Getting Even

I often think back on that night as though it were a dream. Then again, most of my memories of my childhood are somewhat suspect these days; the way a favorite teddy bear, tattered and worn, radiates incomparable beauty when seen though the eyes of its childish benefactor.

Growing up in the early 1900’s was nothing like it is today. No one locked their doors, everyone knew everyone else and children ran free until dusk. There was no television or radio available so we had to entertain ourselves.

As a result, the average child back then was much smarter than the average child of today.

In my day, you had to dig for the information, and sometimes, no matter how much digging you did, you still couldn’t get viable results. I lived in a small town and the library was sparsely stocked, but even if I had lived in the city, where books were plentiful, the fact remains that there were just some subjects that remained a mystery.

Like the night that my older sister, Bessie, was reading a book of ghost stories and we got into an argument about it.

Oh, Bessie was such a pain. She always had to be right and unfortunately, even when she was wrong, I tended to give in. She was bigger than I was, and had a mean streak a mile wide; but she also had the face of an angel and everyone always believed her instead of me. And if I argued the point, she always got me back. I figured it just wasn’t worth it.

That particular night, Bessie lay in her bed, turning the pages as she read aloud. She didn’t ASK me if she could. Bessie simply didn’t care. Quite frankly, neither did I, because the stories were interesting.

“Amy, what’s a polt ---pol---- polter----“

“Spell it out”

“P-O-L-T-E-R-G-I-E-S-T”

I sat; puzzled for a moment, until I remembered a story my da had once told me about the house we lived in. A little boy had died in the kitchen; I don’t remember the details; but da told me that when Bessie was just a little baby, he and my ma had moved into the house and immediately been assailed with flying objects and horrid noises; until they brought in a priest.

“A poltergeist is a spirit; actually, it’s an angry ghost, really. It likes to make noises and throw things at people.”

“How do you know that?”

“Ma and Da told me that one lived in this house before I was born, when you were still a little baby.”

Bessie’s eyes grew wide. She put down the book and sat up in bed, turning to face me.

“Really?”

I nodded. Then, abruptly, I had a plan. A plan to get even with Bessie for all the times that she had made me miserable.

The perfect plan.

“Yep. They banished him to the graveyard by Stiller’s Pond.”

Bessie blinked. “How do you know that?”

I snickered to myself, delighted by my ingenuity.

“Why, because I’ve see the little boy for myself a time or two. “

Now, there were quite a number of other kids in our town who didn’t much like Bessie. She was a brat, plain and simple; and she used people, then discarded them, when their purpose had been served. It wasn’t all that hard to get the angriest one of all, the boy she had rejected in favor of the rich kid, to cooperate with me. Everything was in place.

That next night, as Bessie and I snuck away to the graveyard, it was all I could do not to laugh out loud. At last, I would get my revenge. I couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when George popped up from behind the gravestone, dressed in white sheets, and howled at her. The taste of success was in my mouth and I practically danced my way across the uneven ground as we approached the big iron gate.

Bessie hesitated, trying not to look scared.

“I don’t feel so good.”

I looked at her askance.

“You’re not….SCARED….are you?”

“I’m not.”

Determinedly, she pushed the gates open. They creaked noisily before giving way. She walked quickly, turning back to look at me over her shoulder.

“Coming?”

As we approached the tombstone where George was hiding, I told Bessie the story of the little boy. Her face grew paler as I embellished the tale, adding a number of particularly gory incidents that had never happened.

By the time we reached the gravestone, Bessie’s face was as white as a sheet.

“I really don’t feel well,” she whispered.

“Shhhh…. this is where he lives, now. Wait … and he’ll appear. He always does. But be careful…. sometimes he’s really angry.”

Suddenly, a figure in white appeared behind the headstone and Bessie gasped. As I watched, expecting yelling and screaming, instead, the figure did something very curious. It slowly reached out its right hand to Bessie.

She drew a deep breath, put a hand to her chest, and turned to me, her eyes shadowed.

“Amy…” she whispered.

And then she simply collapsed.

The figure disappeared.

My sister died that night. She had a heart condition, but we never knew it.

I never did figure out who it was that appeared that night. I know it wasn’t George, because I found out the next day that he had fallen asleep after supper and didn’t wake up until morning.

But I can’t help wondering who the strange visitor that night really was, and if Bessie walks the graveyard with him even now.

Like most children, I found a way to cope with what happened, but I never forgot. I dream about her still, after all these years, and in my dreams she stands before that gravestone ---- reaching out her hand ---- TO ME.