For the Ghost-Child

For the Ghost-Child

The last drop of rain had fallen from the sky. The wind rustled through
the trees in a final sigh that seemed to escape into the heavens.
Everything on earth was green, but the heavens above were far too dark
for that time of afternoon. The sun had fled to hide behind the clouds
which hung, overcast, covering every patch of blue in the sky.

The manor stood completely silent, with none of the ordinary hustle and
bustle of servants and children running about the grounds and through
the house. Nothing stirred but for a small procession that slowly
marched out of the great front doors half an hour after the rain had
ceased. First came the parson, carrying a little black Bible, who was
followed by two men carrying a wooden casket of heartrending small
size. These two men were followed by a man and a woman, who looked as
if they had not slept for a long while, and who had tears streaming
down their colorless cheeks.

He ran around the large house, still in his nightclothes, just in time
to see them climb into big, black cars. The woman clung to the man as
if with every tear that fell she became a little weaker, but the boy
could not see her face. Soon enough, they drove away, and then little
boy climbed into his favorite tree in the backyard to contemplate the
scene that had lain before him.

"I wonder who it was," he said to himself with a sigh. "Another one of
the servant's children, perhaps." He said "another", for one had
already been taken by a mysterious disease that had swiftly seeped into
every house in the area, grasping at the throats of the young and
killing them almost before they knew they were ill. Nearly every child
that contracted it had died within less than a week- sometimes less
than two days.

Two of his servants walked beneath him to the tool shed, talking to
each other very quietly, but he could hear them. "This house is
starting to feel different- as if the spirit of the child is haunting
it. Poor little dear, to be taken so young," one said. The other nodded
in melancholy agreement.

"Spirit!" the boy thought. "The poor child! If I died and became a
ghost, I should be very frightened." With this, he climbed down the
tree and ran into the house. The wind rustled in the trees as he
moved.

Silently he tiptoed to the nursery, where he slept, and flung open his
chest of toys. There were so many of them- surely he could spare some.
If there were the ghost of a child in this house, perhaps he or she
would like to play with his toys. Perhaps the ghost might not be so
afraid of being dead if it had nice things to play with. He lined up
his stuffed animals, blocks, toy soldiers, knights, and horses, and
(though with some reluctance) his favorite- the large teddy bear his
grandfather had given him, in the middle of the nursery floor.

"Oh well," he sighed as he gazed with some longing at the teddy bear
that he had given up. "I'm having a birthday soon. I can ask for
another."

After that, he sneaked into the larder and loaded one of his mother's
best plates with cakes and cookies, balancing a large glass of milk on
top of that. This he set upon the table in the nursery, along with a
piece of paper with these words written carefully in a red
crayon:

"For the ghost child. Take care of the bear. Love Edward."

He sat on his bed, waiting for something to happen, though he wasn't
quite sure what. Soon he grew tired of waiting, and fell asleep under
his quilt. What woke him a few hours later was a piercing scream. He
snapped out of bed at an astonishing speed, and looked into the
direction of the noise.

In the doorway of the nursery lay his mother, who had collapsed with
the note he had written crumpled in her delicate hand. Bewildered, he
rushed to her side to help her stand.

But when he extended his hand, it passed right through her arm.