THEY SAY DARK, GHOSTY things walk haunted houses. Deep in the night, when the weather falls, the creeps come out and walk about the old Drear house, so the townsfolk say. They are half joking, but the children are quick to believe. Yet this night the house was quiet within its hidden places. Martha and Walter, the twins never awoke. Thomas slept. In her sleep Great-grandmother Jeffers rubbed her hands together, smoothed them, pressed them, until a dull aching faded. She awoke long enough to think: Barometer going down, my arthritis. Snow is not finished yet.
Outside, the wind rose, building a blizzard from out of the darkness. It soon raged against the house. Drear house shuddered but stood its ground. The night was blinded snow-white. Animals dug deep for safety.
Blasting wind swept the fields clean. Snow drifted four feet high against fences and treelines. But this storm couldn’t last. It came and went in an hour, a preview of the hard winter to come. The night settled down in a snow light, bright as day. Huge, silent flakes came down abundantly. The little animals sniffed the air and crept about.
Thomas had burrowed deep beneath his covers. He awoke the instant the blizzard hit. He felt the house tremble and lift itself. He listened as the harsh drone of the wind filled his brain. He got up to look out of the window, and he was still half asleep. The windows were frosted over. He could see little. The wind roar filled every space inside him. He got back in bed. The place he had been beneath his covers was still warm. He burrowed again, a little animal himself. He had no thought of tunnels, intruders, or sliding walls. He was gone to sleep. No specter, no shadow of stealth invaded the Drear house this night.
Nothing so certain could be said of the cave on the other side of the hill from the Drear house, where Mr. Pluto lived.
Pluto underground. It was a large cave, one wall of which was false, but no one would ever guess that it was. Behind the false wall was the secret entryway down to the great cavern of treasure deep within the hillside.
Mr. Pluto had enjoyed the day, helping Mrs. Small with her kitchen painting. He went in and out of the house for her, fetching paint from the shed in a corner of the backyard—turpentine, paint thinner. Women always thought that paint came in small portions, a pint or two high, was his smug opinion. Women never saw a full can. His late wife never had. He had given her half a can of paint to work with long ago, the way he had done for Mrs. Small today. He enjoyed mixing the paint for the womenfolk.
And those little boy twins—they were two pistols! Calling him Mist Blue-doe, Mist Blue-doe, it sounded like. He had watched out for them while Mrs. Small carried on with her kitchen painting. He bundled them in their snowsuits and took them outside. Gave them brushes to paint the shed. He’d gone back to help Mrs. Small. And by the time he remembered to check on the boys, they had painted their snowsuits, their faces, and their hair. They had rolled in the yellow. Well, a good thing Mrs. Small used water-based paint. It wasn’t hard to clean up the boys and launder their suits. And he’d gotten them all clean, all fixed up. Had their snowsuits washed and dried in the big new washer and dryer the Smalls had got. Mrs. Small said he could even bring his own clothes over for the washer. But he preferred the clothesline right inside his cave. His wife and he long ago had hung the clothes in the cave in winter.
And hurrying out to the shed some more for Mrs. Small. Mixing or pouring more paint. Dry walls do take the paint!
Later he sat down at the kitchen table and had soup with the boys. Mrs. Small stopped her work. “That’s a good time to stop,” she had said, “soup time.” And she had heated up the homemade soup. She had given the bowls over to Buster to set up the table. And the whole time Billy watched, holding on to Mr. Pluto’s knee. The first taste of the thick vegetable soup had made him shiver, it was so good.
It was a fine afternoon in the Drear house, Pluto thought on the way home. Halfway up to the hilltop, where there were woods, he thought to turn around.
He didn’t know why he turned, but maybe he had heard something. And there were the little fellows— Buster, first, with Billy coming on fast behind him. They had sneaked out of the house, without one sweater on between them. They looked as full of mischief as when they had painted themselves.
His heart had gone cold. For behind the boys someone had been stalking, like some stealthy beast of prey. He’d almost seen who it was, too. Almost, but not quite. Well, he was not as quick as once. His eyesight was not as good. The little boys had no idea someone was there. By the time he’d turned, whoever it was was already gliding away off the path, fading away in the trees. Pluto stood his ground, listening to the air, it must’ve seemed to the little boys.
“What am I going to do with you boys?” he said finally, easily setting the pace back toward the house. They held on to his big, leathery hands.
Pluto took them clear back inside, into the kitchen. He knew the back door should stay locked. Neither he nor Martha Small had locked it. Mrs. Small had been upstairs but on her way down.
“Stay put a minute,” he had warned the boys, “just until I get away from here, and I won’t tell on you.”
They understood. Billy and Buster had stood holding hands. He had spoken softly to them. “Now, don’t you ever run off again, you hear? Or I’ll have to tell your mama.” And he left them there, hating to leave them, but he had his own business to attend to.
He had been halfway home the second time. At the top of the hill where the woods began, he thought about the someone who had been following. He’d eyed each side of the woods along his way but saw only trees. It wasn’t the boys someone was stalking. Someone is spying on me, he’d told himself at the time. Waiting for him to let down his guard.
At eveningtime Little Miss Bee had come by to go into the great cavern with him. It was the name he had given Petsy Darrow. Long before the Small family moved here, he and the child had shared his secret. It was a dangerous business, keeping such great wealth. But Little Miss Bee was a child of trust. Trust the child never to be seen slipping away from home! He and she would sit down among the treasures like granddaughter and grandfather. And after, he would lead her most of the way home; she would slip inside the house again, unseen and unheard.
“Best we not visit at night,” he told her lately, sensing something troubled, unsettled about her. “Best you stay close to home in the evenings, Miss Bee.”
And she had said, “See you tomorrow then.”
“Remember,” he’d warned her as she left never to tell the secret.
“I always remember” she whispered, and left him.
Pluto underground in the blizzard night, dreaming his dream. It was not a nightmare. The dreaming did not terrify him after the first shock. Seeing the dead. Dreaming his dream of old. He did not wake from it in a cold sweat.
Dies Eddington Drear came to stand at the foot of his bed. He told Pluto whether he was close to finding the treasure.
But why keep dreaming this dream? Pluto would think when he awoke. I have found the treasure. Mr. Small, he taken care that the treasure is safe. But maybe it’s not so safe. Something going on. Somebody got their eye on me. Following. Little Miss Bee, so unsettled.
His own cave where he lived. Why the cave, why live that way? the townsfolk asked, oh, years ago. And why not? he had replied. It was the old way, the way of fugitives, escaped from bondage.
Now the cave was as secure from weather as he and nature could make it. From within, the sound of the night’s blizzard that had awakened Thomas was faint. No hint of any change to the falling, silent snow. Two great, thick wood plank doors secured the cave opening. A heavy bar locked it from inside.
There was a tunnelway that led from his cave to another chamber to an underground stable he had made into stalls. There his horses ate and slept in foul weather. In the cave proper there was a fire banked for the night in the fireplace. No red embers showed, but the gray-black coals still held heat. The heat took away what chill moisture crept in from outside.
Pluto lay on his bed asleep. He was a thin elderly man, straight and long, but somehow fragile beneath old Indian blankets. His eyes moved under their lids, and then they opened in a dream delirium. His arms lifted, pointing in front of him to the foot of the bed. Someone was there. He saw the abolitionist standing there. Drear’s beard was as long and as white as Pluto’s.
Dies Drear of the great eastern family of money. He had saved poor fugitives from certain recapture. He loved freedom. To Drear those who practiced slavery were heathens, doomed for eternity.
And dreaming, Pluto waved his arms and made his point. He murmured, talking nonsense. He and Drear were arguing.
“I’m taking the treasure,” Drear was saying.
“You can’t take it, it’s not yours to take!” Pluto shouted.
“It is mine, I brought it here. I saved it. I have someone to give it to.”
“Who!” cried Pluto. He felt as if there were a fire within him. “Who are you giving it to? It belongs to slaves! You can’t take my forge.” He meant the treasure. He was dreaming of his forge, where he heated, hammered, and shaped iron, but it was the wealth of the cavern he had meant to say.
“I can and I will take it,” Drear said. “But I forgot where I put it. Tell me where I put it, Mr. Pluto.”
Pluto felt such fear and anguish. He squirmed, suddenly sick of the dream turned to nightmare. He tried to wake himself. He sat up, blinking, feeling as if his shoulders were bars of ice.
The figure at the foot of the bed was a solid form. Pluto couldn’t be sure who or what it was.
He fell back. The dark at the foot of his bed hadn’t moved. Pluto stared at it, panting. He felt chills shaking his body. A thin layer of sleep was ground fog on his brain. Slowly he sat up again. “Who?” he murmured. It hurt him to sit up and lie down so much. Hurt his back.
“It’s Drear,” the dark form said. “I misplaced it. Where did I put that treasure?”
Suspicion was like something Pluto could wrap around him. Like the great black cloak he wore to protect himself from old age. Somewhere deep down he knew he must avoid even dreaming anything that might give away the wealth that was hidden.
“I quit this dream,” Pluto said out loud, dreaming. “Quit it!”
The form wouldn’t go away. Its voice had reminded Pluto of someone, someplace. He had no idea what Drear’s voice would be like. But dreaming, he knew that this voice was too ordinary to be the great man’s.
“Huh? Wha—Huh?” Pluto said, rising out of bed.
The specter came around the bed, heading for the passage from the room on the side. It was almost there, but so was Pluto. Pluto leaped for it before he knew what he saw might be real. In dreams he did such things. In dreams he was always youthful and strong.
He and the form struggled. Is this real? It can’t be Dies Drear! It was not as long and as tall as Pluto. What it wore was dark and soft, cool as night rain. It had more than enough strength to subdue two old men. Whirling, breaking away, it knocked Pluto to the cane floor. Pluto grabbed its foot. Barefoot? No, slippery, rubbered foot, wet with icy cold. This can’t be a dream! It kicked out, caught Pluto under the chin. A perfect clip it gave old Pluto. Stunned, he thought he heard the thing sigh with despair at what it had done. He passed out.
Then it was dawn and gray cave light. Impossible to tell how the morning got into the cave. Pluto found himself on the floor. How’d I get here? he wondered. “Must’ve fallen out of bed,” he said out loud. “Cold.” His throat was sore and raspy. “Dreams.” He knew he had dreamed. Drear had been in his dreaming. For the thought of the old abolitionist was still with him. What was it about this time? He could not clearly remember. What more else could it be about?
“Been dreamin’ all night,” he murmured. “I’m tired. Thought I got rid of all such dreams.” Carefully he moved his legs and arms and moaned, got back into bed. He moved his jaw around, but it seemed to be in one piece. How did it get to be sore?
A cold shiver of fear climbed his back. He shook it off, shrugged it away. He would not allow himself even to think that anyone could invade his cave.
“I’m too old and tired.” He sighed inwardly. Later he must take a tonic, get rid of a raspiness. He couldn’t bring himself to get up yet, fix the fire, make his coffee. He was soon asleep again.
For a while he slept heavily. But then his throat seemed to thicken inside. It hurt him in his sleep, and he couldn’t swallow well. All moisture appeared to leave his skin. A slight fever rose. So, again, did his dreaming.