The Ghost of Tillie Jean Cassaway Read Online Free Page B

up, one down, reached out.…
    â€œHey!” Willy cried, and as the words came out, he stumbled and fell. He was getting to his feet when the sun shone brightly and the fog lifted as though a hand had reached down and plucked off a shroud. The picture that had almost slipped from Willy’s mind settled into reality—the vine-covered house was there, the remnants of a garden, the rocky cliffs—everything in place. But no sign of anyone else.
    Then Willy looked down and realized that he was standing in the middle of the little grave marked by the homemade tombstone. He had tripped over the fence.
    â€œUh, sorry,” he said, stepping out. He moved toward the house. As he came close, he heard a creaking sound and saw that the back door was open and moving slightly with the breeze. When Willy had left the day before, he had locked the back door from inside and had gone out the window, the way he’d come. Cautiously, he moved toward the door.
    â€œAnybody there?” he called. There was no answer.
    â€œAnswer me, I know someone is here!”
    He went in and stood quietly in the kitchen, listening. The kittens were asleep in the corner. He moved quickly through the house, but stopped short when he got to the blue door, his eyes to the floor. From underneath ran a trickle of water.
    â€œWhat in the world,” whispered Willy. He opened the door slowly, and took a deep breath. Propped up in a corner, still dripping water from its head, was the broken, pink plastic body of the doll he had only yesterday thrown in the river and seen float downstream.
    He backed out and closed the door and walked around outside, thinking, confused. Had he really heard someone calling him, seen what he seemed to see? Maybe it was all in his imagination. Yet he felt, deep inside, that someone was trying to reach him, to know him. But the doll made no sense. It made him feel he did not belong. He decided to go back to the river. He would paint, and think about it, and watch.
    Back at his bike, Willy removed his paper, paints, and brushes from the plastic bag in which he carried them and dipped some river water into a tin cup to use for wetting. He planned to fish and paint at the same time. He fastened a worm on the end of his line and found the place he was looking for—a large, flat-surfaced rock jutting out over the water. He laid his pole on the rock, placed a heavy stone over it, and sat down beside the pole to paint.
    Across the river, high green banks seemed to plunge into the depths of the water. Overhead, clouds moved fast, as if to keep up with the swift current below.
    A fish broke the water and Willy watched as ever-widening circles spread out from the spot, disturbing the reflection of trees and clouds. Willy became absorbed in trying to paint what he saw—the movement, the multiplying colors. If a fish nibbled at his line, he did not notice it.
    There was so much in the water—moving green, brown, and blue. The longer he gazed into the depths, the more he saw. There were dim shapes constantly changing … he could almost imagine he saw a face down there.…
    Willy leaned forward, straining to see better, not daring to move his eyes, painting what he saw. He knelt on the edge of the rock and peered in the river but there were only minnows swimming around the slippery, brown flat rocks close to shore. Ah! He could see the face again, a little further out. He climbed down to the riverbank and waded into the water, painting as he went, trying to capture a strange smile, wispy strands of hair, a pale brow, all shimmering beneath the surface, untouchable, not real, he knew. Suddenly he was swallowing water. He had slipped on a rock and gone under.
    Sputtering he struggled to his feet and grasped for the painting, but it had been caught by the current, was gone. The image was gone too. Willy stood there a minute, in water to his waist, dripping, feeling foolish. He spoke softly to the water,