slowly, mooing in chorus.
"They sound like they're auditioning for parts in some Great Dairyland TV Special," Michael said, as we entered the woods, still wet and smelling of rain.
Although I didn't say it, I was sorry to leave the cows behind. The woods seemed unfriendly this morning; lost in gloom, they brooded like giants on the verge of waking from bad dreams. The only sounds were the cawing of crows somewhere ahead of us, the gurgle of the creek behind us, and the swishing noise our feet made brushing against the damp weeds bordering the path.
When we reached the edge of the woods, we paused and I pointed toward the house. Against sky of ragged clouds, the ruins looked grim and desolate. Behind the house, the trees swayed in the wind, and at its feet the pond lay, its water dark gray, its surface wrinkled.
"Well, Molly," Michael said solemnly, "I don't see any face at the window. I guess Helen isn't home today. She must be staying underground where it's all dry and snug." He laughed, and I punched his arm.
"Shut up," I hissed at him. To me, the windows were full of hidden eyes watching us. The murmuring of the wind in the woods, the sighing sound it made in the weeds, seemed to speak to me, warning me to leave. I shivered. "Come on, Michael, let's go back. It's going to rain any minute." I edged away from him, back toward the path and the haven of the woods.
But Michael ignored me. Without waiting to see if I would follow, he began climbing the hill toward the house.
"You'd better not go inside!" I called after him.
Glancing back at me over his shoulder, he said, "Why not? Nobody's here. I don't even see a No Trespassing sign."
A gust of wind lifted the trailing vines on the house and sent them billowing toward us like outstretched arms. "Michael, come back!" I shouted, as the first drops of rain came pelting down out of the sky.
"There's still some roof on this side," he yelled. "Come on, Molly, we can stay dry."
As he disappeared through one of the windows, I ran after him, too scared to go home by myself. "Where are you?" I asked as I neared the house.
"Here." His face appeared in a window almost covered with honeysuckle. "You'll be dry in here."
My legs were shaking so hard, I could hardly manage to climb into the house. It was dark and cold; the floor beneath our feet creaked, and everything smelled of mold and decay and smoke. Huddling close to Michael, I glanced around fearfully, expecting to see something hideous in every shadow. But all I saw were spiderwebs and heaps of rusty beer cans and bottles, charred wood from bonfires, graffiti on the walls, discarded newspapers, and other assorted trash.
"See?" Michael said. "There's nothing here to be scared of. Looks like teenagers from Holwell come out here, and maybe bums. But no ghosts, Molly."
My teeth were chattering, but I nodded, pretending to believe him.
"This must have been a terrific house," Michael went on. "I bet the walls are more than two feet thick, all solid rock. The house was two or three stories high with a fireplace in every room. See?"
I looked up. We were standing in front of one fireplace and above our heads, jutting out of the wall, was another fireplace. Above that was what was left of the roof. Through the holes, rain fell, and I could see patches of gray sky.
"As soon as it stops raining, I'm going home," I told Michael. "You can stay here as long as you like."
Michael shrugged and began exploring the room. "I guess it burned down," he said, poking at a charred timber lying on the floor. "It must have been an incredible fire. Probably lit up the whole sky."
Without answering him, I went back to the window and looked out, hoping the rain had stopped. Down below me, I saw the pond. And something else.
"Michael!" I called to him, "Come here!"
"Why?" He had gone into the next room.
"It's Heather! She's down there by the pond!"
Michael joined me by the window, and we both stared at her, too surprised to move. She was
"They sound like they're auditioning for parts in some Great Dairyland TV Special," Michael said, as we entered the woods, still wet and smelling of rain.
Although I didn't say it, I was sorry to leave the cows behind. The woods seemed unfriendly this morning; lost in gloom, they brooded like giants on the verge of waking from bad dreams. The only sounds were the cawing of crows somewhere ahead of us, the gurgle of the creek behind us, and the swishing noise our feet made brushing against the damp weeds bordering the path.
When we reached the edge of the woods, we paused and I pointed toward the house. Against sky of ragged clouds, the ruins looked grim and desolate. Behind the house, the trees swayed in the wind, and at its feet the pond lay, its water dark gray, its surface wrinkled.
"Well, Molly," Michael said solemnly, "I don't see any face at the window. I guess Helen isn't home today. She must be staying underground where it's all dry and snug." He laughed, and I punched his arm.
"Shut up," I hissed at him. To me, the windows were full of hidden eyes watching us. The murmuring of the wind in the woods, the sighing sound it made in the weeds, seemed to speak to me, warning me to leave. I shivered. "Come on, Michael, let's go back. It's going to rain any minute." I edged away from him, back toward the path and the haven of the woods.
But Michael ignored me. Without waiting to see if I would follow, he began climbing the hill toward the house.
"You'd better not go inside!" I called after him.
Glancing back at me over his shoulder, he said, "Why not? Nobody's here. I don't even see a No Trespassing sign."
A gust of wind lifted the trailing vines on the house and sent them billowing toward us like outstretched arms. "Michael, come back!" I shouted, as the first drops of rain came pelting down out of the sky.
"There's still some roof on this side," he yelled. "Come on, Molly, we can stay dry."
As he disappeared through one of the windows, I ran after him, too scared to go home by myself. "Where are you?" I asked as I neared the house.
"Here." His face appeared in a window almost covered with honeysuckle. "You'll be dry in here."
My legs were shaking so hard, I could hardly manage to climb into the house. It was dark and cold; the floor beneath our feet creaked, and everything smelled of mold and decay and smoke. Huddling close to Michael, I glanced around fearfully, expecting to see something hideous in every shadow. But all I saw were spiderwebs and heaps of rusty beer cans and bottles, charred wood from bonfires, graffiti on the walls, discarded newspapers, and other assorted trash.
"See?" Michael said. "There's nothing here to be scared of. Looks like teenagers from Holwell come out here, and maybe bums. But no ghosts, Molly."
My teeth were chattering, but I nodded, pretending to believe him.
"This must have been a terrific house," Michael went on. "I bet the walls are more than two feet thick, all solid rock. The house was two or three stories high with a fireplace in every room. See?"
I looked up. We were standing in front of one fireplace and above our heads, jutting out of the wall, was another fireplace. Above that was what was left of the roof. Through the holes, rain fell, and I could see patches of gray sky.
"As soon as it stops raining, I'm going home," I told Michael. "You can stay here as long as you like."
Michael shrugged and began exploring the room. "I guess it burned down," he said, poking at a charred timber lying on the floor. "It must have been an incredible fire. Probably lit up the whole sky."
Without answering him, I went back to the window and looked out, hoping the rain had stopped. Down below me, I saw the pond. And something else.
"Michael!" I called to him, "Come here!"
"Why?" He had gone into the next room.
"It's Heather! She's down there by the pond!"
Michael joined me by the window, and we both stared at her, too surprised to move. She was
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