Chapter 4: Tommy’s Test

Grandpa shoved us into the east room—the one with the thick oak door and the heavy deadbolt—and slid the dresser in front for good measure.

Uncle Jake blinked, suddenly himself, staring at his hands, the skin raw and red. “Why do they hurt? What did I do?”

Grandpa kicked his shin hard. “Idiot! You’re gonna get us all killed!”

Uncle Jake stammered, “Dad, what’s going on? What did I do? Last thing I remember, I was out in the yard...”

He looked lost, the bewitchment having wiped his memory clean.

Grandpa’s shoulders slumped, years settling heavy on him. He looked so tired I wanted to cry.

Grandma’s voice trembled. “Old man, what now? Should we call Sheriff Thompson?”

Grandpa’s voice was grim. “That ghost’s been here for decades, waiting for her boy—the Hendricks kid from ’58. If we help her, maybe she’ll go.”

Uncle Jake frowned. “Dad, it’s black as pitch outside. That boy would be old as dirt now—if he’s alive.”

Grandpa fixed him with a look. “Tonight, she’ll knock three times. First, she’ll want Tommy to find her boy’s clothes.”

Grandma interrupted, “No! Tommy’s only six—we can’t send him! I’ll go instead.”

Grandpa shook his head. “It has to be Tommy.”

Grandma’s eyes widened. “Why? Why him?”

Grandpa’s jaw clenched. “If you want to live, listen. Rules are rules.”

He turned to me. “Tommy, don’t be scared. Remember what I say, and she can’t hurt you. You’re braver than your uncle ever was.”

My voice was tiny. “Remember what?”

Grandpa crouched, looking me in the eye. “You’ll walk her to the old cemetery behind the Henderson farm, through the pines. There’s a dry well by the Civil War graves—her boy’s red shirt is down there. You have half an hour. No matter what happens, don’t talk to her. Not one word. Got it?”

I nodded, heart pounding so loud I thought everyone must hear.

Grandma clutched Grandpa’s arm. “That cemetery’s darker than sin. Tommy’s just a baby. I’m scared for him.”

Grandpa’s voice was low. “No other way. Only children see things adults can’t. Only they’re safe from her.”

Grandma’s voice broke. “Can’t we just block the door? Call Father Martinez?”

Grandpa shook his head. “If we don’t open up, she’ll break in. She’s been invited. She has rights.”

Right then—knock knock knock.

The ghost’s voice crept through the wood: “Young man, my son’s clothes are missing. I want Tommy to help. Such a good boy, Tommy. Such a helpful child.”

My back went cold. Sweat soaked my Spider-Man pajamas.

Grandpa gripped my shoulders. “Tommy, don’t be scared. Remember—don’t talk to her, and you’ll be fine. Get the clothes, come back quick. Don’t listen to anything she says, even if she sounds like me or your mom. Promise?”

I nodded. “I remember.” I wished Mom was home, but she was working the night shift at the hospital.

Grandpa opened the door and pushed me out, hands shaking just a little.

I looked up and saw the old woman’s face, pale and wrong in the hallway light.

She laughed, showing a mouthful of black teeth. It looked like something from a nightmare.

My legs gave out and I crumpled to the floor, concrete cold beneath me.

She leaned in, her breath cold as ice, and whispered, “Such a big boy. I bet you taste just right.”