Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story by Mary Downing Hahn

  I thrust the picture at my aunt. "Who's this?" I whispered. "Do you know?"

  Aunt Blythe drew in her breath. "My goodness, Drew, he looks exactly like you." Turning the photograph over, she examined the back. No name, no date, only the address of a photographer in St. Louis and the assurance that the negative was on file and more prints could be ordered.

  Staring at my double, she said slowly, "I think Hannah had two brothers. Yes, I'm sure she did. Theo and, and—this boy."

  I shook my head. "If he's Hannah's brother, why isn't he in any of the other pictures?"

  Aunt Blythe didn't answer right away. In the silence, rain pattered against the windows and dripped through holes in the roof. The wind crept in through cracks and stirred the folds of a long white dress hanging from the rafters.

  Finally, my aunt raised her eyes from the photograph. "I think his name was Andrew. Isn't that strange? You share a face and a name with a boy who died years before you were born."

  My throat tightened. "He died? Andrew died?"

  Aunt Blythe looked at me. "Oh, dear," she said, "I didn't mean to frighten you."

  "I'm not scared!" My voice came out as high and squeaky as a girl's. Furious at myself for being such a baby, I leapt to my feet and headed for the stairs.

  "Slow down, Drew," my aunt called. "You'll go through the floor!"

  Before the words were out of her mouth, a board split under my weight, and I fell flat on my face.

  In seconds my aunt was beside me. "Are you all right?" she asked. "Did you hurt yourself?"

  "I'm fine." Too embarrassed to meet her eyes, I peered into the hole I'd made. Something was hidden in the dark space under the floor. Forgetting Andrew, I lifted out an old wooden cigar box grimy with layers of dust and cobwebs.

  Maybe I'd found a treasure. Setting the box down, I slowly raised the lid. Inside was a candle, a piece of chalk, a few wooden matches, and a bulging leather bag that clinked when I shook it.

  I looked at my aunt. "What do you think is inside? Gold coins? Jewels?"

  "I can't guess," she admitted. "Open it, Drew."

  Holding my breath, I untied the knot and tipped the pouch. A stream of marbles poured out, nudging and bumping one another, overflowing my hands, spinning across the floor in all directions.

  I watched them roll away, too disappointed to care where they went, but Aunt Blythe went after them on her hands and knees. Pressing one into my hand, she said, "This is a genuine aggie, Drew, a perfect bull's-eye, the finest I've ever seen."

  The marble was about an inch in diameter, ruby red with a swirl at the top like the white of an eye. Smooth and warm, it had a lucky feel.

  Gathering the others, Aunt Blythe named them: immies, moonstones, carnelians, cat's-eyes, rainbows, peppermint stripes. Some were made of glass, some of semiprecious stones, some of clay. They were old, she said, in good condition and probably very valuable.

  "How do you know so much about marbles?" I asked.

  "You may not believe this, but I was the playground champion in grade school. I won so many marbles, they filled three coffee cans. By sixth grade, the boys refused to play with me. They said it was because I was a girl, but I knew the real reason—they couldn't beat me."

  Sitting back on her heels, Aunt Blythe studied the marbles silently. After a while, she said, "These meant a lot to somebody once. I wonder who hid them here—and why."

  I'd already found the answer. At the bottom of the pouch was a piece of folded paper. The ink was faded, the handwriting old-fashioned and full of curlicues, but the message was clear:

  WARNING

  These marbles belong to

  ANDREW JOSEPH TYLER

  If you take them you will be sorry.

  7 June 1910

  At the bottom, Andrew had drawn a fierce skull and crossbones.

  After she'd read the message, Aunt Blythe picked up the picture of my double and studied it. "The poor child must have hidden them up here before he died."

  Without looking at my aunt, I dropped Andrew's aggie into the pouch, then the immies, the moonstones, the cat's-eyes—click, click, clickety click. The sound was loud in the silent attic.

  "What are you doing, Drew?"

  "We have to put everything back the way we found it."

  "Don't be silly. We can't leave those marbles in that dirty hole. A collector would pay a small fortune for them."

  I glanced at the piece of paper lying on the floor near her shoe. "You saw the note."

  Despite my protests, Aunt Blythe dropped the pouch into her pocket. "Please try to understand. The house needs a new roof, new wiring, new plumbing. A good painting. Andrew lived here once, this was his home, I'm sure he'd approve."

  "No," I cried, surprising myself with the strength of my feelings. "No, you mustn't take them. They belong here, Aunt Blythe."

  She refused to listen. At the top of the steps, she turned to me and said, "If Andrew comes looking for his marbles, I promise to take full responsibility for him."

  Her words made me shiver. It was wrong to joke about the dead, wrong to steal from them. Dropping the cigar box into the hole, I fled downstairs behind my aunt.

  Chapter 5

  Before I went to bed that night, Aunt Blythe said, "I've been thinking about the marbles, Drew. If you're really worried, I'll put them back. Would that make you feel better?"

  I was standing at the foot of the steps, afraid to go to my room, but ashamed to admit it. Without looking at my aunt, I picked at a fleck of peeling paint on the bannister. "Can we do it now?"

  "Not in the dark." Aunt Blythe shuddered. "We'd probably fall through the floor."

  "First thing in the morning then."

  "Right after breakfast." She seized my hand and gave it a firm shake, a promise. "Go to bed now. It's past ten."

  Slowly, I climbed to the landing. Above me the hall was dark. I'd forgotten to turn on the light at the bottom of the steps. If I went back, I'd prove I was a baby, scared of everything.

  I put my foot on the first step and gripped the bannister. All I had to do was run up the rest of the steps, dash through my door, flick a switch, and leap into bed. I'd be safe in my own room. But I couldn't lift my other foot. It was like jumping off the high dive—the more you thought about it, the worse it seemed.

  Suddenly, my scalp tightened. Something moved in the shadows above me. For a second, I saw a flickering image as insubstantial as a drawing on air. Two women stood outside my door. They wore long dresses and clung to each other, sobbing, their faces hidden.

  Before I could make a sound, they vanished. The hall was empty. Moonlight patterned the walls and floor with shifting shadows. What had I seen? I didn't know, couldn't be sure. The figures had disappeared too quickly.

  Beside me, the window curtains stirred in a breeze. It was cold on the landing. I wanted to fling myself into my aunt's arms and beg her to protect me, I wanted to jump into bed and pull the quilt over my head, but I was too scared to move. The ghosts might appear again, they might be waiting for me, they could be hiding anywhere.

  Upstairs, the hall floor creaked, and Binky appeared at the top of the steps, grinning down at me. I took a deep breath and ran to him, scooped him up, hugged his warm, furry body. He'd protect me, keep me safe.

  "Are they gone?" I whispered.

  "Whuff." Binky licked my cheek and wagged his tail.

  Holding the dog tightly, I looked around. The hall was definitely empty. I carried him into my room and turned on the light. Everything was the way I'd left it. No sobbing ladies in long dresses. No Andrew either.

  Once more, I shoved the rocking chair in front of the attic door. Undressing quickly, I got into bed and put my arms around Binky. "You didn't see them, did you? If they'd been here, you would've barked."

  Binky wagged his tail again, and I relaxed a tiny bit. "It was just my imagination, wasn't it?"

  "Whuff."

  Hoping whuff meant yes, I pulled the dog under the quilt with me and tried to fall aslee
p.

  The next thing I knew, I was dreaming about a rocket ship traveling through space at hyperspeed. The captain had his back to me. He wore a jacket quilted with tumbling blocks. I couldn't see his face, but I knew he was old. Very old.

  Suddenly a shower of marbles spun toward us out of the blackness—moonstones, cat's-eyes, immies, blood-red aggies. Like meteorites, they trailed fire. They struck the window, clickety click. They bounced and knocked against the ship's sides, clickety clickety click.

  "You found them," the old man said. "Don't deny it. If he comes for them, you must take full responsibility."

  When the captain turned and looked at me, it was my own face I saw. "Andrew," I cried. "Andrew!"

  Wide awake, I sat up in bed and stared at the ceiling. Overhead, things bumped and clattered. Someone was in the attic. Then I heard his footsteps coming down the stairs slowly, one step at a time. I knew who it was, I knew what he wanted.

  Binky knew too. He looked at the attic door and whimpered. Before I could stop him, he leapt off the bed and ran. I wanted to go after him, I wanted to call Aunt Blythe, but it was too late. The door was opening, pushing the rocking chair ahead of it.

  On the threshold, a boy appeared. Except for the white nightshirt he wore, it might have been me. For a moment, he leaned against the door frame, struggling to catch his breath. When he stepped away from the wall, he tottered and almost fell. I heard him mutter something that sounded like drat.

  A few feet from the bed, Andrew stopped and stared at me, his eyes wide with surprise. "Who are you?" he whispered hoarsely. "What are you doing here?"

  I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Clutching the quilt, I shook my head. Let me be dreaming, I prayed, oh, please let me still be dreaming. Make him go away.

  Andrew came closer instead. I heard his bare feet patter across the floor. Without looking, I knew he was leaning over me, breathing hard. "Why, you're no bigger than I am," he muttered. "How dare you sneak into my house, steal my things, and then try to hide yourself in my bed?"

  Before I knew what he was doing, Andrew grabbed my shoulders and tried to pull me out of bed. The effort made him cough. Letting me go, he leaned against the wall and gasped for breath. When he finally spoke, his voice was weak but still threatening. "If you don't give me my marbles at once, I shall call Papa. He's a lawyer, he'll have you locked up in jail so fast your head will spin."

  I was crying now, I couldn't help it. "I'll give them to you tomorrow," I sobbed. "I promise, Andrew, I promise."

  He held out his hand. It shook a little. "I want my marbles now!"

  "My aunt has them—she said you had no use for marbles, she said you were dead."

  Andrew drew in his breath. "I don't know who your aunt is or where she got such a fantastical notion. I'm not dead, as you can plainly see. Give me my marbles, you thief, and get out of my bed at once."

  "Please go away," I begged. "This is my bed. You don't live here anymore. You, you—" For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to tell him again that he was dead, especially when he was so sure he wasn't. "I'm sorry about the marbles, honest I am. I told my aunt not to take them, but she..."

  Stumbling over words, repeating things I'd already said, I went on talking till I realized Andrew wasn't listening. He was prowling around the room, bumping into furniture like a blind man lost in a strange place. For the first time, he seemed to sense something was wrong.

  "Where is my sister?" he asked. "When I went to the attic, she was fast asleep in that chair. Surely you saw her."

  We both looked at the empty rocker. "Hannah doesn't live here either," I whispered. "She's very old now, almost a hundred—Aunt Blythe said so."

  Andrew leaned over the bed and stared down at me. His face was deathly pale, but the skin below his eyes was dark.

  "The fever," he whispered, "it's driven me out of my head. I'm standing here looking at my own self lying in bed. You aren't real, I'm dreaming, walking in my sleep."

  Seizing the quilt, Andrew tried to jerk it out of my hands, but I held tight. Once more the effort exhausted him. "There's no sense fetching Papa," he muttered. "Hannah will know what to do, she always does."

  I watched him go to the door and peer into the hall. "Hannah," he called. "Where are you?"

  The house was silent. No one stirred. No one replied.

  When Andrew turned to me, I realized he was even more frightened than I was. "Surely Hannah wouldn't leave. She promised Mama she'd stay with me all night. I heard them crying outside my door."

  My scalp prickled. The sobbing women in the hall—had they been Andrew's mother and sister? No, no, this couldn't be happening. I closed my eyes. Let him be gone when I open them, please, please, let him be gone.

  But no matter how badly I wanted him to disappear, Andrew stayed where he was, leaning against the door frame and gasping for air. The rasping sound of his breath made me shudder. At any moment I expected him to collapse, to die all over again before my eyes.

  "You can't be alive," I whispered, "you can't—it's impossible."

  "Do I look as bad as that?" Andrew came back to the bed and sat on the edge, close enough for me to see the fear in his eyes. "Dr. Fulton told Mama I was like to die before morning, but he saved me from blood poisoning last year and measles the year before that, and croup and whooping cough as well. Hannah lived through diphtheria. She says I will too."

  He smiled uncertainly. "I hope Hannah is right, but the truth is I feel very weak. And cold. I should be in bed. If you don't let me under the covers, you'll surely be the death of me."

  When Andrew reached for the quilt once more, I pulled it over my head. I didn't want to see his face again. I had to make him leave, I couldn't stand it anymore. "The cold can't hurt you," I cried. "Nothing can. You're already dead! Go back to your grave, rest in peace, let me be!"

  Andrew yanked the covers away and forced me to look at him. "That's a wicked lie," he gasped. "If I'd died, I'd know it, I'd remember. Surely death is too powerful a thing to miss altogether."

  The doubt in his voice made me braver. Switching on the lamp beside the bed, I cried, "Look, just look. Is this your room?"

  Half-blinded, Andrew crouched at the foot of the bed and shielded his eyes from the brilliant electric light. When he finally lowered his hands, he gazed around the room, taking in my posters, my running shoes, my jeans draped over the rocker, the radio. "Where are my pictures, my books?" he whispered. "What have you done with my things?"

  "Great-grandfather got rid of them years ago." My voice shook with the power of truth. Harsh truth. Cruel truth. I was frightening Andrew, but I had to make him see this wasn't his house anymore. No matter what he thought, he couldn't stay here.

  Andrew shook his head, still unconvinced. Ignoring his tears, I pointed to the calendar hanging above the bookcase. "See what year it is?"

  He got to his feet and tottered across the room for a closer look. "No," he said, "no, that can't be right. It's 1910, I'm twelve years old, I have my whole life ahead of me."

  Fighting fear and pity, I watched him press his hand to his chest. Before I realized what he was doing, he was back at the bed, grabbing my hand and holding it against his left side. "Feel that?" he whispered. "I can't be dead."

  Under my palm, Andrew's heart pounded rapidly against his ribs. His skin was warm, his flesh solid over his bones. On the wall beside the bed, his shadow merged with mine.

  I jerked my hand away, frightened by the living feel of him. Nothing made sense. Ghosts were transparent, insubstantial, they didn't cast shadows, they didn't have beating hearts.

  For a moment, neither of us spoke. We sat on the bed staring at each other.

  Andrew finally said, "I don't understand. If you, if I, if we both..." His words trailed away in confusion. Even though the room was warm, he shivered.

  My thoughts were muddled too, but I knew one thing for sure. No matter how badly I wanted to be rid of Andrew, I'd brought him here. If I let him return to the past, he'd die. B
ut he wouldn't be gone. Every time I passed a mirror, I'd see his face. Every time I spoke, I'd hear his voice. His ghost would haunt me forever.

  Whether Andrew realized it or not, it wasn't his marbles he'd come for. It was his life.

  Chapter 6

  The room was so quiet I could hear Andrew's breath rattle in his chest. There was no other sound. The hall clock was silent. The curtains hung motionless at the window. Not a car, not a truck, not a plane disturbed the silence.

  "How did I come here?" Andrew asked. "How do I go back?" He sat as still as stone, his eyes fixed on my face, waiting for me to explain.

  "It's got something to do with the marbles," I said uncertainly. "Why did you hide them?"

  He shrugged. "I wanted to put them where they'd be safe. They're mine, I won them all, mostly from my cousin. I thought he'd take them while I was sick. That's how Edward is. You can't trust him, he's always sneaking around. There's no telling what he'd do if he had the chance."

  While he talked, Andrew traced the pattern on the quilt, his finger moving from one block to the next. "Mama made this for me when I was a baby," he said softly. "The colors have faded so much I scarcely recognize it, but this is her stitching. She sewed every thread."

  Keeping his head down, Andrew studied the rows of tiny stitches as if he were reading a message from the past. He breathed deeply, slowly, deliberately.