Ghosts of Rathburn Park Read online

  Listening to arguments always made Matt nervous, so he backed quietly out of the room and went on down the hall. Courtney was unpacking her animal collection, taking them out of the box and unwrapping the tissue paper very carefully before she put each one up on a high shelf. Matt watched with interest. He was very familiar with Courtney’s collection. Ages ago he and Courtney had played a game called Breath of Life in which they did a secret ritual and pretended that it made the animals come to life and have all kinds of adventures.

  They hadn’t played the Breath of Life game since Courtney had decided they were too old for that kind of thing. Matt was sure she was right, but at that particular moment, watching the familiar little animals come out of their tissue paper wraps, he kind of liked remembering how it had been before he and Courtney got too old. He watched Courtney unwrap a unicorn made of blown glass, and then a plastic English bulldog, before he said, “Hi.”

  Courtney jumped. “Oh. You scared me. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Sorry,” Matt said. “I just wanted to ask what else you found out this afternoon. You know, from that Mrs. Hardapple.”

  “Not apple,” Courtney said, “acre. Mrs. Hardacre.”

  “Whatever,” Matt said. “What did she tell you about Rathburn and the fire?”

  “Oh yes, that awful fire,” Courtney began, but then she glanced toward the door and frowned nervously. “I think I’m not supposed to tell you about it.” Courtney hated to do things she wasn’t supposed to. She did them quite a lot, but she always hated it.

  “Well, not at the table, anyway,” Matt said. “I think Mom just thought it wasn’t good dinner-table conversation.”

  Courtney unwrapped a polar bear made of plaster. “Oh yes,” she said, nodding thoughtfully. “Maybe you’re right.”

  Matt really liked it when somebody in the family thought he was right, even if it was just a maybe. He grinned at Courtney and decided to help her unpack her animal collection. “Here, I’ll help,” he said. As he unwrapped a shaggy Welsh terrier made of white porcelain that had been one of his favorites, he said, “Okay, what did Mrs. Hardacre say?”

  “It was pretty horrible.” Courtney raised her shoulders in a dramatic shudder. “It started in a house in the old town of Rathburn, but it was a dry, windy day and it turned into a firestorm and spread through the whole town and all of it, even the church, burned down. And some people died too. An old lady and some little kids, and a woman who ran into a house trying to save the little kids. There were rumors that the fire had been started on purpose, because the house where it started belonged to a man who had been a troublemaker, and two or three different people were accused of starting the fire. But Mrs. Hardacre says she thinks it was just an accident. Afterwards all the people who didn’t die moved and started another town on land that didn’t belong to the Rathburn family, and it was called New Town for a while, but then the name got changed to Timber City. And after that, nobody lived where Rathburn used to be, except for one old crazy man who lived in what was left of the church. When Mrs. Hardacre was a little girl everyone had forgotten his real name and just called him Old Tom. But then he died too and nobody lives there now.”

  “A man lived in the church?” Matt asked. “I wonder how he did that. I don’t think it has any roof. Did you go into the church?”

  Courtney shook her head. “Oh no. Mrs. Hardacre says it’s too dangerous in there. We only went in as far as the narthex. That’s what Mrs. Hardacre called the kind of little entry hall at the front.”

  “Oh yeah,” Matt said. “I know about narthexes. In cathedrals and like that.”

  Courtney laughed. “I’m sure you do,” she said. “That’s the kind of stuff you always know about. Anyway, we just walked around the outside of the church and on down what used to be the main street of the town. And you’re not even supposed to do that unless you’re with Mrs. Hardacre. The land where the town was is still Rathburn private property but Mrs. Hardacre knows one of the Rathburns, the only one that’s left I guess, and she has special permission for her tours.”

  “Dangerous?” Matt asked. “Did Mrs.—Mrs. Hardacre say what makes it dangerous?”

  “Not exactly. Something about falling rocks and deep holes where things like wells used to be, I think.”

  “Not ghosts? She didn’t mention ghosts?”

  Courtney stopped unwrapping a large plastic buffalo and stared at Matt. “Who told you there were ghosts?”

  “A guy I was talking to,” Matt said.

  Courtney frowned thoughtfully. “Mrs. Hardacre didn’t mention any ghosts but…” She paused, glancing at the door. “But some girls I met at the picnic did. They said they certainly weren’t going on the tour. This girl named Hannah went, ‘None of the kids I know would go anywhere near those ruins, not even guys who love to do things they aren’t supposed to.’ And then when I went, ‘Well, I don’t believe in ghosts,’ Hannah went, ‘I don’t either, but I certainly wouldn’t be caught dead going where I might meet one!’”

  Matt nodded slowly, his mind busy with a lot of more or less ghostly ideas. Courtney reached out for the porcelain dog that he was still holding but when he started to hand it to her something happened, the kind of thing that always happened to Matt. He let loose of the dog a second too soon, and Courtney squealed and grabbed for it and Matt did too and accidentally hit it, so that it went into the air. The little dog went way up in the air—and came down right on Courtney’s pillow. Courtney picked it up.

  “Is it broken?” Matt asked, expecting the worst.

  Staring at the fragile porcelain dog, Courtney said, “I can’t believe it. It’s like a miracle.” She turned the dog back and forth, examining its delicate pointed ears and skinny little tail. “It’s not hurt a bit. I can’t believe it. I’m so relieved.”

  Matt was relieved too. Big-time. All he needed at the moment was to be the one who caused one of his sister’s crying jags. The thing was, Courtney had always been a world-class emoter. Dad said Courtney’s temperament made him think of the Greek masks that show either comedy or tragedy, like she was always on top of the world or way down in the dumps. And she really did cry a lot for someone who was almost fourteen years old. But the amazing thing was that Courtney somehow managed to look pretty good even while she was crying. It was Matt’s experience that not many people could do that.

  So there weren’t any tears this time but Matt wasn’t surprised when Courtney said he didn’t need to help her unpack anymore. At least not her animal collection.

  The next few days the whole Hamilton family were pretty busy and Matt didn’t have a lot of time to think. But when he did have a few minutes, like in bed at night while he waited to go to sleep, he found himself thinking mostly about dogs. About the little dog who’d rescued him from the forest, but also about Shadow and Mister and Bitsy, who had been his special dog friends back in Six Palms.

  He wasn’t sure what breeds they were. Mrs. McDougall didn’t know either. She said she guessed that Mister was a spaniel mix and Bitsy was a husky mix, but that Shadow was too mixed up to even guess about. But all three of them had been smart and funny and crazy about Matt. He missed them a lot.

  The other thing he thought about was what Courtney had told him about the Rathburn fire and, in particular, the man who had lived all by himself in the ruins of the church. It was a pretty depressing story, so Matt tried to forget about the whole thing and for a while he thought he had, but then on Thursday—when everyone else in the family just happened to be away for the whole afternoon—he found out that he hadn’t. Forgotten, that is.

  Dad was at an all-day seminar, and right after lunch the rest of them, Mom and Justin and Courtney, were getting ready to leave too. Mom was going to drive Justin to a baseball game and then she and Courtney were going shopping for new clothes. Mom said she needed some stockings and Courtney said she wanted to buy some pajamas and underwear in case some of her new girlfriends asked her to a slumber party.

  At first Mom sug
gested that Matt should go with Justin to the ball game. But when Justin let her know what a bad idea he thought that was, she gave up on that one. The next thing she said was, “Well, you’re quite welcome to come with Courtney and me. Isn’t he, Courtney?”

  Courtney shrugged and said, “I guess so. You want to come shopping for underwear with us, Matt?”

  “Sure,” Matt said. “I can’t imagine anything more fun than choosing between roasting to death in the car, or else sitting around watching ladies trying on underwear.”

  He was grinning when he said it, and Courtney giggled, but Mom didn’t seem to think it was very funny. When he asked if he could just stay home and maybe go for a ride on his bicycle, she sighed and said she hated to go off and leave him all alone, but a boy who got cute about ladies trying on underwear didn’t really deserve to be included in a nice afternoon outing.

  So that was how Matt happened to ride his bicycle down the Hamiltons’ driveway at about one-thirty that afternoon and head toward Rathburn Park. Why he was doing it was another matter.

  Six

  IT WASN’T UNTIL HE was already on his way, pedaling down the driveway, that Matt began to understand exactly where he was heading—and why. Actually there were a couple of whys. The first one had to do with proving to himself that he wasn’t such a bonehead after all. That he actually could go for a walk in the forest all by himself and not get hopelessly lost. He could start at the edge of the parking lot exactly where he’d started before, and then find his way back by keeping his mind on where he was going and by leaving markers at places where trails crossed each other. The other why, and this was an important one, was to get another chance to see the Rathburn Palace. He didn’t know why that seemed so important except that a huge old house that everyone called the Palace was the kind of thing that a historically minded person really ought to see.

  There was one more why somewhere way back in a shady corner of his mind. Another reason he kind of wanted to relive that strange Sunday afternoon. Not that the little white dog was very likely to show up again. But he had to admit that the possibility that it might was still haunting him as he pedaled down Rathburn Road and headed out toward the edge of town.

  It took him quite a bit longer than he’d expected to bicycle to Rathburn Park, and after a while he began to think he’d somehow goofed again and taken a wrong turn. But he pedaled on stubbornly, telling himself that it wasn’t really his fault that he didn’t exactly know the way. After all, the one time he’d been there he’d been jammed into the backseat between Justin and Courtney, which made it a lot harder to keep track of the exact route they were taking.

  After passing a few farms and a lot of open fields, Matt was beginning to think about giving up and heading back to town when he noticed a small sign that pointed down a side road. The sign, shaped like a hand with a pointing finger, said Rathburn Park. And right under that, Community Park of Timber City. Great! He’d done it.

  “See. I’ll bet you didn’t think I could find it,” Matt bragged to an imaginary Justin. Which was something he did a lot when it turned out he’d been right about something. Not that it happened all that often.

  As Matt rode through the parking lot he could see the ballpark straight ahead and the picnic grounds off to the right. On the day of the picnic the parking lot had been almost full, but today, early on a weekday afternoon, there were only a couple of cars, and the ball field was completely deserted. Over in the picnic grounds a thin column of smoke rose up from far back under the trees, but except for that small sign of life, it looked like he had the whole park pretty much to himself.

  And off to the left, not far away, but set back among thickets of young evergreen trees, he could see the broken tower of the burned-out church. Rising up through the treetops, the remains of the church had the lonely, deserted look of a ruined castle. Most of the walls were still standing, but the roof had collapsed, and what must have been an impressive steeple was now only a jagged spear of blackened stone. He hadn’t come intending to visit the church, but now, as he tried to picture what it had looked like before the fire, he found himself moving toward it.

  It wasn’t until he had crossed the parking area that he noticed the No Trespassing sign and began to remember what he’d heard about Mrs. Hardacre’s warning. Something about the fact that even on her official tour people were not allowed to go inside the church itself because it was too dangerous. Well, that was all right. He wasn’t planning to go into it. All he had in mind was just getting close enough to peek in through a door or window.

  There was an old-fashioned rail fence between the parking lot and the Rathburn property, but the gate was only a big yellow No Trespassing sign with a hinge on one end. It was, Matt discovered, easy to duck under the sign, but dragging his bicycle under it was a little more difficult. Beyond the gate the trail that led toward the ruins was narrow and overgrown by weeds and bushes. Matt was struggling to push his bike down the path when suddenly stone walls rose up on either side of him and curved into a pointed arch over his head, and there he was right inside what was left of the church’s entry hall, or narthex, as it was called in books about cathedrals.

  Something, perhaps the suddenness of his arrival, made a nervous quiver run down his backbone, and for a second or two he seriously considered making an immediate retreat. But the moment passed, and after asking himself what he was afraid of and not being able to come up with a sensible answer, he leaned his bike against the wall and moved forward to where he could see into the large open area that had once been the main body of the church. Into a very large roofless room, and directly into a jungle of young trees, huge bushes and tall ferns. At the far end, where the altar must have been, nothing remained but large piles of rubble.

  On either side green vines snaked up the stone walls and spilled out through gaping window holes. It must have been a beautiful building once, with thick stone walls, a high arched ceiling and perhaps stained-glass windows. And it was still beautiful in a strange, wild way. A church for trees and vines and perhaps for forest creatures.

  Afterward, Matt clearly remembered promising himself not to go any farther. What he didn’t remember was changing his mind or deciding to break his promise, but at some point, for some mysterious reason, he found himself well inside the walls. Pushing his way around clumps of underbrush and large rock piles, he made his way forward enough to see, in the farthest corner, what looked at first like another pile of trash, but which, as he got closer, began to resemble the walls and roof of a tiny makeshift cabin. Only one rough wall and a roof made of rusty corrugated tin were visible, but that was enough to bring to mind what Courtney had told him about the old man who had lived right there in the burned-out church for many years.

  Old Tom, Courtney had said his name was. “Old Tom,” Matt whispered, and, narrowing his eyes, he began to build an image. To imagine an old hermit, as he might have looked during the time he lived right there, in that very spot. After a moment, Matt was able to see him clearly, to see a mental image as clear as the ones he’d always been able to make of his favorite historical heroes, people like Napoleon, or Robin Hood. Only this particular image was of a hairy old man dressed in rags. Squinting, Matt pictured Old Tom sitting at a table, all alone in his tiny hut, or leaving it to creep down the streets and alleys of the ruined town.

  It was the kind of imagining that always made Matt anxious to find out more—more of the real details that would make the whole thing more alive and exciting. To know important facts, like who the old man had been before the firestorm and what had made him live like a hermit in the burned-out church. And what had that been like, living in such a place in summer and winter? How did he eat and sleep and keep dry and warm in a lean-to shack with no one to talk to, no TV or computer, and no way to call anyone if he needed help?

  Suddenly Matt felt a tremendous urge to see inside the shack. To explore the place where the old man might have left interesting souvenirs of his life. A bed and table, perhaps, or m
aybe a stove or a firepit where he had cooked his meals. And possibly an old safe or cupboard full of his secret papers and personal belongings.

  Matt hesitated, wanting to go on, and not wanting to. Arguing with himself. Why not? he thought. Why shouldn’t I? I’m not going to take anything or do any damage. Who would care? Not Old Tom, who, after all, had been dead for many years.

  But that line of thought, the one about Old Tom’s being dead, led his mind off in another direction. In a direction that might not even have occurred to him if it hadn’t been for what Lance had said about the old town being haunted. Lance and those girls too, the ones who had talked to Courtney about not believing in ghosts.

  Matt shrugged. It was a good thing he was from a family that didn’t believe in ghosts. But then, on the other hand…On the other hand, if there ever was a ghost…He remembered reading about how ghosts were supposed to hang around because they wanted to get revenge or else because they had terrible secrets they needed to tell. Secrets, maybe, about the fire and the mystery of who might have started it.

  It was an interesting thing to consider. A little bit too interesting for a person standing only a few feet from the shack where a crazy old man had lived, and where his ghost, if he had one, might very well hang out. For a long time, or at least for what seemed like a very long time, Matt stood perfectly still, almost holding his breath, only turning his eyes from side to side as he looked and listened for ghostly hints. Hints like trembling moans or swirling clouds of cold, white mist.