Chapter Fourteen
The next day was Sunday, church day. The Whittakers attended a church that was closer to the university rather than the one in Provenance. Harold liked it better because many of his colleagues went there as well.
Normally Johnny found going to church to be a cross between a habit and a chore—something he did because he had always done it, and something he had to do because his folks made him. But with all that had happened that week, he was actually looking forward to morning worship. There was something peaceful about the old stone building, even when people were singing (sometimes terribly off-key), and he knew that the sermon was always quality “thinking time.” Besides, none of his schoolmates went there, which meant he wouldn’t have to put up with their avoiding him because of his newfound status.
As the family pulled out of their driveway, Johnny saw Emmy and her family getting in their car to head across town to the Catholic church they attended. He’d tried to tell her yesterday afternoon about the last article he had found with the picture of Thaddeus Knox’s ghost, but when he went to her house, she wasn’t home, or at least she pretended not to be. She saw him in the car now, and he waved to her, but she didn’t wave back.
Stubborn, he thought.
The peace Johnny hoped for when he entered the sanctuary eluded him. He didn’t know why. Everything seemed the same as every other Sunday service, but he didn’t feel the usual wave of calm wash over him. The singing was lovely this morning, though he’d never realized before just how many hymns dealt with blood.
Most surprising was that his quality “thinking time” during the sermon kept getting interrupted by the sermon. The pastor talked about the greatest commandments: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your mind, and all your strength, and love your neighbor as yourself.”
That last part kept intruding on his thoughts. He knew he hadn’t given Emmy or anyone else a lot of neighborly love the past week. He tried to rationalize it by telling himself that, except for Emmy, no one had exactly been neighborly to him, either, but he knew that wouldn’t fly. His mother, grandpa, dad, and stepmom had drilled into him that he needed to love his neighbors, even if they didn’t love him in return.
But how was that even possible? How was he supposed to love Wilson and Arty and the rest of their gang when they treated him like dirt? The pastor’s answer was blood again: The shed blood of Jesus makes it possible. But Johnny wasn’t sure he bought into that. Maybe if he shed a little of Wilson’s blood ...
Once the service was over, they piled back into the car, drove home, and ate the delicious Sunday dinner of roast beef and potatoes that Fiona had prepared. After the dishes were clean, Johnny went up to his room and positioned his desk chair so he could watch out the window for Emmy’s car to pull up. It was a warm afternoon, and as he waited, he thought about G.W., Thaddeus’s ghost, the boy he had seen at the old Granville House, and everything that had happened that week.
He was suddenly aware that a strange man was in the room with him—a black man he’d never seen before, yet seemed familiar somehow. The man was writing words on a piece of paper. Johnny tried to talk to him, but the man wouldn’t speak, or was it that he couldn’t speak? The man finished writing and showed Johnny the piece of paper. It was covered with rows and rows of five words:
Heart, soul, mind, strength, neighbor
Heart, soul, mind, strength, neighbor
Heart, soul, mind, strength, neighbor
Heart, soul, mind, strength, neighbor...
Johnny jolted awake. The room was growing dark, and he was stiff from napping in his chair. He looked out his window; Emmy’s car was parked in her family’s driveway. He rose, stretched out the kinks in his back and neck, and bolted out of his room and down the stairs.
“Is it all right if I go talk to Emmy?” he asked his parents. “I won’t be long.”
Fiona looked at Harold, who nodded.
Johnny raced out the front door and off the porch. To his surprise, Emmy was crossing her lawn toward him. They met at the tree swing, and both started talking at the same time.
“Okay, look—”
“I was upset—”
“I shouldn’t have said—”
“It just got to me—”
“It’s not okay to be a traitor—”
“Your family has honor—”
“You’re not like Wilson—”
“It was all my fault—”
And then together: “I’m sorry.”
After a short pause, they both burst out laughing.
“This has been a weird week, to say the least,” Johnny said, “and it’s about to get weirder.” He quickly filled her in on the picture of Thaddeus, though he didn’t tell her about the strange dream he’d just had.
Emmy’s eyes widened, and she gave a low whistle. “So now you have a ghost to worry about, too.”
Johnny looked skeptical. “I don’t believe in ghosts. Besides, the boy I saw was real.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Emmy ...”
“Did the article mention anything about him?”
“Not a word.”
Emmy looked concerned. “What are you gonna do?”
He shrugged. “I’m gonna go check it out.”
Her eyes widened. “The old Granville House?”
“It’s the only lead we’ve got.”
“But there’s a ghost there after you!”
“Will you stop that? He’s not a ghost!”
“Then he’s a man, and that’s even worse!”
Johnny hadn’t considered that. A real man with a real dagger and rope was much more dangerous than a ghost with a ghost dagger and rope.
“Well ... I’ll just have to be extra careful,” he offered.
“You mean we will.”
He shook his head. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
“Oh, no, you’re not gonna leave me outta this! I’m—” She stopped suddenly and looked past Johnny, her brow furrowed.
“You’re what? Emmy? What’s wrong?”
“Did you get mail today?” She pointed over his shoulder.
“Mail? It’s Sunday. Mail doesn’t come on—”
He turned to look at their mailbox. Sure enough, the delivery flag was up. They moved over to the box, and he yanked open the lid. Inside was a piece of folded paper. Johnny extracted it, closed the lid, and put the delivery flag down. He turned to Emmy and opened the paper so they could both see.
It was his lightning storage experiment diagram. Across the bottom was a note scrawled in shaky penmanship that read, “I no who the man in the hooded cloke is. If you want to no, meet me tomorrow at Grannvile Howse after school.”
Johnny and Emmy looked at each other. “Still believe they’re ghosts?” he asked.
“Who do you think wrote it?”
“The boy, of course!”
“How do you know it’s from him?”
Johnny pointed at the drawing. “This is my diagram. It blew out of my hand when I first saw him and landed against the fence between the water tower and Granville House. Who else would it be?”
Emmy shrugged. “The man in the cloak? He could have seen it, too, right?”
“But why would he send me a note telling me he’s going to reveal who he is?”
“I dunno! You’re the Sherlock around here!”
He grimaced. “Are you saying you don’t believe he’s a ghost anymore?”
“I still haven’t entirely ruled out that possibility,” she said with a smirk.
“Well, I guess I’ll find out for certain tomorrow afternoon.”
“You mean we will.”
“Right.”