Horror at the Haunted House (11 page)

“The second time, I was about ten years old. It had rained for a week and I was bored and irritable because I wanted to play outside. Having a somewhat active imagination, I decided to stir up some excitement by staging a robbery.”

Ellen smiled. It sounded like the sort of scheme Corey would dream up.

“My plan was to hide some of the Wedgwood in my bedroom and then wait for someone, probably the downstairs maid, to notice that it was gone. Remembering how my nanny reacted to the broken plate, I thought the maid would scream and carry on hysterically and the whole household would come running. I put four or five pieces under my bed, after carefully wrapping them in bath towels. Nothing happened. The maid didn’t notice they were missing. My parents didn’t mention it.” He shook his head. “Later, I wondered if they knew all along what I had done and had decided not to give me the satisfaction of reacting. At
any rate, I slept that night with the Wedgwood under my bed and in the night, Lydia woke me. She grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me awake. I was so terrified, I couldn’t scream. When she stood beside my bed and pointed to the floor, I knew what she wanted.”

“What did you do?”

“I got up and returned all the Wedgwood to the proper place, right then, in the middle of the night, and I never touched it again. I never told my parents that I’d seen the ghost. They had always ridiculed the old ghost stories and I didn’t want to confess what I’d done. That was the last time I ever saw the ghost. When I was older and found out how valuable the Wedgwood is, I decided the ghost was worried that I would be careless and break another piece. Later yet, when my father died and I learned about the baby’s remains, I wondered if she was nervous that I would find them and dispose of them inappropriately.”

“Remains?”

“Josiah’s remains. Lydia could not bear to part with her baby, so she had the infant’s body cremated and then put the cremated remains in a piece of her Wedgwood. Cremation was rare back then and Samuel told no one about this, fearing that Lydia would be considered insane. The secret was kept until his death; his Will divulged that Josiah’s remains were in the oldest piece of Wedgwood, a black urn. He also stated that the Wedgwood collection must not be moved or sold. Those instructions have been honored by all of my family. When I wrote up my agreement with the city, I was quite specific about that.”

“Maybe that’s what Lydia is trying to tell me—that she doesn’t want Josiah’s remains disturbed.”

“They won’t be, as long as the Wedgwood is left where it belongs. I must say, I’m distressed to learn that this Agnes person
took some of the Fairylustre home with her. Even though Josiah’s remains are in a basalt urn, not the Fairylustre, my directions were for the entire collection.”

He picked up a small tablet and pencil from the nightstand and wrote something down. “I have an appointment with my attorney tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll ask him to remind the City and the Historical Society of our agreement regarding the Wedgwood. They really must be more careful. Perhaps they’ll need to post a guard, to be sure nothing else gets chipped.”

When he finished writing, he winked at Ellen. “Should I tell my attorney that the ghost of Lydia is unhappy and causing trouble with Joan of Arc? Or do you think he’d assume I’m losing my mind?”

“It might be best not to mention Lydia.” She felt more relaxed, hearing Mr. Clayton joke about the ghost. “I wonder, though, why me? Why can I see her and nobody else can? I haven’t moved any of the Wedgwood. If she was trying to protect the urn, I should think she would appear to Agnes.”

“Maybe she’s tried.”

Puzzled, Ellen waited for him to explain.

“There’s an old saying from Confucius that goes, ‘Everything has its beauty but not everyone sees it.’ I think that’s true of more than just beauty. The ghost might be there but only a person who is highly aware of feelings and vibrations will be able to see her. Some people are more psychically tuned in to the whole universe than ordinary people are.”

Ellen thought of the other times when she had sensed, as Mr. Clayton put it, feelings and vibrations—situations that other people had not perceived. She could think of dozens of examples of times when she intuitively knew something that the people with her did not sense.

“Corey saw her, or seemed to,” Ellen said, “when he was asleep.”

“Perhaps in the sleep state, he was more receptive.”

“Do you think she wanted to show Corey whatever it is she’s been trying to show me?”

“Probably. Or perhaps she used your brother as a way to get you to go with her, hoping you would follow him.”

“I almost did.”

“I have a picture of her,” Mr. Clayton said. “It was in a packet of old photographs that I found after my parents died. She’s identified on the back as Lydia and I recognized her as the ghost who appeared the night I hid the Wedgwood under my bed.”

“Is the picture here?” Ellen asked. “Could I see it?”

Mr. Clayton directed her to open the bottom drawer of his dresser and take out a small metal box. When she gave it to him, he opened it and looked through the contents for a minute. He selected a yellowed photograph and handed it to Ellen.

The smiling young woman in the picture held an infant. She looked so happy that for a moment it did not seem possible that she was the sad-eyed ghost. But the hair was the same and the face and—Ellen realized with a start—even the white nightgown with lace at the throat. Ellen turned the picture over. On the back it said, “Lydia and Josiah.”

Ellen had felt all along that the apparition she saw was the ghost of Lydia Clayton. The picture proved she was right.

Grandma came to the door then and told Ellen it was time to leave. Ellen introduced her to Mr. Clayton.

“Thank you for coming,” he told Ellen, as she put the metal box back in the drawer. “Except for my attorney, you’re the first visitor I’ve had.”

“Don’t your friends ever come?”

He shook his head sadly. “That’s the bad part about living to be eighty-one,” he said. “Most of my friends have already died.”

“I’ll come again,” Ellen promised. She liked hearing Mr. Clayton’s stories of when he was young and it had felt good to talk about Lydia with someone who understood. Most of all it was a relief to know that he, too, had seen the ghost. Impulsively, she asked, “Do you want me to bring you anything next time?”

“Blueberry muffins.” He answered so quickly that Ellen giggled. “The food here isn’t bad,” he explained, “but they never serve blueberry muffins. They were always my favorite.”

“I’ll make some myself,” Ellen told him. “I can’t come tomorrow, because tomorrow is Halloween and the haunted house opens early, but I’ll try to come on Saturday.”

“Next time, Ellen Streater,” he said, “I’ll know your name.”

As Grandma drove Ellen home, she said, “All the money in the world and the only thing he wants is a blueberry muffin. How nice that you thought to ask him.”

Ellen did not answer. She was planning what she would do at the haunted house that night. She would look inside the oldest piece of Wedgwood, the big black urn. She would see if the remains of Josiah Clayton had been disturbed.

S
he wasn’t afraid anymore. Mr. Clayton said Lydia had never hurt anyone and she believed him. Besides, the photograph of the happy young mother with her baby had made Ellen want to help the ghost if she could. She’s a troubled spirit, Ellen decided, and for some reason she thinks I’m the one who can help her. Well, perhaps she’s right; maybe I can help. I’m going to try.

Once, on a vacation, the Streaters had wandered through an old graveyard in a small town, reading the headstones. Ellen remembered asking her parents why so many of them said,
Rest in Peace.
Mom explained that many people believe unhappy souls become ghosts and wander the earth. Those who are happy have a peaceful eternal sleep.

Lydia was clearly an unhappy soul and Ellen wanted to help her. She felt sorry for anyone, even a ghost, who was in such anguish.

Besides, if she could solve Lydia’s problem, whatever it was,
Lydia would quit haunting her. Even though she was no longer afraid of the ghost, she did not relish the idea of being awakened again in the middle of the night by an ice-cold hand on her neck. Or of always wondering if Lydia, unseen and unnoticed, was standing beside her.

All she had to do was figure out what Lydia wanted her to know. If the ghost was only worried about the remains in the urn, why did she urge Ellen toward the Fairylustre?

Lydia always repeated the same word, a moaning sound with “end” as the last syllable. Ellen started going through the alphabet, thinking of words that ended with end. Amend, attend, bend, blend, commend, defend, dividend, fend, friend.

She stopped. Could it be “friend?” Was Lydia trying to tell her that she meant no harm, that she was Ellen’s friend?

She continued through the alphabet—intend, lend, mend, offend, pretend, recommend, send, spend, tend, trend, upend. None of the others made any sense in connection with the ghost. Friend did.

That night, Ellen walked through the great hall with a sense of anticipation. If Lydia appeared, she planned to ask her if that’s what she meant. Surely the ghost would be able to give some sign if Ellen was right.

After she slipped into her Joan of Arc robe and removed her shoes and socks, she still had a few minutes to spare before it was time for Agnes to tie her, so she hurried into the dining room. The octagonal Fairylustre bowl was back in its usual place. Ellen ducked under the rope to get a closer look. She wondered if she might be able to see where Agnes had repaired the chip.

The bowl looked the same as it always had. Carefully, she picked it up, turning it around and around in her hands. She saw no hairline cracks nor any evidence of glue. She ran one
finger around the rim of the bowl, feeling to see if it was smooth or uneven. She could detect no place that felt like a repair.

She turned the bowl again, to admire her favorite scene, and then stopped. The shoes of the fairy flying over the bridge were slightly different than they had been. Before, the toes of the shoes pointed up, with tiny gold balls on the tips. Now, one of the fairy’s shoes went straight ahead, instead of up. Ellen examined the shoes carefully. The balls on the tips of the toes seemed slightly bigger, too.

How odd that Agnes would make such a change. Ellen wondered if she should say something about it. Probably Agnes would want to correct the mistake, if she knew. The whole point of restoration was to put a piece back exactly like it was originally.

She also wondered how the bowl got damaged. There wasn’t any chip that first day, when Mrs. Whittacker showed her the Fairylustre. If there had been, surely one of them would have noticed it.

Ellen put the octagonal bowl back on the shelf. She would be glad when the new lights were installed. Even the shimmery Fairylustre seemed dull tonight, as if it needed to be dusted.

She went to the other end of the display, wondering if she dared peek inside the black urn to see if it contained fragments of human bones. As she approached the urn, Lydia appeared.

There were no preliminaries this time. No cold wind or running footsteps. No icy hands. She was just there, suddenly and completely. As usual, she motioned for Ellen to come closer.

“Ooohhh . . . end.”

Behind her, through her, Ellen could see the shelves of Wedgwood.

Ellen spoke softly. “Lydia, are you trying to tell me that you want to be my friend?”

Lydia moved closer.

Ellen stayed where she was, hoping that she had guessed correctly about the word,
friend.

“Ooohhend.”

“Friend?” Ellen asked again, enunciating carefully: “You are my friend?”

The ghost stopped moving. The terrified expression in her eyes disappeared. “Foohhend,” she whispered.

“Yes, I understand. You want to be my friend.”

The ghost nodded her head.

“Friend,” Ellen repeated.

The ghost quickly reached out and Ellen felt the cold hand on her arm.

Ellen gulped but did not flinch. “I want to be your friend,” she said. “I’ll help you, if I can.”

Lydia spun Ellen around, pushing her back toward the Fairylustre.

“I saw the bowl,” Ellen said. “I found the mistake Agnes made, when she repaired the chip. Is that what you’re trying to show me?”

Lydia did not answer. She moved in front of Ellen, pulling her closer to the Fairylustre.

“I’ll tell Agnes about the mistake,” Ellen said. “I’m sure she’ll be able to correct it.”

Lydia tugged harder. Ellen sensed an urgency, as if the ghost feared that Ellen would not act quickly enough. Maybe, she thought, it isn’t the repair job that’s bothering Lydia. Maybe it’s something more personal.

“I know about the black urn,” Ellen said. “Mr. Clayton told me. Is that what’s troubling you? Are you afraid someone will
disturb what’s in it? Are you worried about your—about the remains of your baby’s body?”

As soon as Ellen said
the remains of your baby’s body
, Lydia screamed. It was not a low moan, like before, but a horrible, wrenching shriek, a blending of a woman’s voice with some unearthly cry. It was a sound unlike anything Ellen had ever heard.

She jumped and felt gooseflesh rising all over her body. As the sound died away, Lydia disappeared. Realizing such a scream was sure to attract attention, Ellen quickly moved away from the shelves and back to the public viewing area. She couldn’t let Agnes catch her examining the Wedgwood.

To Ellen’s surprise, no one came into the dining room. She thought surely Corey would want to know who had uttered such a scream but neither her brother nor anyone else approached. Was Ellen the only person who had heard that awful cry?

It wasn’t going to be easy to help Lydia. Ellen wasn’t at all sure what to do next.

It was almost seven o’clock, so Ellen returned to the parlor to wait for Agnes. She wondered how to tell Agnes about her mistake on the Fairylustre bowl without making her angry. She supposed she could tell Mrs. Whittacker instead but that seemed like a mean trick on Agnes, since Mrs. Whittacker was Agnes’s boss.