"Damn," she swore softly, immediately regretting the curiosity that had caused her to damage the volume. Gingerly, she opened the cover. The first page was blank, but starting with the second, the pages were filled with an uncertain script, done mostly in black ink. Janet glanced up, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to her. Instead, they were engrossed in examining the contents of the various boxes. Ione was carefully sorting the silver, while her husband unwrapped the china. Peggy had found a wooden spoon, and was happily beating on the bottom of a rusted pan, while the boys examined the trunk, in search of a secret compartment.
Impulsively, Janet turned to the last page of the diary. The script seemed to her to be particularly shaky, as if the writer had been ill or nervous about something. Slowly, she deciphered the old-fashioned penmanship:
March, 1884 -Spring comes, and it is almost over. Nathaniel and I still live, but when they find out what Nathaniel has done, I am sure they will kill him. In the meantime, though, my baby grows inside me, and it is better that some of us live than that all of us die. I have decided to tell them a man came for the children, and though they will not believe me, and will think me daft, perhaps it will save Nathaniel-all that matters now is that Nathaniel and my unborn child survive.
Janet reread the passage several times, and then slowly closed the little book. She held it in her lap, staring at it. A moment later her eyes drifted to Michael. As if feeling her gaze, he turned and looked at her, as did Ione Simpson. It was Ione who spoke.
"What is it?"
"It's nothing," Janet replied. "Just an old diary."
Janet let Shadow out the back door, and watched as he disappeared into the darkness, intent on making his evening rounds of the little farm. Then, knowing the dog wouldn't be back for a while, she went upstairs, tapped on Michael's door, and stuck her head into his room. He was in bed, his head propped up on his left hand, reading.
"Where's Shadow?" he asked.
"Prowling," Janet told him. She sat on the edge of Michael's bed and took his hand. "I want to talk to you about something," she said.
Michael looked nervous, but didn't turn away. "A-about what I saw?"
Janet nodded. "And about what you said about that little girl-Becky-today. That you think someone killed her and buried her in Potter's Field. What made you say that, honey?"
Suddenly Michael's eyes filled with terror. "I-I can't tell you. I-I promised not to tell anybody."
"Not even me?"
Michael nervously twisted the bedcovers in his clenched fist.
"Please?"
"You won't tell anyone? Anyone at all?"
Sensing that her son's fright was genuine, Janet promised.
"I-I lied to you," Michael said at last, his voice quavering.
"Why would you want to do that?"
"I was scared."
"Of me?"
Michael shook his head.
"Of Grandpa?"
"I-I'm not sure. I guess so."
Janet reached out and gently removed the bedclothes from Michael's hand. "Why don't you tell me what really happened?"
Slowly, Michael began telling his mother as much as he could remember of what had happened that night.
"And on the way home, I saw something," he finished. "But it wasn't Abby."
"Then what was it?" Janet pressed.
"It was Nathaniel," Michael whispered. "I saw Nathaniel, and I talked to him, and I saw someone else, too, but I'm not sure who it was."
Janet swallowed. A knot of tension had formed in her stomach. "You saw Nathaniel, and you were talking to him," she repeated.
Michael hesitated, then nodded in the darkness.
"But Nathaniel's just like Abby. He doesn't exist, honey. He's only a ghost."
"Maybe-maybe he's not," Michael ventured. In his memory, Dr. Potter's words returned, the words with which he'd described Nathanieclass="underline" 'He looked like you, and he looked like your father…'
"All right," Janet said patiently, still unsure of exactly what Michael was trying to say. "Let's assume Nathaniel isn't a ghost. What did he say that scared you so much?"
Michael racked his brain, trying to remember what Nathaniel had said, the exact words. But they were gone; all that was left were the warnings. And a vague memory. "He-he said they'd brought us something. A-a baby."
"A baby?" Janet repeated, unable to keep her incredulity out of her voice.
Again Michael nodded. "They were burying it out in the field."
Janet's heart began to pound. "What field?"
"The one down near the woods by the river. Potter's Field."
"And you think it was Aunt Laura's baby they were burying?"
Again, Michael's head bobbed.
Janet paused for a long time, then reached out and touched Michael's face, tipping his head so his eyes were clearly visible. "Michael, are you sure you saw any of this?"
"I-I think so."
"You think so. But you're not sure."
"Well-" Michael faltered, then backed off a little. "It was dark, and I couldn't see very well, except when Nathaniel was with me. Then I could see real good."
The knot in Janet's stomach tightened. What was he talking about now? "You could see in the dark when Nathaniel was with you?"
Michael nodded.
"All right," Janet told him. "Now, what about Becky?"
Michael squirmed. "I-I'm not sure. But I bet whoever she is, she's in Potter's Field, too."
"But we don't even know who she is."
Michael swallowed hard, then spoke in a whisper. "I don't care," Michael said, his voice reflecting his misery. "I bet they killed her, too."
Janet gathered her son into her arms. "Oh, Michael," she whispered. "What are you saying? Why are you saying these things?"
Michael met her gaze evenly. "Nathaniel," he said. "I'm only saying what Nathaniel told me."
"But sweetheart, Nathaniel doesn't exist. You only imagined all this."
Michael lay still for a long time, then slowly shook his head. "I didn't," he said softly. Then: "Did I?"
Outside, Shadow began barking.
That night, long after Michael had fallen asleep, Janet remained awake. She read the diary over and over, read all the entries, describing how Abby Randolph and her children had tried to survive the winter of 1884.
How the food had run out, and they had begun to starve.
How one of the children-the youngest-had gotten sick and finally died, and what Abby had done with its remains.
And then, one by one, the other children had died, but never again was there a mention of illness. And in the end, all of them were gone except Nathaniel, who, along with his mother, survived.
"… Better that some of us live than that all of us die…"
She went to bed finally, but didn't sleep. Instead she lay staring into the darkness, the words drumming in her mind. Perhaps, she told herself, it didn't mean anything. Perhaps it was nothing but the ravings of a woman driven mad by the loneliness of the long prairie winter. Or perhaps it had been written somewhere else, packed in the trunk for shipment, and never unpacked again.
Finally, near dawn, she drifted into half sleep, but even in her semiconscious state she could hear the name:
Nathaniel…
She shivered.
There could be no question of the roots of that terrible ghost story now, for she had found its confirmation. Inscribed on the flyleaf of the diary, barely discernible in faded pencil, was the proof: the name Abigail Randolph.
But why were Abby Randolph's things in this house? Who had put them there?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Michael wasn't sure what had awakened him. It might have been the headache that was playing around his temples-not really painful yet, but nevertheless there-or it might have been something else.
It might have been the dream. Though the dream was already fading from his memory as he lay in the darkness, a few fragments remained. His father. His father had been in the dream, and some of the dream had taken place in this room. It had started here, and it had ended here, but part of it had been in the room downstairs, the living room. But it hadn't looked like it did now, filled with packing crates and a few pieces of furniture. In the dream the furniture had been old-fashioned, and his father had been sitting on a sofa-one of those hard sofas with slippery upholstery like some of his parents' friends had in New York.