The Ghost of Tillie Jean Cassaway by Ellen Harvey Showell Page A

just brush and trees and rocks. It had a used, discarded look, messed with, stepped on, forgotten.
    As he stared, Willy became aware of a peculiar stillness in the air.
    Willy! Softly, almost in his ear, he heard it.
    â€œWhat?” he answered, looking around. But the call did not come again. The breeze took up its gentle blowing, the birds their songs.
    â€œWho’s there?” Willy called. There was no answer. He wondered if he had imagined hearing his name. Then, standing still, gazing downward, he slowly realized that he had been wrong about there being only trees and brush in the ravine. A building was down there—a house almost covered with vines and hidden by trees. He stared, trying to make out more of the place. But it was late in the afternoon. As he strained to see, shadows folded over and around the house, blacking it out.
    A slow prickling started up Willy’s spine. He seemed to be alone, yet he did not feel alone. Then he heard another noise—the growl of a dog, he thought, low and menacing. Unmoving, Willy looked around, but could see no animal. It must be in the cover of the wooded slope, he decided. He felt it was time to leave. He half scooted down the burnt-out hill, quickly mounted his bike and rode home.
    He parked his bike near the yellow trailer, but did not go in. Hilary was singing again. After waiting by the door a minute, he turned and walked up to the apple orchard on the hill behind the trailer. He wanted to be alone a little longer.

CHAPTER TWO
    â€œShall we gather at the river, the beautiful, beautiful ri-i-ver!” Inside the trailer, Hilary Barbour was singing with all the verve and volume she could muster. It happened about once a month. She caught the singing spirit, got an old gospel songbook like they used at Laurel Chapel, sat in a corner and sang each song she knew, one by one.
    â€œHilary, be quiet a minute,” said her mother. “Where’s Willy? It’s getting late.”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Hilary.
    â€œDidn’t he tell you where he was going? I know he went on his bike.”
    â€œNo,” said Hilary. “I asked him, but he said he didn’t know, he was just going to ride for a while. He took his art stuff.”
    â€œI thought I heard him awhile ago.”
    â€œThen I bet I know where he is,” said Hilary. “I’ll go get him.” She ran out of the trailer and up to the orchard where she found her brother sitting under a tree.

    â€œI thought you’d be here!” she said.
    â€œSit down.” She sat. It was twilight and the trailer below looked shadowy. The hills began to blend into each other as night crept up.
    â€œDon’t you feel it?” Willy said softly, putting down a drawing he had started.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe mountains. It’s like they was coming close … trying to get away from the dark.”
    Hilary looked at the looming shapes that rose up around them. “You trying to draw the hills?”
    â€œYes. But when I started they were green and you could see the trees and lots of things … even cows grazing. But I started too late. It keeps getting darker and they keep changing. How can you draw something that keeps changing?”
    â€œIt’s a problem, I guess. Did you paint anything today?”
    â€œNo. I rode out toward Craig’s Island.”
    â€œOh, did you see him?”
    â€œNo.”
    They sat quietly beside each other watching the outline of the ridges blur against the sky as the hills became solid walls of blackness.
    â€œI feel like I’m being swallowed up in the mountains,” said Willy. “I like it.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you come in when you got home?”
    â€œI could hear well enough out here.” He began to sing, holding his nose, “The beautiful, bee-u-ti-ful ri-i-ver!” and held his arms around his head when Hilary flailed at him. “Hey, Hil, stop, you’ve got a