The Ghost of Tillie Jean Cassaway Read Online Free Page A

grandmother.
    â€œGranny, have you heard of Tillie Jean Cassaway’s ghost?”
    â€œWhere’d you hear that? That’s Holmans Hollow talk.”
    Hilary began telling her in a rush of words. “Well, Willy was going riding and took his paper and paints but forgot his brushes, so I was going to take them to him, and went after him on my bike. It was down the river, by the tracks. Willy hid and made me wreck and then … then he … he told me to go home. I’m never going to speak to him again. I didn’t give him his brushes, neither!”
    â€œWhat about ghosts?”
    â€œComing back, a man stopped me.” Hilary told her grandmother everything the man had said.
    â€œUh huh, I’ve heard it,” said Granny.
    â€œYou’ve heard of Tillie Jean?”
    â€œI heard ’em talk about her. It’s just talk. But Hilary, why ain’t you speaking to Willy? I doubt he meant to hurt you.”
    â€œHe could have let me go with him.”
    â€œMaybe he wanted to be alone.”
    â€œBut why? I always go with him. We always had fun. And he went this morning by himself, to camp overnight!”
    â€œHilary, don’t you ever have the need to be with yourself?”
    â€œI always am!”
    â€œWell, honey, some people need time out from other people … time to think about things without nobody bothering.”
    Hilary thought a minute, then said, “Granny, please don’t tell Ma what I told you about riding after Willy. I’m not supposed to ride my bike there.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œYou know, the people.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with the people?”
    â€œThey live back in the hollow and keep to themselves and don’t like strangers.”
    â€œWell, I know some right nice folks at Holmans Hollow. How would you like to go there with me? Maybe we could find out more about the ghost.”
    â€œOh good, Granny! When?”
    â€œSoon’s I git the chores done.”
    While Hilary had been sleeping that morning, Willy had set out on his bike, alone, in the grey light of dawn. The fog that came and went with every morning lingered in the pockets of the hills and caressed the river. He could hardly see the road. The air was cool, almost chilly.
    When the road took a sharp turn and became gravel, he knew he had passed the entrance to Holmans Hollow. Soon, he saw a shape looming up to his right which he figured must be the burnt-off hill. As he was getting off his bike, a high, mournful sound drifted through the air, seemed to barely reach him and die before it started again—a hurting, inhuman sound, but familiar—the wail of a hound. He heard someone calling. The howling stopped.
    Willy left his bike and began climbing the hill. There was enough light for him to make out the two trees that stretched their bare, charred limbs into the new light. But at the top he could see nothing. The ravine still held the mist.
    He started down slowly and carefully, trying not to slip on the wet grass and rocks, concentrating on the ground at his feet. He could not stay in the path and, as a result, veered further to the left than before, moving down the slope at a gentler angle and taking longer to reach the bottom. When on level ground, he stopped and looked around, but the fog was like a veil over his eyes. He could be in a wide valley or at the edge of a cliff for all his senses told. As he searched and groped for a familiar sign, sureness of anything slipped from him. All was haze, fog, grey and indistinct shapes. Willy held still, hoping for a familiar sound, and became aware of a gentle trickling. “Must be the spring,” he thought.
    He groped forward and felt cold water run over his shoes. Wading through the shallow, rocky stream, he felt drawn deeper and deeper into a soft, white unknown. Then he realized he was not alone. Someone—something—was near him, moving. There was a figure—its arms moved, one