Ghosts Beneath Our Feet (4 page)

But no deer appeared. As soon as they reached the open meadow on the other side of the woods, Jay began to hang back.

“Let's just go to the top of the hill,” Katie coaxed. “I want to see if it's as steep as it seemed yesterday.”

It was. The red-gravel road and the ragged sidewalk unrolled like shabby ribbons at their feet. Halfway down, in front of the house where Nancy Trelawny and her family lived, blue-jeaned figures were playing catch.

“If they miss, they'll have to chase the ball all the way to the bottom of the hill,” Katie marveled. “Some fun!”

“Who cares about the ball game? Look at the machine!”

Jay pointed across the street. Leaning against a sagging front porch was a massive black motorcycle. Its gleaming perfection looked out of place.

“Come on,” Jay ordered. “I want a close-up look.”

Katie followed gladly. When they were almost opposite the motorcycle, the front door of the house opened, and a lanky boy in jeans and a black T-shirt came out. His glance touched the Blaines and moved away.

“Wait here,” Jay said. “I'm going to talk to him.” He ambled across the road, kicking up tiny red dust-devils at every step.

Katie watched him, hardly daring to hope. Maybe Jay and the cycle's owner would become friends. If that happened, Jay might stop thinking about going back to Milwaukee.

One of the ball players dropped out of the game and threw herself on the crumbling curb, legs outstretched. It was Nancy Trelawny's granddaughter. Today the red-gold hair hung smoothly except for a single narrow braid. She swung her head back and peeked at Katie over her shoulder.

Across the road, Jay was deep in talk with the boy in the black T-shirt. Katie knew her stepbrother had forgotten she existed. She started down the hill, stepping over the biggest cracks in the sidewalk and detouring around a three-wheeled wagon that had been abandoned where it fell apart. The girl watched her coming.

“Hi. I'm Katie Blaine. Thanks for helping us yesterday.”

“It wasn't anything.” The girl's voice was cool. “Your mother okay?”

“She's fine.” Katie sat on the curb and wrapped her arms around her knees. “It was so hot yesterday, and this hill is pretty steep if you aren't used to it.”

“You're from out of town.” The girl said it like an accusation.

“Milwaukee. I don't know anybody in Newquay.” Katie tried to sound offhand and failed. She decided to be frank. “It's kind of lonesome—you know?”

The girl's expression softened a little. “I'm Joan Trelawny. Your stuck-up brother likes motorcycles, huh?”

“More than anything. He'll probably talk that boy into giving him a ride.”

“No chance,” Joan said. “Skip Poldeen doesn't give rides. He thinks he's king of the hill, he does.” She swung around to face Katie, and her face was transformed by the warmest of smiles. “Are you going to stay in Newquay? If you want, I can show you where things are. The library's real small, but they get lots of paperback romances. Tuesday Lake is about a mile from here, and the beach is pretty nice. And there're movies in the Consolidated High School gym two nights a week.” Now the wary look returned. “I bet that sounds stupid to you—movies in a gym.”

“Oh, no! Maybe we can go together sometime. We're going to be here all summer.”

“Your stuck-up brother would say it was stupid, though.” Joan jumped to her feet and cocked her head, imitating Jay. “Say there, kid,” she drawled, “does everybody wear their hair in that weird way in this stupid town?”

Katie giggled and changed the subject. “Are those your brothers and sisters playing ball?”

“The skinny boy is my brother Ed, and the redhead is my sister Lillian. The other kids are my cousins. Baby Patty—she's in the house with Ma and Gram. And I have a sister who's married in Hancock and a brother in the Navy. My dad works at the lumberyard.” Joan stopped for breath. “How many are there in your family?”

“You saw them all yesterday,” Katie said. She watched Skip Poldeen wheel the motorcycle out to the street with Jay trailing close behind. “There's my mom, of course, and Jay's my stepbrother. My real dad died when I was a baby, and my stepfather—that was Jay's dad—died last fall.”

“How about Frank Pendarra? Isn't he your uncle?”

Katie explained that Uncle Frank was a family friend, not a real uncle.

“Only three people in a family,” Joan mused. Clearly she couldn't imagine what that would be like. “When you have turkey, I bet you can always get a drumstick—hey, look there!” She stared in astonishment as Skip Poldeen mounted the motorcycle and Jay climbed on behind him. The engine snarled. Then the big machine took off in a wide U-turn and hurtled down the hill. The ball players scattered with angry shouts.

“You see?” Katie said. “I knew he'd get a ride.”

“I never saw old Skip let anybody else on his precious machine,” Joan said. “I guess he wants to show off for the big-city kid. Mostly he yells at us to get away if we even look at it. He's bad news.”

“What do you mean, bad news?”

Joan shrugged. “Sort of wild. Want to come in and have a Coke?”

Katie followed her into the house. She wanted to hear more about Skip Poldeen, and she wanted to talk to Joan's grandmother again. If Uncle Frank wouldn't tell her the meaning of the strange message, maybe she could find it out for herself.

The living room looked far too small to hold all the Trelawnys Joan had listed. A huge couch, two overstuffed chairs, a television set, and a long coffee table crowded with framed photographs took up most of the floor space. The dining room was full of furniture, too, but the kitchen was spacious and bright. Katie had hardly looked around during her quick visit the day before. Now she saw Joan's tall, round-cheeked mother rolling out dough on the table, with a redheaded baby perched at her elbow. One tiny pink foot rested on the pastry board.

“Pleased to meet you,” Mrs. Trelawny said. “We heard you was comin' to Newquay—glad someone is up there on the hill with old Frank. Poor feller shouldn't be alone. Get your friend a cold drink, Joanie. There'll be fresh Cousin Jacks in a little while.” She chuckled at Katie's expression. “Cousin Jack is what we call a Cornishman
and
what we call his favorite cookies, too. Every Cousin Jack loves Cousin Jacks. You ask old Frank if they don't.” She picked up a glass and thumped it into the dough, making a neat two-inch circle.

“Did ye tell Frank what I said, girlie?” Katie turned to Nancy Trelawny, who sat in her corner next to the stove. The legs of her chair had been cut down to accommodate her own short limbs, so that she seemed to be crouching on the floor. “Did ye tell 'im they was still at it?”

“I told him,” Katie said. “But I don't know who you meant.”

“Knackers.” Joan spoke the word as if it explained everything. “Gram worries about 'em all the time. She says they're getting meaner now.”

“What's a knacker?”

Joan took two bottles of Coke from the huge, old-fashioned refrigerator and handed one to Katie. “Knackers are”—she paused, as if expecting Katie to laugh—“knackers are evil ghosts that live in a mine. When miners get killed underground, sometimes their spirits stay in the mine, and they keep digging and knocking on the tunnel walls, trying to escape. Gram says the knackers in Newquay mine are restless 'cause it's nearly thirty years since the big accident.” She tilted her chin at Katie. “I'll bet you think this is silly.”

“Joanie.” Mrs. Trelawny was reproving. “No reason to be saucy about it, I'm sure. Most people don't believe in knackers. Who's to say what's the truth, anyway?” She slid a spatula under a circle of dough and transferred it to a cookie sheet. “Gram came to this country from Cornwall when she was a girl. Her folks believed in knackers, so she did, too.”

Gram Trelawny's black eyes sparkled. “You listen to what I tell you, girlie,” she ordered. “They be down there, to be sure. Ugly little devils with squintin' eyes and gapin' mouths. Diggin' under this very 'ill, they are, and full of rage 'cause they can't get out. Longin' to make mischief—”

Katie gasped. Her drink slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor. Cola rippled across the worn linoleum.

“Oh, I'm sorry!”

Joan snatched a towel from a rack over the sink and began mopping up the stream. “That's okay,” she said. “I'll get you another bottle.”

“See there, Gram?” Mrs. Trelawny exclaimed. “You've gone and scared Joanie's friend. You and your evil spirits. Just look at that white face.” She squeezed Katie's shoulder with a floury hand. “It's all Old Country tales, girl. Gram and Joan are a couple of biddies when it comes to tellin' ghost stories. Don't you believe 'em.”

“But—But I do believe them!” Katie croaked. She was so excited she could hardly speak. “I believe there really are knackers, Mrs. Trelawny. There must be. You see, I heard them myself last night. Right under Uncle Frank's backyard!”

Chapter Six

Baby Patty cooed, breaking the silence in the kitchen.

“You're making that up,” Joan said. “You shouldn't tease Gram.”

“I'm not,” Katie protested. “I heard the knackers last night. Honest!”

“You didn't!”

“Now, now,” Mrs. Trelawny scolded, “if Katie thinks she heard something—”

“Oh, she 'eard 'em, all right!” Gram Trelawny's eyes shone, and she clapped her hands like a child. “You're a good girl,” she said. “A fine girl! You 'eard 'em in Frank's backyard, you say?”

“Yes.” Joan glared, and Katie began to wish she'd kept still. “I didn't know what it was—I thought it might be the beginning of an earthquake. There was a sound—like a groan—”

“Yes, yes,” Gram encouraged her. “That's it! Digging right up to Frank's place, they are. The boy wants to go 'ome, poor chap.”

“Gram!” Now Joan's mother looked disturbed, too.

“What boy?” Katie asked. “Who do you mean?”

“Frank's boy, of course. Kenneth, his name was. Buried in the mine accident thirty years gone, and 'e's been down there ever since. I could feel it—I knew 'im and 'is mates was close to breakin' out. Thirty years of diggin', an' now it's goin' to happen. You tell Frank—”

“Oh, no,” Katie groaned. “I didn't know Uncle Frank's son died in the mine. That's terrible!” She remembered the old man's face when she'd delivered Nancy Trelawny's message the night before. He hated what she'd said, and why shouldn't he? The very idea of a beloved son killed and then changed into an evil spirit who kept struggling to get back to the surface.… Katie shuddered. “Poor Uncle Frank.”

Gram Trelawny struggled to her feet. “It'll 'appen soon, mind my words,” she said. “The knackers'll get out! Bad mischief's comin'—I can feel it.”

To Katie's frightened eyes Gram looked as if she were in a trance. Her fists were clenched at her sides, and she stared past the two girls and through them. Mrs. Trelawny hurried to the old lady's side and guided her back to her chair.

“Now, Gram,” she soothed her, “you know nothing's goin' to happen. Don't get yourself all stirred up. The girls are just goin' for a walk”—she shot Joan and Katie a glance—“and you don't want to spoil it for them, do you? That's a dear.”

Still clutching their Coke bottles, the girls scuttled down the hall to the porch. A moment later Joan's mother joined them at the door.

“Our Gram's an old lady,” she told Katie. “She always did like her bit of excitement, and she doesn't get much of it anymore. So she makes her own, you might say. You mustn't mind her stories.”

But Katie couldn't stop thinking about the pain she'd caused. “Uncle Frank must have heard that story about his son and the knackers before,” she said. “He got angry when I told him what Gram said.”

“Yes, he's heard it. Our Gram's had this in her head for months, and she won't let it go. Ever since she realized the mine accident happened thirty years ago this summer. Right after Frank came home from the hospital, she went up to his place when we weren't watchin'—just slipped off one afternoon—and warned him there was trouble comin'. Got no thanks for it, you may be sure, but she don't discourage easy, bless her.” Mrs. Trelawny gave Katie a sharp look. “She's a good woman, Katie. The old tales make life more interesting for her, that's all. She needs 'em.” She turned back into the house, and soon the girls could hear her talking softly in the kitchen.

“Still,” Joan kicked the porch railing, “if you hadn't said you really heard the knackers, Gram wouldn't have gotten all upset. I like the spooky stories she tells, but I don't pretend to really believe 'em.”

“I wasn't pretending,” Katie protested. “I did hear something. If it wasn't knackers, what was it? You'd believe, too, if you'd been there.” Katie looked down the hill, hoping to see Skip Poldeen's motorcycle come around the corner. She wanted to go home right away and tell Uncle Frank she was sorry she'd hurt him. She'd never, never deliver another message without knowing exactly what it meant.

“Skip's probably racing all around the county,” Joan said, following her glance. “He'll be trying to scare your brother.” She eyed Katie thoughtfully, then seemed to make up her mind. “If you want to go for a walk, it's all right with me.”

They put their empty Coke bottles next to the door and started up the hill, scuffing their feet and thinking their separate thoughts as they climbed.

At the top of the hill, Joan turned to the left and led the way along a strip of crumbling fence. Ahead of them the tall grass rippled like water in the breeze. Below, Newquay baked on its hillside, the dull red of the houses broken by tiny patches of grass and bright spots of red and blue and yellow laundry hung out to dry.