The name he had heard whispered in the barn; the name his grandfather had used last night.
So now, as he diligently helped Ryan Shields and Eric Simpson apply an uneven coat of not-quite-white paint to his bedroom walls, he tried to ask his question with a nonchalance he wasn't feeling.
"Nathaniel?" Ryan repeated. "Where'd you hear about him?"
"Grandpa."
"The story about the kid who killed his mother?"
Michael nodded, and put down his brush. "Is it true?"
Ryan shrugged. "I guess so. Except the part about the ghosts of Nathaniel and Abby still hanging around here."
"That's just a story they told us to keep us from shagging out at night."
"My dad told it to me," Eric offered. "I was only a little kid, but it gave me nightmares."
"How do you know it's not true?"
Ryan gave him a scathing look. "Come on. It's just a ghost story." Then, seeing the look of uncertainty that clouded Michael's expression, he grinned. "You don't believe in ghosts, do you?"
Michael hesitated only a split second. "Hell, no." He picked up the brush once more and began applying more paint to the wall, covering up the thin patches but leaving a series of brush marks. Eric watched him for a moment, then shook his head in disgust.
"You sure don't know much about painting, do you? I bet your mom makes you do that over again." He dipped his roller into the tray of paint, and began going over the area Michael had just done.
"Did Grandpa tell about the knocking at the door, and that weird man all covered with snow?" Ryan asked. "That was the scariest part."
Michael nodded, but Eric looked perplexed. "What man? All I ever heard was that every time Abby ran out of food, she cooked one of her children and fed it to the rest of them."
"Yeah," Ryan agreed. "But Grandpa says she never even knew what she'd done. She always thought a man came for the kids. That's why she's supposed to still be out looking for them."
"Can you believe that?" Eric asked. "Who'd ever believe a story like that?"
"Well, we did," Ryan said, reddening slightly.
"Yeah, but that was when we were little," Eric declared. "I figured out the ghost part of it was just a story when I was ten."
"Sure," Ryan teased. "That's why you're always the one that chickens out when someone wants to sneak into Findley's barn in the middle of the night."
Now it was Eric's turn to redden, but he made an attempt at a recovery. "That place is dangerous. It's gonna fall down any day now."
"You've been saying that since you were ten, too." Ryan deliberately ran a paint roller over Eric's hand. "Oops."
"Cut that out," Eric yelped. "It is gonna fall down!" He shook his own roller at Ryan, spattering paint across his friend's face.
Ryan only grinned. "Seems like one of us is still pretty clean, doesn't it?" he said.
Eric nodded, and the two of them turned on Michael.
In seconds the scuffle degenerated into chaos. The sides constantly changed, until all three of them were covered with paint, along with the ceiling, the walls, the floor, and the window. That portion of the window, at any rate, that was closed. Too late, they noticed that the upper section of the casement had been lowered, and the battlefield had not contained the ammunition. And they only noticed that when they became aware of Janet Hall standing in the doorway, her expression of fury carefully masking her urge to laugh.
"What's going on here?"
"Nothing." Though the reply had come from Michael, it was nearly simultaneously echoed by Ryan and Eric.
"Nothing," Janet repeated, her expression darkening.
Michael stooped down to pick up a rag. "I guess we better get it cleaned up before it dries," he mumbled.
"And you'd better get yourselves cleaned up, too," Janet told them. "You can use sandpaper on the floor, and a scraper on the window, but if you don't get that paint out of your hair, it's going to have to be cut off. Now get into the bathroom-all of you-and get those clothes off. Put them in the tub and let them soak. Then get yourselves into the shower-"
"But there's no hot water!" Michael protested.
Janet allowed herself a faintly malicious smile. "You should have thought of that before you started all this. Now get to it. By the time you're done, I'll have clean clothes for you. Lord knows if they'll fit anyone but Eric, but they'll be here."
Eric's eyes widened apprehensively. "You're not gonna tell my mom-" he began, but Janet cut him off.
"Your mother already knows. She was standing right under that window, helping your mother-" she turned her gaze to Ryan, "-paint the shutters downstairs."
Ryan groaned. "Oh, God. She'll kill me, Aunt Janet."
"Quite possibly she will," Janet agreed, keeping her voice implacable, unwilling to let the children see her amusement. "But before she gets the chance, I want an explanation for all this. Otherwise, you can all work naked for the rest of the afternoon, and go home the same way. Is that clear?"
The three boys nodded mutely and headed for the bathroom. Janet Hall waited until she heard their anguished screams as the icy water began sluicing the latex paint from their skins, then went thoughtfully down the stairs.
She, too, had been under the window, and she had heard the conversation that had led to the paint fight.
"You were talking about Nathaniel," she said. Though her eyes were on Michael, Ryan and Eric were clear in the periphery of Janet's vision. Michael nodded, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Eric echo the gesture. Ryan, however, suddenly looked worried.
"Ryan was teasing Eric about being afraid of ghosts," Michael said. "And then-well, it just sort of happened. It wasn't anyone's fault, Mom. We all started it. I just wanted to find out if anyone else heard the story Grandpa told me last night. What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing," Janet assured him. "Except that I think it's time you understood that it's only a story. All of it."
"Grandpa says-" Ryan began, but Janet didn't let him finish.
"Your grandfather told us a revolting story last night, and I'm sure very little of it is true. The whole idea of that poor woman doing what your grandfather says she did is disgusting, and probably nothing like it ever happened. And as for ghosts, there are no such things, as all of you well know."
"Then why did Grandpa tell it to us?" Michael asked.
"Probably for a couple of reasons. Ghost stories are fun. Furthermore, a good ghost story can keep people off property where they're not wanted." She turned to Ryan and Eric. "When you two were younger, did you believe there were ghosts out here?"
Sheepishly, they both nodded.
"And did it keep you off Mr. Findley's property?" Again, they nodded. "Then it served its purpose, didn't it?" She focused her attention on Michael. "As for why your grandfather decided to tell it to you, I haven't any idea. But it seems to me you're a bit old for that sort of thing. If Mr. Findley doesn't want people on his property, certainly you don't need a ghost story to keep you away, do you?"
"But-but what if it's not just a story?" Michael pressed. "What if there really is a ghost out here?"
Janet saw the glance that passed between Ryan and Eric, and was sure her son had just lost a part of their respect. Michael himself, however, hadn't seemed to notice it. Instead, his large eyes were fixed seriously on her own. "There are no ghosts," she said. And yet, even as she said the words, she wondered if they were true. What about her own ghosts? What about the ghost of Mark that was beginning to haunt her? The doubts about him, the questions about him that were always nagging at the fringes of her mind, demanding answers? Weren't those ghosts? Wasn't she, herself, beginning to wonder what was real and what was not?