through the window while Mr. Potter dozed in his armchair. Sometimes Georgie sneaked inside and changed channels with the remote. Mr. Potter snored away, never suspecting a thing. Finally, Georgie decided to steal the remote to save himself the trouble of climbing through the window every night.

  When he woke up, Mr. Potter noticed the remote's disappearance and wasted hours searching for it, cursing up a storm the whole time. Then Georgie got the bright idea to change channels while Mr. Potter was awake. Sometimes he turned the volume up; sometimes he turned it down; sometimes he'd switch the TV off, then back on. I couldn't help feeling a little sorry for Mr. Potter.

  Not too long after Georgie stole the remote, Mr. Potter quit. We heard him tell the property manager the solitude was driving him insane. He was going to stop drinking, he said, and straighten his life out. Georgie and I felt good about helping Mr. Potter reform.

  Lissa's answer disappointed Georgie. "I think I'll just go to bed and read for a while," she said. "I'm tired, Daddy."

  He yawned. "I'm pretty done in myself. We've had a big day."

  The kitchen light went off and the bathroom light came on. In a few moments, the light in the small bedroom came on, too.

  Without a word, Georgie and I sneaked across the yard to Lissa's room. We'd peeked in the windows many times before, often with pranks in mind. To make things easier, we'd hidden cinder blocks in strategic places. Standing on them, we could look in any window except the one in the bathroom, which was higher than the others. Of course, we wouldn't have looked in the bathroom even if we could have. People deserve some privacy.

  Lissa was already in bed. The grumpy old men caretakers had used her room for storage, but now it was clean and neat. A green and yellow rag rug covered most of the old linoleum tile. A small desk, a narrow bookcase, and a white dresser with a mirror were crammed into the tiny space, along with Lissa's bed, painted white to match the dresser. She'd made a little nest of pillows and quilts and stuffed animals, and she looked cozy and comfortable snuggled into it, a book propped up on her knees.

  After a while, Georgie nudged me. "Let's go for a ride on her bike."

  We climbed down quietly from the cinder block and ran silently across the yard to the shed. The bike leaned against the wall, its chrome handlebars bright in the moonlight.

  "Do you remember how to ride?" Georgie whispered.

  "Of course." I walked the bike to the long dirt driveway leading away from the house. "Wait here. I'll go first."

  "It was my idea," Georgie said. "I should go first."

  "This bike is different from your old Schwinn. It has gears and hand brakes like the Raleigh I used to have. Let me try it first and then I can show you how everything works."

  Georgie scowled and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "It's not fair. You aren't the queen of the world."

  "No, not of the whole world." I straddled Lissa's bike. "Just the queen of Oak Hill Manor."

  With that I pushed off and left Georgie behind. Ahead of me, the drive tunneled between massive oaks, dark with shadows, but lit here and there with patches of moonlight. The bike bounced over ruts. The cool night breeze blew in my face, bringing with it the smells of damp earth and fallen leaves. Exhilarated by speed, I hunched over the handlebars and pedaled hard. I imagined myself riding around the world, flying to the moon, coasting down the Milky Way. Like Georgie, I yearned to escape—to leave Oak Hill Manor forever.

  Five deer surprised me. They stood in the middle of the drive, their eyes on me, unsure what to do. I swerved around them as they dashed into the woods, graceful as gazelles. Somehow I managed to control the bike, but my dream of flying vanished into the shadows with the deer.

  The drive emerged from the trees into a grassy area. Just ahead was the locked gate and its "No Trespassing," "Private Property""Keep Out" signs. Beyond was the road—and the rest of the world.

  I laid the bike down in the weeds and went to the fence. Hidden in the underbrush, I watched the cars speed by, their headlights sweeping over me. Every year there was more traffic, more people, more houses. Where fields and woods had once been, homes had sprung up. I could see their lights across the highway.

  Suddenly, Georgie was beside me. "You said you'd come right back!"

  I turned to him. "Don't you wonder where all those people are going? Look at them, just driving and driving."

  "I wish we were in one of those cars, going far, far away," Georgie said. "To California, maybe. Wouldn't you love to see the Pacific Ocean?"

  I patted his shoulder. "Yes, but—"

  Georgie's smile faded and he leaned against the fence, watching the headlights go by. "Don't say it," he said sadly. "I know, I know."

  "Hey," I said, "it's your turn to ride the bike."

  Turning my back to the road and the cars, I picked up the bike and held it steady for Georgie. His legs weren't quite long enough, so he had to stand up to pedal.

  "Don't shift the gears," I told him. "They work fine just the way they are. If you need the brakes, squeeze these." I put his hands on the levers. "But don't squeeze hard. If you stop too fast, you'll go right over the handlebars."

  As he started to pedal back toward the house, I called after him, "Go slow at first. Get used to the feel of it. Your Schwinn was much heavier."

  "Don't boss me," Georgie said. "I know how to ride a bike."

  "And watch out for deer," I added. "I almost hit one."

  This time he ignored me. Wobbling from side to side, he pedaled into the dark tunnel of trees. I ran after him, but he was soon out of sight. A few seconds later, I heard the bike's bell, followed by a loud crash and my brother's cry.

  By the time I found Georgie, he'd righted the bicycle. "There was a fox in the drive," he said tearfully. "I missed him, but I smashed into that tree."

  Georgie hadn't hurt himself, but the bike's front wheel was twisted and the tire was flat. "Nobody can ride it now." He gave the bike a kick. "Flimsy old thing."

  If he hadn't looked so upset, I would have pinched him for ruining our moonlight bike rides when they'd barely begun. "Why couldn't you have been more careful?"

  "I'm sorry,"he mumbled.

  I yanked the bike away from him. "Now what do we do?"

  "Put it back where it was," he suggested. "Maybe they won't notice right away."

  I shook my head. "We'll hide it. They'll think someone stole it."

  Georgie brightened. "Maybe Lissa's dad will buy her a new one."

  "Maybe." Pushing the bike ahead of me, I followed a deer trail deep into the woods. When I came to the creek, I shoved the bike down the bank and watched it splash into the water. It came to rest behind a clump of pokeberries. No one would find it there.

  Without another word, we left the bike where it had fallen and headed for home.

  THE DIARY OF LISSA MORRISON

  Dear Diary,

  Is this how you start? I never kept a diary before, so I'm not sure. Up till now I thought my life was too boring to think about, let alone write about, but that's changing. This is the second day Dad and I have spent here, and already strange things are happening.

  First of all, the old Willis house is the creepiest place you ever saw. It's got to be haunted. Dad says the old lady who owned it was really eccentric, maybe even crazy. Anyway, she died in the house—in the front parlor, where she slept because she got too old to climb the steps to her bedroom. She lay there dead for a week
before anyone found her. Ugh.

  It seems like the perfect setup for a ghost, don't you think? She died there—all alone. Think about it. I can almost see her, can't you? A weird old lady, white hair, scary face, roaming aroundfrom room to room, up and down the steps, watching, waiting—oooh, I'm scaring myself.

  Do you believe in ghosts, Dear Diary? Dad definitely doesn't. I talked to him after dinner about Miss Willis—that's the old lady's name—and I asked him if he thought she haunted the house. He laughed. I hate it when he laughs at me. Like he thinks I'm silly. Or dumb maybe.

  If my mother was here, I know she wouldn't laugh—but she died when I was so little I can hardly remember her. Someday I'll write more about how much I miss her, but I don't want to make myself feel sad. So I will just say I wish she was here right now and we were sitting close together reading a book or something.

  I know this sounds odd, Dear Diary, so don't tell anyone, but I'd love to see a ghost—just to know for sure they exist. I wouldn't be scared. At least, I don't think I'd be. How could a ghost actually hurt you? They're just ectoplasm or something, not solid.

  Maybe it's because of my mother; maybe that's why I wonder so much about what happens when you die and where you go and if you can stay on earth for a while. I'd really like to know.

  Now here's something else to tell you, something different. Not supernatural but scarier in a way because it's real. The first day we came to the farm, there was someone in the woods spying on us. Kids maybe. I'm sure of it. I could feel them watching me. I swear my scalp prickled. I had the same feeling while we were eating dinner last night—they were back, spying again.

  I told Dad, but he says it's my imagination. I'm in a new place, I'm not used to woods all around, I hear birds and squirrels and think they're people. The way he talks,you'd think I didn't have an ounce of sense.

  Maybe I should give Dad some of my spare imagination. It might help him finish that book so he can get a better job and we can live in a house with a yard and neighbors and I can go to school and have friends—instead of spies in the woods.

  But that's not all—someone stole my bike last night. Dad can't blame that on birds or squirrels! We searched all over, but there's not a sign of it. My beautiful new blue bike is really and truly gone.

  Dad called the police and they came out and talked to us. They said teenagers sometimes sneak onto the property and most likely that's who took my bike. When I told them I thought someone was spying on us, one of the policemen said it must have been the same kids who stole my bike. They live in a development just across the highwayfrom the farm. The police have had trouble with them trespassing before.

  The other policeman shook his head. "Funny things happen out here" he said. "None of the caretakers stay long. Place gives them the jitters, they say. Some of them claim it's haunted by the old lady who used to live here. Her and the poor—"

  The first policeman coughed and said, "We'd better get going, Novak. We've got other business."

  I had the funniest feeling he didn't want us to hear what Officer Novak was about to say In case you haven't noticed, that's how it always is with adults—just when someone starts telling the interesting stuff, someone else shuts him up: I glanced at Dad, hoping he'd ask him what he was talking about, but he was watching MacDuff chase a squirrel.

  Officer Novak jingled his keys and looked at me. "Don't go too Jarfrom the trailer" he said."There's no telling who might he hanging out in the woods. And stay away from the old house."

  "1 hear there's a hunch of snakes in the cellar," the first policeman said. "And the floorboards are rotten in some of the rooms."

  The two of them got in the police car. "Keep your eye out," the first one told Dad. "Ifyou see anything suspicious, give us a call."

  Officer Novak looked at me as if something was worrying him, but all he said was,"That's a real nice dog you've got."

  We watched them drive away. I was hoping they'd turn their lights and siren on, but they didn't. I guess they only do that in movies.

  So now Dad thinks I might have been right about kids hiding in the woods, spying and stealing stuff. Three hundred acres—there must be a ton of hiding places on this farm.

  I'm going to look for them. If I find them, Til tell them to give my bike back—or else they'll end up in jail or juvenile detention. They can't scare me. And neither can Miss Willis.

  Well, I've written so much my hand hurts, so I think I'll stop and read in bed for a while. It sure is dark outside. Not a streetlight. Not a house light. Not even a headlight going past.

  Your friend, Lissa

  P.S. I'm going to call you Dee Dee. It makes you seem more like a real pen pal.

  Chapter 3

  The sound of falling rain woke Georgie and me. It pinged on the sheds tin roof like someone was beating on it with drumsticks. Nero curled beside me, purring, happy to be warm and dry. Georgie looked less happy.

  "Rain. I hate rain." He snuggled deeper under his blankets, as if he meant to sleep until the sun came out. "I wish we had a new book to read."

  I looked at the pile of old books we'd borrowed from Miss Lilian. "How about Clematis! We haven't read that for a long time."

  "I said a new book. I'm sick of those old ones. Especially Clematis. It's a silly girly girl story." Georgie pulled the blankets over his head. "Besides, I hate sappy endings."

  I yanked the covers back and laughed at his scowling face. "Tonight we'll borrow a book from Lissa," I promised. "She has a whole shelf full of them. Surely she won't miss one or two."

  "I want a story right now," Georgie mumbled. "Tell me the one about us."

  "But it always makes you cry."

  "Tell it anyway."

  I sighed and stretched out on my back beside him. "Once there was a little boy named Georgie," I began. "He had a big sister named Diana. They lived in a little house on a big farm with their mother and father. It wasn't their farm. It belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Willis, but Georgie and Diana could play anywhere they wanted. Inside and outside."

  "Upstairs and downstairs," Georgie added. "Diana and Georgie were so happy."

  "Most of the time," I said.

  "All of the time," Georgie insisted. "They rode bicycles—their very own bicycles. And they had lots of books to read. They had warm beds. And food, delicious food. Ice cream, candy, cake, and cookies, all they could eat."

  Lulled by the rain into a dreamy state like Georgie's, I said, "Devil's food cake was their favorite. And chocolate chip cookies still warm from the oven, all gooey and sweet. Mother read to them every night and Daddy took them fishing in the pond."

  "And Diana played the piano every single day." Georgie snuggled closer. "Those were the best times ever."

  "Except for Miss Lilian." I was sorry the moment the old woman's name popped out of my mouth. It hung in the air for a long moment, a dark cloud over our heads, a curse nothing could dispel.

  Georgie drew away from me and covered his ears. "Stop, Diana! Don't tell the bad part."

  "But you said—"

  "I've changed my mind." Throwing his covers back, Georgie got to his feet and dashed out into the rain.

  "Georgie!" I ran to the shed's door and peered after him, but he was already out of sight. "Come back," I called. "You'll get soaked."

  There was no answer, just the sound of the rain and the wind stripping the trees, filling the air with ragged yellow leaves.

  "Georgie," I called again. Still no answer. He'd probably stay away all day, holed up in one of his secret hideouts.

  I stepped back from the sheets of water pouring off the roof. If I hadn't mentioned Miss Lilian, my brother and I would still be telling tales about the old days, amusing ourselves while the rain fell and the wind blew. Now Georgie was gone and I was alone.

  To keep myself from thinking about the bad part, I rummaged through our pile of moldering belongings until I found Clematis. I made a snug nest of blankets for myself, not nearly as cozy as Lissa's soft, clean bed, and opened the bo
ok. Just inside the front cover, spidery handwriting proclaimed, "This book belongs to me, Lilian Willis."

  Well, not anymore, I thought. It's mine now.

  As the wind murmured through the cracks in the shed's walls, I could almost hear my mother's voice reading to me the way she once did. It would be lovely to cuddle up beside her while Georgie sat nearby, building block towers and pretending not to listen. We'd have hot chocolate by the fire, and slabs of devil's food cake. So warm, so cozy, rain falling outside, firelight glowing inside.

  Drowsy-eyed, I let the book drop to my side. Snuggling deeper under the covers, I drifted into dreams of happy days with Mother and Daddy.

  I slept most of the day, but Georgie didn't come back till after dark. Nero heard him before I did. He leapt from his place beside me, his ears pricked up, and ran to the door to welcome my brother.

  "Where have you been?" I asked him.

  Georgie flopped down on his pile of blankets, shaking off water like a dog. "You should have come with me. I went to the trailer and I—"

  "Did you see Lissa?"

  "I saw her and her father." He paused a second. "And the police. Mr. Morrison—that's their last name, I heard the police say it—called them about the bike. One cop said kids from town probably stole it, but the other said strange things happen here. He told them how none of the caretakers stay long. How some of them spread stories about ghosts and other weird stuff."

  "Boooooo," I moaned in a ghostly voice. "Boooooo!"

  We laughed, knowing exactly who was to blame for the caretakers' abrupt departures.

  "What did Lissa's father say?" I asked.

  "He just laughed, but Lissa told the police she's sure people are hiding in the woods. She feels them watching her. The policeman said they were the same kids who stole the bike. He thinks they live in those houses across the highway.

  "Was Lissa scared?"

  Georgie shook his head. "She seemed more mad than anything. If you ask me, she's kind of spoiled. You know, only child and all that. I bet she always gets her own way."