The Ghost Of Crutchfield Hall Part 10

James held my hand tighter. "Do you think she'll come back again?"

"I hope not," I said, but I couldn't hide the uncertainty in my voice.

"Perhaps her spirit isn't here anymore," James said. "Perhaps she's with Mama and Papa." He looked at me as if for confirmation.

I nodded, hoping it was true.

"Maybe she's not angry now," James said softly. "Maybe she's not jealous. Maybe she knows now that she can't change her fate."

I nodded again, still hoping it was true, still not sure. Sophia was not the sort who would accept what could not be changed.

"I miss her sometimes," James said. "She wasn't always mean, you know. She could be quite nice when she wanted to be."

"I'm glad to hear that." I stared at the gravestone, warmed by the afternoon sun. It was almost impossible to picture Sophia lying peacefully six feet below us, tucked into her grave as snugly as a child is tucked into bed. All that anger, all that energy-where had it gone?

For a moment, the gra.s.s over Sophia moved as if something deep down below stirred in its sleep. With a flash of terror, I remembered what she'd told me about crawling from her grave six months after her death. I backed away, almost tripping on a tree root. Six months, I thought. Six months today.

Unaware of my distress, James contemplated Sophia's headstone. "Can we sit here for a while?" he asked. "I have a mind to draw a picture of my sister's grave."

I wanted to say no. I did not like graveyards, especially this one, but he'd already sat down and spread his art supplies on the gra.s.s.

While James sketched, I resisted the urge to seize his arm and pull him away. Perhaps I was being overly cautious, but I did not dare risk disturbing Sophia. Anything might rouse her-the scritch-scratch of James's pencil, the sad calls of the pigeons, the wind in the gra.s.s, even the soft sound of my breath or the solemn beat of my heart.

"James," I whispered. "We should go home. Uncle will wonder where we've gone."

He looked at me and smiled. "All right. I've finished my drawing."

As James gathered his things, I glanced at his picture. He'd drawn not only the tombstone, but his sister as well, standing in its shadow, blending in with the trees behind her. I couldn't be sure if she was smiling or frowning.

"Why is Sophia in the picture?" I asked him.

"She's not," he said.

I held the picture up and pointed to the indistinct image. "Who's this, then?"

James stared at what he'd drawn and shook his head. "I didn't put her there-I swear I didn't." He began to cry. "I was just sketching the trees. That's all. How did she get in my picture? Who drew her?"

I put my arms around him and stared over his head at Sophia's grave. Once again the gra.s.s stirred. A wind rose and rustled the leaves. For a moment, I thought I heard someone laughing at us.

Dropping the picture, I took James's hand. He looked at me, his face pale with fear. "Is she coming back?" he whispered.

I stared at the shadowy place under the tree, not sure whether she was there or not. "Even if she does come back," I said, "she can't hurt us. What's done is done. No matter how often she tries to change her fate, she will fail."

James tightened his grip on my hand. "It's very sad," he whispered. "I feel sorry for her."

"Better to feel sorry than frightened." Turning back to the shadowy place under the tree, I said loudly, "We are stronger than you are, Sophia. You cannot harm us, you cannot frighten us, you cannot make us obey you anymore."

"Leave us alone!" James cried. "Please, please, Sophia, rest in peace."

The wind rustled the leaves and blew through the gra.s.s on Sophia's grave. Its sound was as low and sad as the pigeons calling to one another on the church roof.

Wordlessly, James and I left the churchyard. Over our heads, the sky was a clear blue dome, and the road lay before us, dappled with sunshine and shadow. When we got home, Mrs. Dawson would have tea and cake ready for us. Later, we'd take our books outside and read in the garden or play croquet with Miss Amelia.

I looked over my shoulder. The old church spire rose above the trees. I could no longer see the graves, but I knew they were there, dozing in the sunlight, tilting this way and that, some cradled in tree roots, some almost hidden in tangles of weeds and wildflowers. I hoped Sophia had heard what we'd said and would remain where we'd left her, at peace among the dead.

end.