Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story

Chapter One

"There it is." Dad slowed the car and pointed to a big brick house standing on a hill above the highway. From a distance, it looked empty, deserted, maybe even haunted.

'Oh, Ward," Mom whispered to my father, "it's in terrible shape. From what your aunt said, I thought --"

Dad glanced at me. "What do you mean, Nora? just look at the woods and fields, the river, the hills. Drew will have a great time. here. Just great. It's a boy's paradise."

Unfortunately, Dad's enthusiasm was lost on me. My idea of paradise would be part museum, part library, part amusement park, not a spooky old house in the country.

While Dad raved about the joys of hiking and bird-watching, I stared at the endless fields of corn gliding past the car window. I wanted to tell him I'd changed my mind, I'd go to camp after all, but it was too late. Everything was settled. My parents were going to France, and I was staying with Great-aunt Blythe. It had seemed like a good idea last spring, but now that I'd seen the house I wasn't so sure.

Although I hadn't opened my mouth, Dad guessed what I was thinking. "You could be at Camp Tecumseh with your old buddy Martin," he reminded me.

Martin -- his scowling face floated between me and the rows of corn stretching away to the horizon. Whenever I dropped a ball, fumbled, or struck out, Martin was there, sneering and jeering. He stole my lunch money, copied my homework, beat me up, called me names like Drew Peeyou and Death Breath.

I sighed and leaned back in my seat. No Martin for two whole months. Maybe Dad was right. Any place would be paradise compared to Camp Tecumseh -- even the House ofUsher.

When Dad slowed to turn off the road, a gust of wind nudged the car. Behind us, the sky was darkening fast. It looked like the storm we'd left in Chicago had followed us all the way to Missouri.

The driveway was a narrow green tunnel burrowing uphill through trees and shaggy bushes. Shifting to first gear, Dad steered around ruts and potholes, missing some, hitting others. Branches scraped the roof and slapped the windows. While he muttered about the car's suspension system, Mom and I bounced around like Mexican jumping beans.

When Dad pulled up in front of the house, the three of us sat still for a moment and stared at the gloomy pile of bricks my great-aunt called home. Up close, it looked even worse than it had from a distance. Ivy clung to the walls, spreading over windows and doors. A wisteria vine heavy with bunches of purple blossoms twisted around the porch columns. Paint peeled, loose shutters banged in the wind, slates from the roof littered the overgrown lawn.

Charles Addams would have loved it. So would Edgar Allan Poe. But not me. No, sir, definitely not me. Just looking at the place made my skin prickle.

Dad was the first to speak. "This is your ancestral home, Drew," he said, once more doing his best to sound excited. "it was built by your great-great-grandfather way back in 1865, right after the Civil War. Tylers have lived here ever since."

While Dad babbled about family history and finding your roots and things like that, I let my thoughts drift to Camp Tecumseh again. Maybe Martin wasn't so bad after all, maybe he and I could have come to terms this summer, maybe we --

My fantasies were interrupted by Great-aunt Blythe. Flinging the front door open, she came bounding down the steps. The wind ballooned her T-shirt and swirled her gray hair. If she spread her arms, she might fly up into the sky like Mary Poppins.

"Aunt Blythe, Aunt Blythe!" I was so glad to see her, I forgot the house, forgot my fears, forgot Martin. Jumping out of the car, I ran to meet her.

"Welcome to Missouri, Drew!" My aunt gave me a quick, hard hug. While I was still getting my breath, she held me at arms' length and looked me over.

"Twelve already," she said, "and shooting up faster than the weeds in my backyard. I swear you've grown two inches since I saw you at Christmas. At this rate, you'll be taller than I am in no time."

Since Aunt Blythe was barely five foot two, she wasn't exaggerating. We were almost eye to eye already.

"Don't I get a hug too?" Dad grabbed his aunt around the waist and lifted her clear off the ground.

"Put me down, you big idiot."

"Not till you tell me I'm still your favorite nephew," Dad said.

"Oh, Ward, you'll always be my favorite nephew." Aunt Blythe winked at me. "And Drew will always be my favorite great-nephew."

As my aunt turned to hug Mom, Binky ran toward us, barking and leaping, leaving muddy pawprints on Dad's tan slacks. He was a little honey-colored cocker spaniel, floppy-eared and not too bright, but he and my great-aunt were inseparable. Whenever she visited us, Binky came too. He was one of the family, a sort of dim-witted second cousin, lovable in spite of his deficiencies.

When the dog calmed down, Aunt Blythe waved her arm at the house. "Well, what do you think of the old place?"

Dad shook his head. "Most people move to a condo in Florida when they're your age. They sit back, enjoy the sunshine, and forget their cares."

"My age?" Aunt Blythe was obviously insulted. "I'm only sixty-two, Ward. I'd be bored to death in a retirement home. I need things to do, projects to work on, challenges."