“Gertie?” I called, sitting up in bed.
Slowly, the closet door creaked open, and from the darkness within, I saw movement. A flash of a pale face and hands moving deeper into the shadows.
“Don’t be frightened, darling,” I told her. “Please come out.” It took all of my will to stay where I was, not to leap from my bed and run to her.
More scuttling, then the sound of quiet footsteps—bare feet padding along the wooden floor—as she moved out of the closet and into the room.
She moved slowly, almost mechanically, with little stops and starts like a steam engine hiccoughing. The gold in her hair shimmered in the darkness. Her breathing was quick and raspy. And there was that smell I recalled from years ago in the woods with Hester Jameson: a greasy, burning sort of odor.
I nearly fainted with joy when Gertie sat down beside me on the bed! There was no lamp lit and the room was dark, but I’d know her shape anywhere, though she was different somehow.
“Am I mad?” I asked, leaning closer, trying to get a better look. I saw her in profile, and her face was slightly turned away from me. “Am I imagining you?”
She shook her head.
“Tell me the truth,” I begged her. “Tell me what really happened. How did you end up in that well?” My fingers ached to touch her, to get lost in her golden hair (was it shorter?). But somehow I knew I mustn’t. And perhaps (I’ll admit it now, to myself) I was a little afraid.
She turned to me, and in the darkness I could see the flash of a toothy smile.
She rose and went to the window, put her two pale hands against the frosty pane of glass.
I stood up and moved to the window beside her, squinted outinto the darkness. There was a crescent moon rising. Martin was coming out of the barn with a shovel in his hand. He glanced up at the house, and I ducked like a child playing hide-and-seek. He must not have seen me, because he kept walking, crossing the yard.
I knew just where he was going.
I turned to Gertie, to ask her what I was supposed to do next, but she was gone. I looked back to the window, and there were the ghostly imprints of her two hands, left behind in the frost.
Martin
January 31, 1908
Sweat gathered between his shoulder blades as the shovel bit into the crusty snow. He had to dig through eighteen inches before even hitting dirt. He worked as quickly as he could, scooping and dumping.
His bad foot ached in the cold. His breath came out in great pale clouds. The snowy yard looked blue in the dim moonlight.
Faster, Martin. You’ve got to do this quickly. You mustn’t hesitate. You mustn’t be a coward.
“I know,” he said out loud.
Behind him, the house watched. Sara slept, dreaming her mad dreams. Over to the left, past the barn, he could see the outline of the hill, the tips of the rocks of the Devil’s Hand, dark specks against the snow.
He looked back down at the wooden cross he himself had built, her name carefully carved across the top:
GERTRUDESHEA
1900–1908
BELOVEDDAUGHTER
His hands shook. They were greasy with fear-sweat, the shovel slipping.
Faster.
The slanted shadows of the slate gravestones beside hers watched, seemed to shift impatiently in the moonlight: her infant brother, grandfather, grandmother (for whom Gertie was named), and uncle, watching, wondering,What are you doing to our little Gertie? She’s one of us now. She doesn’t belong to you.
For days now, Martin had stared out at little Gertie’s grave, knowing what he must do.
He had to find out what was in her pocket.
