The Ghost of Tillie Jean Cassaway Read Online Free

excitement, as though he were on the verge of something. He felt that if he did not go back to the ravine, a chance for discovery would be lost forever—a chance to look into doors that rarely opened, that might never be opened again. He said, “I want to camp out alone, by the river … up past Holmans Hollow.”
    â€œYou going to paint or fish?” asked his mother.
    â€œWell … both,” said Willy. “I’d like to paint the fish jumping.”
    â€œHe’s always trying to paint things that change or move,” said Hilary. “He can’t, though.”
    â€œYeah,” chuckled Mr. Barbour, rocking back in his chair. “It’s a difficult thing. You want to get into things … ride them. The flight of birds looks so beautiful you want to paint it, but once you fix it on paper, well, it don’t look like you want.” His voice trailed off and he sounded a little sad.
    â€œWell, don’t you go messing around Holmans Hollow,” said Mrs. Barbour. “You know how them people are! Stay away from Craig’s Island, too!”
    â€œAw, nobody’s gonna bother a kid out to get some fish,” said Mr. Barbour. “We used to go blackberry picking up that way when we were kids.”
    â€œHe better watch out for ghosts,” said Hilary.
    â€œOh, yes,” said her dad. “There’s plenty of ghost stories about that area.” He laughed. “But I reckon our Willy ain’t scared of ghosts.”
    â€œAre they true?” asked Hilary.
    â€œOf course not,” said her mother. “But there is a wild dog running loose up that way, I’ve heard, supposed to be mean. Watch out for him.”
    Willy slept very little that night. He planned to get up before dawn to start on his camping trip. He had fixed his paint supplies as well as his fishing gear to his bike.
    Hilary wanted very much to tell someone about Tillie Jean Cassaway. There was one person who would always listen … one person she could talk to about anything. As she went to sleep, she thought, “Tomorrow I’ll go to Granny Barbour’s.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    â€œMom, can I do it today?”
    â€œDo what, Hilary? What are you doing up so early? Willy has gone.”
    â€œI can take some apples to Granny Barbour. Like you wanted me to.”
    â€œWhat makes you so eager now?”
    â€œI ain’t been to see her for ages.”
    â€œWell, go this morning then, but for goodness sake, it’s not light yet, go back to bed awhile.”
    Hilary did and her mother had to wake her at 8:30. “Better gather them now, Hilary, and go on, before it gets too hot.”
    Hilary thought, “Granny Barbour is the one to ask about ghosts and Tillie Jean. Everybody knows Granny and she knows everybody.” She set out with a basket of apples to her grandmother’s place which was about two miles out of Mauvy.
    Granny Barbour—all the children called her Granny—was a small, wiry, black-haired woman, quick and energetic. Her husband had been gone five years, killed by an accident on a tractor. She kept up the small farm she’d lived on most of her life. She milked two cows and kept six pigs, a goat, and chickens, all by herself, in addition to working a good-sized vegetable garden. She let her son, Hank, raise corn on a part of her twenty acres but kept a grove of pine trees at the urging of the county agent.
    She lived in a tiny wood house that her neighbors had helped her build two years ago when her old farm place had burnt down.
    â€œWell, if it ain’t Little Red Riding Hood!” said the woman as she opened the door to Hilary.
    â€œNo, I’m really the wolf.”
    â€œWell, I need a nice, strong wolf around to help me feed the pigs. Did you reckon on that when you come?”
    â€œNo, but I’ll help,” said Hilary. As she carried a pail of slop down to the pigpen, she questioned her