Ghostlight (3 page)

“Julian, why are you showing me all this?”

He clicked back to the photo with the light in the window. “I stayed up half the night thinking about this house. It might just work. In fact, I think it could be
perfect.
”

My belly did a backflip. “Perfect for what?”

“For our film, of course.”

Ordinarily, just the
mention
of Hilliard House made my stomach twitch and roil. Seeing it yesterday, and now, looking at Julian's photos, was really starting to mess with my head.

The strange thing was that I couldn't remember exactly why it affected me that way. I guess Grandma's anger was a part of it. She'd forbidden us to go there, and the one time I got caught breaking her rule I'd paid dearly for it. But there was something else on top of that—a memory that floated just out of reach, like dandelion fluff on the breeze. Or maybe it was more like a shadow that followed me but never could be faced straight on.

“Hold on a second,” I said. “I already told you there are lots better places on the farm for filming than that.”

“Like what? I can't imagine any place cooler than that old house.”

I thought for a minute how to explain all the locations of Kingdom—magical and completely scare-free places—but then shook my head. “It's better if I show you. Telling you just isn't the same.”

He studied his computer screen. “But I was really hoping…”

“What?”

He scrolled through the photos one more time before taking a breath and facing me again. “No, you're right. I should see all the options before we get started.” He grabbed his camera and pulled the strap over his head. “You do want to make a movie with me, right? Dad says I get a little carried away sometimes.”

“Yeah, it'd be super cool to make a movie. It's just…I've never filmed anything before. I'm more of a writer.”

“It's the same thing, pretty much. It's all storytelling.” He checked the little screen on his camera before turning back to me. “You have favorite writers, don't you?”

I nodded.

“Well, I have favorite directors. That's why I'm wearing this shirt.”

I pointed to it. “
That's
a movie director? It looks more like a serial killer. My brother would probably wear a shirt like that.”

“It's Stanley Kubrick. You know,
2001: A Space Odyssey
?
A Clockwork Orange
?”

I had no clue what he was talking about, so I just shrugged.

His eyes narrowed. “They're classic films. How old are you, anyway?”

“Thirteen.” In, like, ten and a half months. Close enough.

“Well, I only watched
A Clockwork Orange
after my cousin downloaded it. My dad would freak because it's super creepy.” He stood up. “So, you want to show me these fabulous story locations now?”

Grandma reminded me I was due back at the house for lunch, so after politely saying good-bye and thanks to Mr. Wayne, I took Julian straight to the old cow barn.

The cows, who'd never shown much in the way of good taste, were fond of the new prefab barn near the house. Blake and I preferred the old half-ruined barn in the lower pasture, because on the inside it looked kind of medieval. Grandma said it looked that way because it was built like old English tithe barns, but on a smaller scale.

Julian stared up at it. “I don't mean to be rude, but, seriously?”

“I know it seems like a cruddy old barn, but look inside. Does it remind you of anything?”

He walked through the wide doorway and looked around. Then he looked again through his camera lens.

“It, um, reminds me of…a
barn?
”

“But look at those beams,” I said. “They're like arches. The first time we explored this place, Blake said it looked like a medieval hall. You know, for feasting and stuff? Like the Knights of the Round Table?”

“Interesting.” Julian took another look through his camera and clicked a few times. “It's not my image of Camelot, but I could see Lancelot and Guinevere secretly meeting in a place like this.”

I smiled.

“But we can't film here,” he said. “Too many obstacles. For one thing, the lighting is awful.”

I peered at the images over his shoulder. They did seem pretty dark. “What if I brought in some candles?”

Only problem was how to sneak them out of the house. Grandma would never give the okay for fire in the old barn.

Julian shook his head. “What else have you got?”

Our next stop was the cattail pond on the other side of the hill, the one Blake and I had named the Mystical Pool. Huge oak trees shaded it, and at one end was a thick cluster of cattails—tall, bushy, and regal. Blake and I had swum in this pond a few times, totally against Grandma's rules. The muddy bottom had slurped and sucked at my feet, and one time Blake came out of the water with two leeches on his right leg. We never swam there again after that, but in our stories the pond became a magical body of water from which King Stanmore's first wife arose and offered him the gift of a charmed sword…and her love.

As we drew near, about a hundred frogs squeaked and leapt into the water. Two turtles sunning on a dead branch slid under the surface with a plop. Their ripples widened until the water was smooth again.

I gestured at the pond with a flourish. “Pretty cool, huh?”

Julian studied it from one end to the other, and then checked it through his camera, same as with the barn. “It has an interesting quality to it,” he finally said. “A little eerie.”

I looked back at the pond.
Eerie?
Well, there were the leeches, but I hadn't planned on telling him about that.

“If we wait here long enough,” I whispered, “the turtles and frogs will come back out.”

Julian frowned. “Maybe another time. What else have you got?”

Grandma would have called him a “tough customer,” but I'd been saving the best for last.

The copper beech tree was very old, very tall, and its branches drooped all the way to the ground. If you parted them, you walked into a space almost like a tepee, only not so dark and close—light and air could still filter in. The floor was cool dirt, making it a great place for escaping the heat and stickiness of a July day, and the leafy roof offered protection from the rain. In Kingdom, this was where the friendly badger family lived, and where Princess Etheline escaped when life at court grew boring, or worse,
dangerous.

I parted the branches and waved Julian in. After a worried glance at me, he hugged his camera to his body and stepped inside.

“You can still stand under the branches when you're close to the trunk,” I said, “but I like to sit. It cools me down. And then, when the sun shines directly through those dark red leaves, it's like the sky is on fire.”

He lowered his backpack to the ground and sat next to me, his forehead wrinkling a little as he checked the scene through his camera. “Again, the lighting is a problem.”

“But I bet you never thought of filming under a tree before. It's…” I scrambled for the right phrase, “out of the ordinary.”

He nodded. “Okay. But what sort of story would take place here? I'm not filming a Narnia movie.”

He might as well have kicked me. “What could be cooler than a Narnia movie?”

His eyes softened in a familiar way, as if he found me quaint. “It's an interesting place, Avery, but not practical. Anything else?”

“Well…there's bits of forest here and there that are kind of wild and old-timey.”

“Like what we walked through to get to Hilliard House?”

I nodded slowly.

“There's the river, too,” he said. “We could make good use of that.”

“So what are you saying?” My stomach already seemed to know the answer, because it was churning again.

“I appreciate the tour, Avery, but Hilliard House is still the best option. All you have to do is look at that house and the stories start telling themselves.”

“But I can't go there.”

Julian studied me. “What's your deal with that place?”

“I hate talking about it. The last time I was at the house…”

How best to explain it? The only people who knew about that day were Grandma, Blake, and me. We never even told Mom the whole story.

“The last time you were at the house
what
?”

I swallowed. “I snuck inside without permission, and Grandma found out.”

“So? Did she make you stand in a corner or something?”

“No, Julian, she took a belt to my backside. In my whole life, that's the only time she ever laid a hand on me. It was
serious.
”

He was quiet for a moment. “But why?”

“She says Hilliard House is a dangerous place.”

There was more to it than that, but it was too weird to say out loud. It wasn't just that I'd snuck into the house—I'd actually fallen asleep for hours. Grandma called the sheriff and begged him to put together a search party. After they found me, she said I'd wasted the time of a lot of hardworking men. I had to stay in her sight for the rest of the summer. That was when Kingdom started. I couldn't really go anywhere, so we had to pretend.

But if I told Julian that, he'd ask why I went to the house in the first place. And I wouldn't be able to answer. The answer to that question was the shadow I could never see straight on.

“Avery?”

I looked up at Julian. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”

“How long ago did you sneak into the house?”

“Oh, it was years ago.”

He looked thoughtful. “You're not a little kid anymore, you know.”

“She would still kill me.”

“Then we'll get in and out without her ever knowing.”

My heart lurched. “Were you even listening to me?”

“It's no big deal, I promise. We just have some planning to do first. Can you meet me here tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow's Sunday. There's church and Grandma's Bible lesson and all that. We're not supposed to go visiting on Sundays.”

“Okay. Monday, then. In the meantime, you could do some work for the film.” He leaned forward. “Since you're spending all day with your grandma tomorrow, ask her when Hilliard House was built and why nobody lives there anymore. Try to find out everything she knows about the place.”

I shook my head. “She'll get suspicious for sure.”

“Not if you ask the questions in the right way.”

“I don't want to get in trouble again.”

Julian was quiet for a moment.

“Storytellers are artists,” he finally said, “and every artist has to take risks.” He held my gaze. “Trust me, it's a super-cool film location. And you're a local expert. I need you on this, Avery.”

Grandma's church had the skimpiest congregation I'd ever seen.
Twelve
people, and none of them younger than her. It was a very conservative church, too, which meant the women only opened their mouths during the hymns. Grandma sure liked to belt it out when it came time to sing, but she had a little trouble staying in tempo. I asked her once why the church didn't have a piano, and Grandma said, “We only offer the fruit of our lips in praise, Avery May. There's no need to add instruments to what Christ's spirit made perfect.”

I just happened to think a piano would keep everyone on track, not to mention liven things up a bit. She didn't care to hear that, though.

After the service, Grandma drove us home for kitchen-table Sunday school, seeing as Sycamore Road Church of Christ didn't exactly cater to kids. When the lesson came to an end, Grandma said a long and meaningful prayer that stirred up a decent amount of spiritual feeling in me. Then,
finally,
it was time for lunch.

Which was good, because I was starving. But it was bad, too, because I had to ask Grandma about Hilliard House without her popping a vein. It needed to come up naturally, as part of a casual conversation. That meant letting Blake in on it, too.

I swallowed a bit of chili with corn bread and took a deep breath. “So…Grandma?”

“Are you meaning to ask me a question, Avery May?”

So much for
natural.

“Yes, ma'am.” I cleared my throat. “The other day when Julian Wayne and I were walking around the farm, he took an interest in that old Hilliard House. He wanted to know more about it, but I didn't know its history.”

Grandma considered me for a moment. “You didn't take him near it, did you? You know I don't want anyone messing with that house.”

Blake chuckled. “How could we forget after the stunt Avery pulled?”

Grandma's hard gaze didn't waver. “It's not safe. And it looks like I finally have a buyer to take it off my hands. The last thing I need is kids running around breaking things.”

“He just wanted to know if it was built before the Civil War.”

Grandma settled back in her chair and looked thoughtful. “I'm pretty sure Hilliard House was built after the Civil War.” Her brow wrinkled. “There was a building in the same spot before that—a smaller frame house, I think, but it burned down.”

“Did anyone die in the fire?” I asked.

“That's a gruesome question. I honestly don't know.”

“Grandma, why didn't you and Grandpa live in Hilliard House?” Blake asked. “It's on your property. Seems like you'd want to live in a big house like that, looking out over the river and all.”

Grandma put down her half-eaten corn stick. “It wasn't ours to live in.”

Blake frowned. “Why not?”

“That's a long story.”

“Can we hear it?” I prompted. “Please?”

“
May
you hear it, Avery May.” She wiped her mouth. “The Hilliards have owned this land for a long time, but it didn't pass down as a whole from the first Hilliard to his first son, and then on to that Hilliard's first son. Instead, it was broken up into smaller bits, so that every son who wanted land got a parcel.”

“What about the daughters?”

Blake rolled his eyes. “Girls don't inherit.”

“That's not exactly true,” said Grandma. “The girls just married men who had land of their own. Or they moved away, like your mother.” Grandma's lips tightened. “Your grandpa's great-grandfather Ephraim Hilliard settled the area. It was his son, whose name I don't recall at the moment, who built that fancy brick house.
His
only surviving son, Joshua Hilliard, inherited the house. Your grandpa was his first cousin once removed, and they were neighbors.”

“Why don't we have more cousins?” Blake asked. “You'd think this area would be chopped up into a hundred tiny farm parcels after that many generations.”

“You're forgetting the wars, dear. Each one, from the Civil War to Vietnam, took at least one Hilliard boy, some of them not much older than you.”

“So Joshua Hilliard was the last one to live in the brick house?” I asked.

“He was. I married your grandpa in 1960. Joshua Hilliard was around sixty-one at that time, already widowed and living alone in the house.” She frowned. “He was a shut-in.”

“Why?”

A shadow passed over Grandma's face, and for a moment I feared she might close down the whole conversation. But after letting out a heavy sigh, she continued.

“If you must know, Joshua Hilliard was a troubled man. He'd outlived his wife and daughter, and I reckon that's enough to make anyone maudlin.”

“He's not still alive, though, right?”

“Good grief, Avery,” Blake said. “He'd be, like, a hundred and fifty years old by now.”

Grandma smiled. “Not quite. He died…I think it was around 1985.” She looked past me toward the living room. “In his last years your grandpa collected all the old family photographs and organized them in albums. You might take a look at them.”

“I'd like that.” Actually, the idea of looking at black-and-white photos of frowning people in fusty clothes didn't exactly light my fire, but maybe it would help Julian with his film. “So nobody's lived in that house since? Even Grandpa didn't want it?”

“Your grandpa and I were happy here. And I never liked that house anyway.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Old Joshua Hilliard wasn't just maudlin. There was a darkness to him.” She paused to scrape the last bite from her bowl. “Any more questions, my dear?”

I thought for a moment. “What does ‘maudlin' mean?”

Blake leaned toward me. “It means feeling sorry for yourself. Which ought to sound familiar, since that's how you've been acting since we got here.”

“Enough.” Grandma settled her spoon in the empty bowl. “If you two clear the table, I'll bring in the watermelon. And, Blake, later on you can help Avery in the kitchen by drying the dishes.”

It lifted my heart to see Blake getting punished for once. Too bad I didn't have much space in which to gloat about it while we were actually doing the dishes. It was hard to savor my triumph when he was standing next to me not saying anything. Turns out silence can actually be kind of loud and distracting.

So I passed the time by making a mental list of all his recent crimes against me. Things like telling me to walk behind him whenever we were in public, just in case some cute girl might mistake me for his girlfriend. Or not watching our favorite cartoon channel anymore because it was for “little kids.”

Then there was the eye roll. That was a crime against Mom and Grandma, too. If any of us showed enthusiasm for anything—even important things—Blake gave us the eye roll. Sometimes it was big and dramatic, other times it was just a flicker, but it always burned me up. Just thinking about it was enough to make me want to break a plate.

“Come on, Avery, you're splashing me on purpose!”

I gave him a sidelong glance. His shirt
was
pretty damp, but I wasn't about to apologize.

“By the way, I remember something about Hilliard House,” Blake said.

I rinsed a bowl and set it on the counter, even though his hand was outstretched to take it.

He sighed. “It came to me while you and Grandma were talking. It happened before you got yourself in trouble.”

I set another bowl on the counter, willing my mask of boredom not to crack.

“We went over there together,” he continued. “I was almost ten, so you must have been around seven years old. You wanted to go inside.”

The mask cracked, and I turned to him. “I did?”

He grinned. “Yeah, you were fearless. The cellar door was open, and off you went crawling into the dark to find the steps up to the main floor.”

“I don't remember that at all.”

He dried a bowl and stacked it with the others. “It's been a long time. But you've always been weird about that house. First you were all obsessed, but after that walloping from Grandma, you stopped talking about it. Like you'd forgotten. Your face would go all blank when I mentioned it.”

“Seriously?”

He nodded. “Sometime after that, when I thought you were with Grandma, I walked out there. As soon as I stepped on the porch, I heard something.” He took another bowl from me, but this time he set it on the counter.

“Well…what'd you hear?” I prodded.

Blake made a display of side-eyeing the dishes, pans, and crusty Crock-Pot still waiting to be washed. “I'll tell you if you wash
and
dry the rest of this stuff.”

My face flushed hot, and I could feel a vein start to throb at my temple. “You are the king of jerks.”

He shrugged. “Whatever. It's up to you.”

I stared at him, not even caring that my rubber gloves were dripping all over the floor. I wished I could forget the whole conversation, because I really wanted to see him dry the rest of those dishes.

But I wanted to know what he'd heard even more.

“Fine. I'll dry. Just tell me.”

A slow smile spread across his face as he tossed the towel onto the counter. But when he turned back to me, the smile vanished.

“I heard
you,
” he said. “I looked through the window and saw you sitting in a chair near the fireplace. You were talking to someone. I stared through that window really hard, looking all around that room to find who you were talking to.”

I swallowed hard. “And?”

“And nothing. There was no one there but you.”

That night I dreamed about Hilliard House.

I was walking up the hill toward the porch, and the brick-lined path seemed to extend about three times longer than I remembered. The grass between the bricks was dark and curled like worms. When I finally reached the steps, I raised my head to look at the house. A curtain twitched at the far-left window. A light glowed softly behind it, revealing the shadowy outline of a hand.

I woke to the shadows cast by my night-light. They stretched across the sloped attic walls, reaching out for me as if they were fingers, and the window air conditioner shuddered and wheezed like a creepy old chain-smoker. I fumbled at my bedside table until I finally switched on the lamp. At the bottom of the bed, Weasley lifted his head and mewed sleepily.

“It's okay, Wease. Go back to sleep.”

I reached under the bed and pulled out the old coat box that lived there. It was dusty and more beat-up than I remembered, but I'd looked forward to opening it this summer…at least until Blake betrayed me.

I lifted the lid to find Kingdom nestled inside—the maps we'd made, the family trees, the battle plans and treaties, the stories and artwork, all detailing the adventures of Kingdom's inhabitants, from the mighty King Stanmore on his throne to the lowliest faun in his woodsy cottage. The pages were heavy in my lap, and they smelled like dust and kid sweat. But the stories and drawings chased the shadows away, and by the time I put the box back under the bed, I was ready to sleep.