We Hear the Dead by Dianne K. Salerni Page A

utterly under your spell.”
    â€œI will be a few years older, in a few years,” I quipped.
    â€œA fair warning,” he remarked, turning to check the horses on the carriage team.
    â€œYou weren’t at the house last night, then?”
    â€œNo, I was not.”
    â€œYou haven’t heard the rapping at all, have you?”
    â€œNo, sadly, I have not.”
    I took a breath. “Mr. Duesler said you will not go to hear the rapping, because then you would have to admit it was real. He said that you are going to write about the people of Hydesville as if we were superstitious bumpkins and make fun of us all.”
    Mr. Lewis fiddled with the harness for another moment, then turned to face me. “That is not true. I plan on writing about Mr. Duesler and every person I have met here with the utmost respect. But you are correct. I have avoided going to the house to hear the rapping for myself. I came here as a recorder, not as a witness. If I hear the haunting for myself, then I will form my own opinion, and that will cause me to write with bias. I have listened; I have taken down the stories of those who experienced these events. I believe that these people have been unable to solve the mystery of these noises, and that is what I plan to write about.”
    â€œYou haven’t taken my story.” The words passed my lips before I could even think of holding them back.
    â€œMiss Margaretta,” he smiled. “I can’t take your story.”
    I suddenly felt all the breath leave my body. Did he know?
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I asked in a voice that was nothing but air.
    Mr. Lewis looked down on me, and I suddenly felt all the flirtation leave the conversation. “You have to understand, this is how I make my living. I plan on making money from the publication of this story. But I hope that I have enough virtue in me that I refuse to make money by publishing the name of an underage girl.”
    â€œBut my name is already in your book. I heard my mother and Mrs. Redfield tell their stories. I was there on the night this started. My name is already part of the story.”
    Mr. Lewis made a slight grimace. “That is the only thing I have changed in their stories. Otherwise, I will quote them word for word.”
    â€œWhat did you change?”
    â€œYour name. I have taken it out. Yours and your sister’s and your niece Lizzie’s.”
    I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
    â€œI’ve removed your names,” he explained, “wherever they appeared. You’ll be grateful later, when you are grown. It is not appropriate to print the names of underage girls in a publication about spirits and hauntings. It would not be a gentlemanly thing for me to do.” Mr. Lewis vaulted up into the driver’s seat of the carriage. I stepped back and took a fresh look at him.
    â€œYou removed my name,” I repeated, just to make sure.
    â€œIt was the right thing to do,” he said. And he bowed to me from his seat, shook the reins, and clicked at the horses. The carriage jerked forward while I stood alongside, staring up at him, with my father somewhere behind me devouring his meal in total oblivion.
    ***
    That afternoon, I cornered Kate in a private spot. She had been pestering me for days with ideas to enliven and expand our prank, and I had, for the most part, discouraged her. Now, however, I was irritated enough with Mr. Lewis to take a bold risk. “Do you remember when you wanted to call yourself a ‘medium’ for the spirits?” I hissed. “Let’s talk about that again.”

Chapter Eight
    Maggie
    I learned an important lesson that spring. People can view the same events and interpret them in completely different ways. For example, I thought that I was an important part of the manifestations that occurred in the Hydesville house that year, but Mr. E. E. Lewis thought that I was an irrelevant girl who was best