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

great voice!”
    â€œI do not!” she yelled, but she was mollified. “Come on, Willy, let’s go in.”
    But Willy would not budge. He seemed moody again, was quiet for a while, then said, “It’s funny, people write songs about rivers. They stay in the mind. But the river is like the mountains. In the day, it’s fun … something to follow and explore. But at night it changes. It’s scary.”
    â€œYou hardly ever see the river at night.”
    â€œI do in my dreams. It’s like I’m walking toward the mountain and I come to the river and have to get across. I’m afraid of the water because it looks so black. But I have to jump.”
    â€œAcross a river?”
    â€œIt don’t seem so far in my dream. But it gets wider while I’m jumping and I fall in the water and have to swim. But the current carries me downstream. Somehow I manage to get out and keep walking, but I keep coming to the river. It keeps twisting and turning, so that whichever way I walk, there it is.”
    â€œI’ve had dreams like that,” said Hilary.
    A pickup truck pulled into the driveway of the trailer house, catching the two figures in the headlights.
    â€œDad’s home,” said Hilary. “We better go in.”
    â€œWait a minute. I want to tell you something.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAbout … something I heard on top of a hill. A voice. Calling me.”
    â€œWho was it?”
    â€œNo one was there.”
    â€œThen you just thought you heard it.”
    â€œI heard it.”
    â€œThen someone was there.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, I’ll go with you there tomorrow and see if I hear anything.”
    Willy did not answer. He was sorry he had told Hilary. Some things you aren’t meant to tell. They’re just for you. He decided not to tell about the house in the ravine—at least not now.
    A man’s voice called from the trailer, “Hilary! Willy! Come in!”
    â€œBe there, Dad,” called Willy, and they hurried in.
    That night, Willy dreamed that he was following a path to the house in the ravine, but when he got to where it should be, nothing was there but trees.
    Before falling asleep, Hilary thought about what Willy had told her, about hearing someone calling, and wished she had been with him. If he went there again, she’d go too.

CHAPTER THREE
    Willy woke up early the next day and knew that he was going back to the place where he had heard his name and seen the house. It would be a beautiful place to paint.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, Willy? You seem jittery,” said his mother.
    â€œNothing.” Then, quickly, “What do I have to do today?”
    â€œWeed the garden and your dad said to mow the lawn as soon as it’s dry enough. Hilary has to help me can.” Mr. Barbour had already gone to the garage where he worked.
    Past noon, Willy finally took Narrow Street out of Mauvy, riding with the warm wind in his face. He had gone two miles past the cutoff for Holmans Hollow when he had to stop to get gravel out of his shoe. While sitting on the grass along the road, Willy saw a bicyclist coming toward him from the direction of Mauvy.
    Hilary. Why did she have to follow? He had planned on being alone, to listen … to see. He jumped on his bike and rode around a bend out of sight, got off, pulled the bike into high weeds and crouched by the side of the road. When Hilary got to him, he stood up and hollered, “Ahgheee!”
    Hilary braked. Her bike skidded, pitching her headlong into the road. She was still, her breath knocked out. Willy rushed to her.
    â€œYou all right?”
    Hilary had skinned knees, arms, and elbows, but most of all, she was mad. As her brother tried to help her up, she pushed him away and, getting her breath, gasped, “Why’d you do that?”
    â€œI didn’t mean to hurt you.”
    â€œWell, it didn’t feel so good!” She bit her